justwrite 6 february

here there are sorts cohorts of a semblance the theme the kind the day the mind had thought out in advance hasn’t quite happened hasn’t trapped all those blitzens hasn’t played in uncle john’s band or even come to see them there’s a frozen drink and a kitchen sink but no one needs to feel sick no one needs to build bricks out of gold or sticks out of old bread we’re wedded to ideas but not to people we make our churches without any steeples with only sky with clouds rolling by and other songs we are wrong and we are writing we are righting all the overturned apple carts before the horses close the barn doors there are metaphors beyond this one but they’re no fun after all there are too many curtains to make that call and all I can think about is drinking in the warm air of an afternoon with no lists with straight bliss and iced tea there’s a breeze and an open window and the couch has its own ideas but the apple tree and again with the apples we cannot escape we cannot drape crepes all over our plates and call them pancakes there are stakes and there are waking dreams there are themes we cannot forget and bits we cannot shake we cannot bake we cannot mistake ourselves our greater elves and our lesson plans we are grading on a curve even when we deserve honesty we can give it but not take it we are rhyming internally and burning infernally it’s too not hot it’s just got to have a different ending pretending those jeans make sense but she chose them for me she’s got her own story and soon it’ll change the words will rearrange themselves and the stealthy glances will take their chances turning into ideas worlds apart turning art into life and biting off more bullets than your eyes can hold