I woke up yesterday, and forgot to write a poem.  I said some stuff, that must have come out poetically inspirational, but I didn't write a single thing down. once. I found a pen, but I stopped too long to consider the possibility of North American Shamans practising time travel, and accidently lost my Cosmos down the crack of the couch.  And when faced by something that traumatizing, one can often forget
poetry.  So I tried reaching in beside the cushion, brushing my fingers along Ursa Major, but I just couldn't quite get a grip.  I later found some floss above the fridge and tried making a lasoo I could hook around Orion's belt, but I think it got burnt by a sun
or two. If I was a comic hero I'd use super-juxtaposition to realign things.  Or if my fingers moved a little faster, I wouldn't have to play blues all the time.  And mayB* on any other day I could just laugh.  But I had to dive right in with crumbs, and pen lids I can find everything except what I'm looking for.
always.  and come up with a quarter and an old CD I had blamed someone for stealing.  And just as I was about to feel guilty, I saw it, the tail end of the string theory, dangling along out of a black hole.  I thought to wander up and get a peak inside but was afraid I might trip along the event horizon.  Instead I peel off three strands and braided them up into my hair - close to me, and growing - to prove the adventure had been worth while.  And I climbed my way on outta there.

[this now is. this is now. is this now. is now this. now is this. now this is.]

Finding myself caught in twighlight, I stopped to admire both the burning heart of the sun, and her distant sister stars.






*Did we just decide to start throwing phantom letters in to compicate the language, or was there a point somewhere, that has since been lost.