Talking to bots on craigslist,
watching sunspots float and drift,
across eyes that see more when they are closed.
Looking at the sweat-softened, wrinkled skin,
of showered hands, thinking I could do more alone.
Wandering if farming, is really legit,
Or if I should immigrate and just sit.
Thinking about the curse of modern times,
and how there is no going back,
Yet how this age could blossom into blessing,
If it can learn from other era's mistakes.
Sitting, noting how my breaks,
sometimes mean writing two pages,
in two months, In my science notebook,
When that was the work of minutes last fall.
How my thoughts.... come to break-neck stalls,
And the more I dig into the chances around me,
the more I realize this apple, us all
fell pretty far from the ancestral tree,
or down a babbling river or some jazz,
And that I just want to,
climb on rocks and **** ducks,
like my great grannannananaan Dad-paw thing.
Except that is not what they did at all,
So it is a wanting what is supremely well smoke screened.
I want to throw 'bows at the line of knowable/not explainable,
And quick for the cracks, close the curtain draw,
So if you wanted to slip in, you could without having to crawl.
That is my idea of romantic,
and it doesn't have to do with anything really here (or not).
But it's more drawing than a silken maiden in a hot sprawl,
And doesn't cost anything at all, not a dime.
except for the wherewithal, that I don't know anyway how to count,
which neitherway can be compared to a strict amount.
Sleep may come fairly soon,
And with the pitchiest black I will happily spoon,
But it has to be kept on the dl.
For the stickiest rumors start to roam whenever there is an unknown!