A working non-title: A draft of a draft of a drift from a rift something that may be polished and be perceived of value if I take the time to sift
Show me something beautiful
Make it *something* great
Compose me something magical
Pray, make it elate
I'm always running behind your Clocks
Sorry to make you wait
The one thing I know,
Oh for certain, for sure
the hour of my death shall not be late
ever-so-precisely on time
and I try to move s-l-o-w-l-y through the finitude of my seasons,
understand, please listen, I have my reasons.
So much of this is precisely a construct
all set to destruct,
the design and architecture of innovation
a collaboration of highly-educated
well-paid
immaculately dressed
dummies
who send children to war
or kill children in war (or worse, in peace)
they themselves less the children of a high-quality mummy (or daddy or family or community or compasses + maps or __________),
more so this city of mummies.
Gulrez knows that
there will always be more to eat
not enough time to cook
so I am taking a moment to declare,
“Look!
I am stopping this loading of my plate
When shall my hunger and thirst sate?”
This is a no longer a debate.
So sealed is my fate, that I shall no longer,
grate on the nerves of this cheese-like gratitude,
but slice out a block,
toss out the lock,
open-source the key,
and just let it be in praise of the bees,
clean seas,
And in the lonely company
of myself who is good,
and those who are better,
slowly drained cups of tea*.