Dear Diary, 

Staircases are determined steps to anywhere. 
Tell me why, you tell me why, going down in
the dark is scarier than climbing up? 

A grinning sauce of Memphis sweet, 
circle running ’round our map or
wicked thoughts. It doesn’t 
matter to me,
if we never speak; I am content
with the smell of your aching genius.

It ain’t easy grinding wheat for flour.
Can’t give easy for cheap these days. 

Olives, cheese, salami roses
our feet lying beneath Magnolia wind, 
tickled by the unspokenness of existence.
Your stillness solemn…
My livingness waits near your knee; the 
days do not blink, now, until humidity comes.

Grown ain’t proved until hope starts runnin’. 
 Proof is in the pudding, Bett-sey, Wobble-
 Wobble, BayBay. 

Tokens, cards, and Tarot books-
mysterious beginnings, your weathered loom, it
offers me. Man’s fearbeats were born from 
the wreckage of human micalculations and 
arbitrary condescension that spread across
dine-in/take-out evenings following
everyday afternoons. 
        
When loneliness throws out its card in 
 surrender, why can’t we lift our hands
 in wondrous astonishment and cry, 
 Papa, Father, Padre, will you
 bring me a joke, so I may laugh along, too. 

                                                       Your Friend, 
                                                                        Me.