Oh My Lover, My Tiny Robot Companion, The Spoon
in the Palm of My Half-Slept Hand, I Thank You
Directly upon rolling over, groggy with sleep,
to find your middle-of-the-night query last night,
I formed a quick, vivid, and death-defyingly succinct
response in answer to the query that was not-so-subtly
ensconced within your rollicking, charming, hilarious, and
transcendently poignant txt msg.
My response not only elucidated reverently (and,
somewhat irreverently), poignantly, and empath-
etically, but was most striking (coming, as it were,
from me; and particularly in its occurrence, as it were
juxtaposed within a pair of brackets between
fits and starts of dreamy sleep and abrasive
insomnia) for its (to reiterate, quite uncharacter-
istic, even in my most sober and focused moments)
clarity; its spot-on use of word-to-actuality;
each verb, each modifier, &c, a veritable
mirror held to reality; even at its most
flowery, words or two which might
initially be assumed frill, were but
subtle emphases incorporated
only to drive home that actuality:
what had, in truth, best as it can be
derived at and then articulated,
in retrospect at least, what has been
and what is. In a nutshell, it was a
drawn-precisely-to-scale map of What Was Is;
it was an unbiased primer on What Is Was.
Well,
things being as they are, and most regrettably,
following the dreamscapes that were inter-
spersed with insomnia, the transition of body
from horizontal to vertical, that slow awakening
that included coffee and a modicum of meditation—
basically, after everything that subsequently took me
from middle-of-the-night toward and into what is:
THE NOW, our dear, dear “Late Morning”—
that beautiful response to your lovely question,
my answer that once seemed forged so indelibly,
as into a marble headstone, has wholly,
has most irrevocably
vanished.
in the Palm of My Half-Slept Hand, I Thank You
Directly upon rolling over, groggy with sleep,
to find your middle-of-the-night query last night,
I formed a quick, vivid, and death-defyingly succinct
response in answer to the query that was not-so-subtly
ensconced within your rollicking, charming, hilarious, and
transcendently poignant txt msg.
My response not only elucidated reverently (and,
somewhat irreverently), poignantly, and empath-
etically, but was most striking (coming, as it were,
from me; and particularly in its occurrence, as it were
juxtaposed within a pair of brackets between
fits and starts of dreamy sleep and abrasive
insomnia) for its (to reiterate, quite uncharacter-
istic, even in my most sober and focused moments)
clarity; its spot-on use of word-to-actuality;
each verb, each modifier, &c, a veritable
mirror held to reality; even at its most
flowery, words or two which might
initially be assumed frill, were but
subtle emphases incorporated
only to drive home that actuality:
what had, in truth, best as it can be
derived at and then articulated,
in retrospect at least, what has been
and what is. In a nutshell, it was a
drawn-precisely-to-scale map of What Was Is;
it was an unbiased primer on What Is Was.
Well,
things being as they are, and most regrettably,
following the dreamscapes that were inter-
spersed with insomnia, the transition of body
from horizontal to vertical, that slow awakening
that included coffee and a modicum of meditation—
basically, after everything that subsequently took me
from middle-of-the-night toward and into what is:
THE NOW, our dear, dear “Late Morning”—
that beautiful response to your lovely question,
my answer that once seemed forged so indelibly,
as into a marble headstone, has wholly,
has most irrevocably
vanished.
