Tonight it's a

Yellow pad.

It was usually a

Steno pad with green pages.

My pen or pencil usually

Couldn't wait and

Words began flying

From my fingers.

But for so long now

No words have even

Crept from the

Lips of the pen or

The sweet, elegant slide of a

Dixon Ticonderoga number two.

So

Tonight, it's a

Yellow pad

And,

Slowly.....

These.

Not quite the same as

Those:

(the ones from before)

These don't flow:

They sort of bubble up from

The middle,

Reaching up,

Then out to the fingers

With the pencil.

Before, they came from somewhere

Outside and through the top.

These are slower

Reminding me of

Bubbles in oatmeal

Or the slow flavor of rasins.

No cranial flashes:

Just slow paced certainty,

Bringing the familiar flotsam

Pretending to be poetry onto the

Pages of the yellow pad.

I always form these the same way,

And it seems ideas begin to

Solidify, as though they were

Jellied there to begin with.

I have not yet become bored

With

Free form;

The real "f" words:

Ineffable,

As they come from nowhere

And yet here they are -

Quiet "hineynees"

Coming from inside of nothing

To the surface of the

Yellow pad.

Without these meaningful meanderings

Could I remember

All this tomorrow?

Why do I need to remember?

What do I need to remember?

What do you remember?

Of course, this assumes

You are reading these.

Will you remember them after

Tomorrow?

Next week?

A year?

Why should you or I

Store this stuff

In an upstairs drawer?

Have they become something?

Something of value?

What price will these

Squiggles bring on the

Open market?

What if these Mean something?

Will they mean something to you?

What about me?

Since they came out of my fingers

Into your eyes,

What have you done with them?

Will you pass them around, copied?

Then what?

Do I own these or do you own them?

What does that mean?

What comes to the

Yellow pad

from

My

Fingers

Belongs to the

Yellow pad now.

I shall burn the

Yellow pad

And tomorrow,

You can put these

On a

Blue pad.

Whose are these then?

Are they the same

As those on the

Yellow pad?

If they are, they came from

Your fingers,

Not

My fingers.

What does that mean?

We are creatures

Of these

And the series of

Associated sounds.

When released,

They belong to

The air.

I cannot grasp

the concepts in air

and put them in my

left pocket,

but

I can fold this

up and put them

there.

Is this free form

Or has the freedom

Been caged on my

Yellow pad;

folded into small

squares and

placed in pocket?

Or, perhaps

The pad is green:

What then?

If I were

Misspelling all of these

On the Yellow pad

You would know...

But not in the air.

What if your misspellings

On your blue pad

Were purposeful

But no one knew

they were misspelled because

They were in the air.

Whose would these be?

Would they still be yours,

Mis-spelled and all?

Could you put them in my pocket?

Would they sound different

In the light

When released,

Either from pocket

Or into the air?

What changes?

Do I

Do you

Are they the same when

Folded in the pocket,

Or does the meaning change?

The yellow pad is

Filling up.

Soon the Dixon Ticonderoga

Will need sharpening.

Whose is what wore down?

How can I claim

What's in our

Memory?

Can I

Or is it

Yours?

Maybe it'll

appear in an

email

from

somone

I don't

know.

What

Do

You

Think?

What shall we do?