here,
the first thing in the morning is not a cup of coffee
but it simply sounds like that
it is cold as usual
and the heavy rain last night just stops
i avail for something that is warm
that must make me survive
but it is as personal as the
warmth in my own
armpits
nothing about a cup of coffee
it could even be the bland taste of my
own saliva
that i do not spit on colder mornings like
all these
keeping myself intact with my own
resources
nothing from the outside
nothing about cups of coffee and
toasted breads and
melting butters
it is the fingers that we press upon
ourselves
words that we play with our own tongues
inside our mouths
hugged by our teeth and
gums
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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