the snow this weekend didn’t feel to ME like Armageddon, or I’m sorry… SNOWmageddon. You news-type folks need to get out more.

Just checked my Poem A Day count, to see if I was remaining on top of things. I’m already short several poems. I could go back and write poems for the days I missed, but honestly, wouldn’t that be cheating? Bygones. It’s MMS to the poetry blog from here on it if I can’t get in front of the computer.

Time to warm up toes, and go boldly into the environs of North Philadelphia for class. Huzzah!

This picture won’t show til later, but I have a reading speed of 305 words per minute. Can this Evelyn Wood book help me read faster?

Man, let’s hope so.

This year will be one in training myself more about balance. Not physical balance, per se, though that might be a project in and of itself. The balance I’m seeking is a time management balance, which also translates into a Getting Things Done balance.

Of course, there’s also the physical space balance, known to some as the mystical property of feng shui. Too much stuff in my office, on my nightstand, in my schoolbag, in my car. Gotta clear it out, folks.

I’ll let you know how it shakes out, and if you’re got any advice, please leave it here for me. I promise I’ll read it.

Love,
Matt

This may not be a poem. Or maybe it might. Eye of the beholder in a post avant world, yes? What the author’s intention is, you may never know.

Neither may he.

***

Think I found a text that makes sense, something to make ways in the desert I can follow. Am I bold and singular like Whitman? No! Gimme those sign posts! No intrepid heroes here…

***

I will only rhyme to say this
The poetry you seek
Is changing places
This place, a sign post
To sites far away
From now on
Go to mattspoemaday.

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Every night it’s the same and yet, sometimes it’s different. Mostly I’m by myself, responding to the queries of folks not knowing where the bathroom is.

Imagine my surprise when these 3 rodents show up, unannounced, with plans to hang out til closing. Some little girl is missing these plastic happy mealtime movie tie-ins. Too bad, because sitting here with them… I’m amused and secretly hoping that little girl does not return.

This is the life of the nighttime custodian.

Not feeling too photogenic today, but… I was feeling musical, and so I covered my favorite Phil Collins song. Ya know, other than “Sussudio”.

Fully dedicated to my wife, Christy. You’re groovy, baby.

Hear, here.

A season quickly rots away, its delicacy flash-frozen and broken. How soon the red luster of leaves fade, how dim these eyes of winter grow. Wrap a scarf around your neck to stave off the suffering and pray for that speedy season. Everything shifts, everything thaws; everyone blooms, everyone dies. The cold reminds us this. And that it hasn’t happened yet.

24 hours of my favorite movie of all time, sitting here in the semi-darkness of my in-laws’ Christmas tree. It’s a magic I remember from 1985 brought forward to now, as my wife dines upstairs with her family. The whiskey’s worn off now, and I’m feeling sleepy. Talk me to sleep, Jean Shepherd. Remind me that I will be you, looking back at my childhood with an eye jaundiced by distance, tilting at history and always, always seeking the narrative hidden in the moment that blooms in our old age.

Lifeline, the first and last aid received, staff of survival, bottle of water of life. Sustain me through these last preparatory hours, lubricate the gears of my mind machine. Facilitate me as I seek success; keep me free from unhealthy excess; guide me on this simple quest. Though I don’t often pray, I say … Amen.

3 more days until I give up my parking space for the month. 72 hours before I can rest in my mind. Half a week, and I’ll breathe a sigh of relief. Now, though, it’s internecine… Let’s dance, Tylene.