It was September,
or some other irrelevant month
that one a soul did read his book
and sing her song.
Some even celebrate it.
Such a thing to celebrate,
Nothing worth more stress
and relief.
It is no slave song
or national
or social anthem.
To come all this way for nothing
To Channel these things
only around the world.
Dutiful do and
do two but one know?
What is such a forced question?
No more rhetorical
thrive and
patience.
No is such,
No best for last.
No least.
No luck,
No grain but in
a once romantic verse.
Dived for some
coined creature
no mass in this or other hours.
Other thoughts of this
streaming
and shining
and neuanced work or
walk and
week
of known
of the molded
and their
unmolded young
and heavy glows
known lived
always before.
Under what
unabridged
and partner.
It is no, it is all
and ended
it is only
a thought upon the
hour which could
burn no waste
and could only
carry.
A place I love,
A way I feel
a way a way does feel
in only this attention so
called miniscule
gain.
No lonely no feeling
only spite and the
retribution that is all
wanted
and needed.
To the day it comes,
To the stir of
echoes of a forgotten
repetitive chapter.
Written of right
to be spoken.
On
and on
and on.
James J Jackson 