In early morning daylight, –Mind’s a blank. First, it can notice two hands cradling a coffee-cup, almost folded together, cup’s in the middle, though, blocking..dark down in there, mm, brown, too! dash o’ cinnamon’s, floating; then a hand unclasps, coming toward it like a tropical spider, mm, monster! to the mind’s eye, a thumb and finger reaching in the nostril immediately below, to scratch an itch that just happened, blinded by sun’s rays coming in wishy-washy in all them hairs; it goes away again and recurs..there’s some snot to sniff at, mind recognizes, snorts a follicle..T00! Next it sees some small reading glasses, cheap from china, laying on a plaid table cloth; they are a kind of burgundy red and match a color in the pattern of the fabric, except the leopard spots, floating in blood, clear molded blood-plastic, wait, no, they are represented there, too; among the dyes, –them chinese! they know what we libs like..looks like, sounds like (plastic, that’s what we like; they’re capturing our whole nation by degrees in stone dollar increments we like that, us Americans, wee..plastic peoples, we bee’s, never! say DYES). So here’s that made-in-china APPLE Macbook heirloom, with a lit apple on the lid minus one..Bite! back-lit next to the glasses by the Android and the mind remembers it absorbs its poetry’s – by strokes at keys – like a fat, succulent sponge at ocean’s bottom, stuck on a plaid rock in undulating sun-rays of summer, waiting to be plucked! fall fast approaching as it was ages ago and Greeks swum down without masks – pre-Italiens – collecting ink samples from squids, too, in their shells..just turn it on and go! type it up (the poetry) mind addicted to making poems, first thing mornings, usually nothing more to go on than that, pure desire and no squid-ink..as it were. So there it was, another pretty one; stupid! too, don’t you think?? Thanks, mind..mind o’ mine; exercise in humility..humanity (futility). Oh, the humongousness! hope nobody out there minds. Better than nothing at all, right? No it worse! Hey it’s early still, give a bad poet a break..in ‘is dreams at least, mine’s eyeballs.