The ol’ nine and seven will take you to heaven,
if you live in a place that’ll let you drive at 16.
I’m not trying to say all the kids will crash,
I’m just playing with numbers … ‘kay, I’m brash.
16 becomes 7 pretty easy, and if you flip the ol’ 6, it’s a 9 for sure.
This whole thing only makes sense if I use its number as a title.
Context: it is the 97th day of the year 2020 in this, our sweet Gregorian calendar.
This is the 97th daily poem I’ve written this year.
Maybe this is too on the nose? Er, eyes? Too on the eyes?
How does one tune the eyes to make them more cartoonish?
There’s even a car in that phrase, what is happening?
Voice in the back of my head says: if someone is listening to this,
it’s too on the ears, man.
Neither the nose, nor the eyes.
It ain’t the knees neither, but we’ve gone beyond two now
and it makes no sense.
Perhaps that is the sum of most of my thinking: no logic, zero sense.
Just a few cents.
Actually, no cents – I don’t get paid to ramble.
Are the above utterings my preamble to insanity?
Are all these poems mere vanity?
I have the audacity to write, many times in my own strange voice,
and it becomes, like, a lot of fluff.
Sometimes even I’m not sure about my stuff.
I want to be good,
but some days,
my only victory
is even trying.
Open brain, put pen to paper, watch thoughts take shape.
Shape take thoughts, watch – paper to pen put brain open.
I thank you.