When I want to input an idea I ought to 
not have to care what page that I am on and have the page let me ente content and
the fact that I am entering content 
enables a feature that allows me to 
collect, edit, order and publish said content.

Collect, edit, order, and publish

Content in the Winter World

a poem

   Those thoughts
      covered over with ice
   and not having any new ideas
           at all
        like those forgotten yesterdays
       some long forgotten everyday
   an a-go around which you'd impulsively
                  wrap your mind.

     All night long at the factory
  the steam billows into the valley
    ice collects on the railings
     the guys' trucks sit in the parkng lot
 
    That mood
      is best felt while at work
   when you're just getting off of the shift
       and in between when you're going from 
        lunch to the restroom
    and you have to walk outside
     between the breakroom and the back hall
    
     one night
   when the cold's sudden descent
    the steam all turned to snow right there
         before it got high into the 
      valley air
   and covered over the guys' new trucks
      and covered over the withered 5 foot
     weed stocks by the chainlink fence in the back
       and even though we all know it's still fall
   the snow storm covers it all.

      Then, there, between the ice slip 
           and the rail
       A frozen mop next to a pail
           I thought for an instant of you
         and had that feeling, that mood.

   Next week
    when I visit the city of light on the lake
        Maybe I'll be back in a mood best 
         remembered right there
      or maybe letting all of that go
    to the lost winds of time 
   broken cleches that writers
      can't use without derision from
    other writers. . . 

    another reason I need the edit features
        working
        so it's easier to change this page.

   Gosh that last poem could be 
        lost ruined postings on a windy morning yesterday
 lost in the parady of equal and opposite 
   ruin and made for TV loserly panderings
   of pretty girl, handsome boy yesterdays
   lonely waiting for coins to be delivered
     and no one wanting to share their biscuits.

      Her dry mouthed bytings and 
   not saying this is OK on a morning
 when you walked away and that feature
    stayed unremade
   and made to live within the bounds
  of the page
   which doesn't care how and if
    the posting is sage, oh edit feature
                 why do you not work
   this lazy-boy poem typing is making my
       fingers ache on account of the
 mouseclicking that I did while playing 
         the bounce game
      and worried that the system
         wouldn't run that other new game. . .
    And learning all about GL error codes.

Don't tell me you drank the Iced Tea

another poem

      Please tell me child
  that you didn't really drink
    that much iced tea
   which, while really good will most likely 
     make you pee
    and we gotta drive an hour so we can
   be with mom and we can't stop
 cause I'm crazy 
    and it's saturday
  and were driving
  up the highway to a funeral
    the sun is too bright.
   you were just a baby
     strapped in

   I was crying
      but I didn't want you to know
   so I tried to hide it
     but you gave me that
    mommy why are you crying look
   and I saw you sobbing even bigger
  not understanding mommy's grey funk
  when mommy is supposed to be always happy
    but you can't be, you can't be.

  so can you forgive me for my nicknames for you?
   or the way that I tease you when you
       giggle like you do
   or how I make you do those cute things
      for auntie Mamme?
   And the stories that I tell about her fame?
   
    When the poet stops saying who he is
 does the baby suddenly look away from the weeping?
   does the sleepy child in the car seat look
    towards the sunlight and the rolling
        fields of happy life
   off across the mountain valley towns
      down below those giant bends in
       the highway, 
   rivers flooding over craigy cliffs
         long slopes that slope above
   the abysses of waterfall gorges
     and then when they stopped at the gorge
   she carried the baby across the parking lot. 
    she brought the baby to the edge of 
  the abyss
    That is the place with the loudest 
          sound of the rushing water
   where the mist is clean as it flows
     right out of the mountain
   and you can breath it in
     and understand the glory and wonder of life and
       living without needing words at all
       the natural language of babies and infants.

  Are waterfalls the weeping world of
            life and the earth crying?
   she wonders this as the baby coos.
      using words

  What does baby say or do when baby makes
    first words?  What does baby
  mean when baby makes first words?

  She been standing there for a while, 
    little child wide eyed wonder at 
      the rushing flood of life and
    living Vermont water

   Baby at the brink of falling in and
  mist on mommy's face not tears but 
      exploding waterfall of life, that
  pouring out and free for every wanderer 
   (free for all comers)

  Sad funerals later and many days
    coming back through the same highway
  and aware of the power of the light 
      and flooding water she
  stops again and carries little child back to 
        the place of flooding life
   and baby, there, 
   a name?
      a description of a place?
   a random placement of first words?
  words where none had been ever heard before
     from baby:
  "mommy
   waterfall"
   

When I want to input an
 idea I ought to be able
    to do this where ever I am
  have my own place for those ideas
    that fllod forth from the clifface of
      my living and walking around.

  Just file them right here in your head
     no need to be writing them all down
  cause no one wants to hear it anyway
     do they?
   your rattling on,
     your tottal and continuous
  sputter forth of poem-trivances.

     Dark voice of doubt from
  hurting fingers asks me why
     I waste my time with poems and
  automatic garbage when I could be
    writing my heavy edit code that I want?

  So son why do you do these endless poem-rambles?
  A lot of which leads tired eyes of readers 
           into brambles
   (of thought)?

      If you fall into the prickered bush
    you'll hear your blow-up going whoosh
   

I'm from Vermon' I do what I wan'