These Days

This is circumspect prospect into what it means “to fry.”
To fry the bagel, to coat it in everything seasoned;
And expect the boiled bag of dough – to still come out: crispy.
Why is it that the boiled bagel of excellency,
Is seen as a mistake of cookery?
To cook is to enflame.
I learned this and scoffed at Escoffier.
When I found out every great chef is on ice,
And the homecook parable into creation the great meaning
Of the rarity, to season.
In great dialect,
And platform of utter chances
That utter chained commanded enhancements,
And I looked so sullen.
Dinosaur shadow,
With a graphed-paper report and bluetooth
Lights
Are trained to my voice, instead of music.
I am the deaf one, that sings
Like a blue Jay when the sun goes out.
For that, i reason with everyday mediocrity, until the macro lens shines pens
That glimmer
In only Black, no blue.
I stopped carrying the Purple Pen.
It’s merely a decoration or journal entry, these days.

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Inspiro demfainminafino: Inspiration of my embarrassment & desecration: {in the moment, of finishing up the piece 🤣🎭🪨❄} “Si Me Gano Un Grammy:” by Jon Z available on anarchy memory on Spotify

“petrichorfrequency” Peruse the Playlists!!!! zzzz – zzZZ- ZZZZ. !!!