Poetry: “it can sometimes does,” by Tom Pennacchini

I am looking out the window with my classical on as I ponder the rigmaroles of existence discussing such with the most fascinating person I know.  
Every time I feel I’ve made a valid point or observation during my ongoing convo I like to whip off my glasses to add further emphasis 
while highlighting a point that’s been made salient and to add further punctuating resonance landing on a note redolent of conversational flair.  For example as I gaze out 
I reflect to myself on the virtues of eschewing the virtual for the sake and embracement of tactility and doing the sharp clean whip on eschew.  
When I revelate that the only thing remaining is to become a saint there is a slow whipping on become. Like that.

Happenstance can work well and good sometimes.

Oh sweet exquisiteness, as I lovingly prepare an afternoon aperitif and just now at the ready of the first gentle sip (lord how I love my ceremonies!) the radio crows out “heroes” – Ah yes, aglow and 
a flow, I duly proceed to an illuminated bask.

The heart of the matter resides in the entire lonesomeness of the venture, and so dream, a much needed break from the prosaic, makes fantasy a much vaunted ally.
So it goes, the garden of eden and myself with menagerie of profound friendships and equipped with a fleet of canines are baying in unison at the rising moon each eve over the waters. 

I think of a bovine at dusk by the side of a country road,  looming and ruminating.  Life can be so wonderful!  And indeed the cat never ceases to contribute the phenomenal 
and to provide blessed insight into all things seriously absurd, a well rounded tutorial in surrealist burlesque,
It welcomes and relieves one from the strangulating  confinements of love and isolation, providing a delightfully futile longing 
for unencumbered innocence and a bit of air.

So it goes, the gallivanting ambition is to string two good days in a row together.

But for now, synchronicity dovetails to a tee and a thickening
of well and good in the here/now of slow nothing.

Tom Pennacchini is a flaneur residing in NYC and has had stuff published in numerous journals and magazines.