Why hello there! Aren’t you just cutting a delectably fine figure in that outfit!
I thought of a vastly superior way of referring to my career, no longer am I a writer but rather a word monger. Flinging them around like freshly filleted salmon, if you can mong a fish you can dodge a ball! Wait, that’s wrong, if you can mong a fish you can mong a word!
Today’s poem doesn’t really have a context. I basically wrote it completely independent of any other thoughts. The words sort of piled up like an overloaded funnel before correcting and spouting forth unhindered and smoothly. I barely even needed to edit or make the usual alterations. Amusingly, that said, I don’t really love it. I can’t put my finger on precisely what it is but it made the cut in the end regardless. It’s like clothes that fit perfectly but just don’t look very good.
“Tumbling”, June 23, 2018
Once we danced light on the head of a pin
Enchanted leaps and fleet bewildered spin
Turned clumsy over time, all do with age
The bargain we strike, to grow ever sage
Still the nimble angels continued on
Increasingly looking haggard and drawn
Grace wears quite thin in us all at the last
And in those moments futures become past.
I guess I had simply heard the expression (angels on a head of a pin) recently and the piece in its entirety must have sprouted from that and my own healthy sense of fatalism.
So I was trying to say that they/we/I die at the end. You no longer have a future so it is passed (past?). Does that make sense or come through clearly enough? It’s a not so profound thought masquerading as ocean-deep. Just in an absurdly obtuse fashion, my specialty after all.
I sure do appreciate y’all stopping by, I hope a pie of grandmother crafted quality finds its way into your life in somehow!
Mong!
-Alex Blaikie
Dread Poets Sobriety 
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