You may delay, but time will not. ~Benjamin Franklin

To my inbox each day Merriam-Webster sends a daily word and last week the word 'procrastinate' appeared but I waited until today to open the email and (for the sake of a good story and poetic license) the definition came with a thumbnail pic of my face.  It was unpleasant, not my face that is, but the fact that I am indeed the definition of late.  My Dad has described me and my incessant tardiness as, "always late, but worth the wait".  Thanks Dad, thanks for turning cold porridge into strawberry shortcake.  I remember a job I had where my boss and patrons would place bets on the time I arrived to work.  Totally flustered, I'd burst through the door with all the "sorry's" under the sun, while a portion of them erupted and money changed hands.  I showed up early one time and there was such an uproar that they decided amongst themselves that I was to be disqualified because no one imagined that I'd ever be early for work.  Silly men, drinking beer, like puppies playing ball.  Those were the days working at The Bee and I've been meaning to talk about them for a while but I've put it off until now.

Anyway, where was I? Turning trivialities into the meaningful?  It's 2011 and according to the Mayan calender I've got one year to shape up or ship out.  According to the Mayans, we have less than one year to make something up, I mean, make something out of ourselves for the big "show and tell" performance come 2012.  I'm formulating a case convincing enough to buy me more time and at best another chance.  It's not that I'm scared of dying, I'm just frightened by the projects I've started and may never finish.  Hmm, eleven and a half months to go.  Now that's pressure, but if it weren't for the last minute, I wouldn't get anything done.

Synergy: A Collaboration. A Piece of our minds.

Dave Christensen sent me the following prose.  After ingestion and many hours I folded it into a poem.   

Friends and Computers:

For some really stupid reasons we file some away forever; yet a few eventually make it out of the bin and recycle back. A few might be in a police file, and there are some who probably should be in the X files. There are those who can play our hearts like a keyboard and whisper all types of digitized sweet nothings to brighten our screens. Other times we search for the right passwords to bring back those we have defaulted, trying everything we can to open them back up to us again. Those that we inadvertently cut might later feel like pasting us....and also think about putting a boot-up our @*#! Real special ones know just how to gently defrag us. On occasion we turn ourselves into fine-tuned engines and search for just the right one to surf through the rest of our life together with. Yet so many times we somehow never let get downloaded the right programs to upgrade us. Then there is God, Who knows us all without ever having to use google. Who can processes trillions of requests - then answer them all in the twinkling of an eye, sending his Spirit to virus scan our hearts in order to restore our hard driven souls - reinstalling purpose as He Casts His Net. He then leaves it entirely up to us if we want to be deleted out of his Facebook of life or not... but would rather have us all His best friends forever.

Mr KKBB

***

And this is what came out the other end...

An Ode; To the Few 

Seasons of men are filed
and reviled
reasons for that which they lack;
'Tis treason to assume
that a few in their gloom
can't recycle themselves from their bins and back.

A few
might be logged in police piles,
and some who belong in the X files.
There are those who can play our hearts like a keyboard,
typing with whispers in digitized dreams 
to sweeten our screens
Ice scream!

A few
are searching for passwords
with swords to bring the defaulted
and exalted.
Trying in pain
to reach and to teach
opening wounds up again,
in vein.

A few
by mistake
we've cut up like cake.
And in place of a hand
(just for good measure and with way too much pleasure) 
we've offered a swift boot to the head.
Instead.

A few
of the silent know how to coerce
and gently defrag us.
No cuss.
No fuss.

A few
are brighter than most!
Outstanding alone and tall as a post!
Winking and shining, tugging her boats from out of the bleak...
upon shores of rocks
designed for the weak.

A house of light....

Is He.
Knowing us inside and out.
Without google, or frugle, or poodles with noodles, processing trillions and squillions of rants 
twinkling His eye from out of the skies
scanning our hearts
and restoring the hard
driven souls from our wants 
and desires.
Installing the wires
again and again
in the rain.

Not a few
but for all!
 
His net stretching wide to catch the Fall;
The deleted, deflated, fragmented, placated, the Faces with and without.
Booking the lives of our time.
Sublime!

So from out of the bin
all's forgiven
He's risen!

Lending us time
to climb
back again
with renewal
of a greater precision.

***

He wasn't that bad after all.

The interview went swimmingly until I started taking pictures, and then he asked for some references. He thinks I'm NUTS. He was very normal. So normal and fair that I hired him to clean my apartment once a month. He declined.