championship foodstuffs.

i would've guessed that a big and hearty
and totally expert breakfast would've been the correct
and most situationally-appropriate cooked-up thing i could do
to activate the most important meal of the day.
y'know,
like getting off on the right foot,
powering up and feeding all the innermost corners of cause-and-effect
with wheat and oats and fruit and nuts and all the good things,
for a day of properly fueled elite super hottness an' that.
uh-huh.
check the four-kinds-of-panniecake teleport:

yeah!!
a staggering and staggered stack of flapjack-of-all styles for your face.
what sort of treats are those flatcakes impregnated with?
hey-O!
how about cinnamon brown sugar breakfast?
yup.
coconut almond?
obviously.
chocolate chip?
classics never go out of style.
french caramel?
c'mon.
and then to make sure to take it to eleven and beyond-
fresh blueberry-raspberry fruit top blops,
and real maple syrup,
and a dusting of gut-busting powdered sugar,
and a  doo-doo swirly of whipped-style 'cream'??
duders,
i made fancy breakfast,
and i ate it all up,
and i even had company.
hmm?
yeah.
a real live young lady.
young being the adjective most applicable.
what?
no.
it was not in any kind of a weird way.
don't be like that, neighbors.
an audience is what i am always seeking out.
i mean it.
cooking for just myself because i deserve it is rarely a good enough reason
to activate the early morning pannieman magic.
pancake flippin' is reserved for a shared table experience.
it's the company that keeps me sharp.
storytelling and sauce-simmering and hot griddling.
i do what i do in order to maintain a perfect score on
the warrior poetry scale of activities and participation.
that's definitely a thing.
***********
there's deep moss here.
in the shady glades of the woodsly goodness,
in the shadows of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
a springy, spongy, soft bed of green and gold.
i'm smothering myself in the depths.
i'm sinking into the soil.
i'm ready to sleep and creep and burrow and build barrows
and come back in eleven or so years from now.
cicada life.
stay ugly, stay dope
no matter how long, or how hard, or how dark it gets.
eventually there's flying and F*ing and dying.
all in short order and close proximity.
i can accept those terms;
never quiet, never soft.....