and the music trickled from his fingers
and transcended / ascended through the ceiling
straight through a cloud
and the stratosphere freeing

If I had one more mouth
I could say twice as many silly things

another foot
I'd just put in my mouth
mouths

another leg
and all I'd do is run
another month
I'd not use this one

another year
would mean more tears
but how bad to cry
with a third eye

Debussy's in the air
Satie's in the sea
Gershwin's growing in the ground
how much more beauty can there be

Einstein's up in orbit
Newton's sitting 'neath a tree
Schrodinger's both here and there
so where should I be

Naruda conquered love
Bukowski; Reality
Ginsberg Howled all the rest
what thought is left for me

I'd like to say something never said before
something of wonder, profundity
here it comes
here it comes

I'm coming up empty

was it love at first sight or
had I somehow loved you before
was it hormones in the blood
or something closer to the core

Like two connected hearts or souls
like two encircling black holes
was it a chance encounter
or someone sitting at the controls

Now; I don't know the truth
but I don't need to
all I know
as that I need you

Is this poetic
or is this just poetry
have I found a new community
or am I still lonely

should I write one more
find someone to follow
attract another heart
to keep feeding my ego

it's hungry so hungry
fiending for a feeding
and I'm needing and pleading
that you just keep on reading

you can write poetry without being a poet
I feel Bukowski sometimes wrote without knowing how
or why
just because he was Poetry
like how Gogh painted for love
or for his next meal
not for me
not for we
like how an athlete runs for running
and a singer sings for singing
and a sinner sins for sinning
maybe you can't become a poet
it must be in you from the beginning

sorry I mix between serious and surreal
in these serials of her
swapping sense for splendour
subtlety for superlatives
her bark for a purr