**** coffee won't stay hot,
**** poetry writing
interrupts and the coffee cools
even in my porcelain cup
of Van Gogh's sunflowers,
too **** fast

thinking wouldn't it be better
if the coffee stayed hot and
you could reheat the drafts
as needed

on the tenth trip to the microwave,
it occurs wth a laughter burst
no changing required
it is poetry that keeps him heated
all night long,
and coffee only fills in the ****
daytime spaces
till the poetry comes
to warm his dreams

<•>

the unexpected pleasure of a peach

zenith moist, ripened to the exact state
when peaking is a squealing of bite size wet living pleasures,
and all is conquered,
and of course,
you're filled with loss
at the absence of perfection
in important things,
now with despair destructed,
new fear infecting fears
so many forces intersecting,
and one simply wishes to surrender
and then the peach texts the brain

*no way
you may have peaked,
but tomorrow and fore-next,
you'll pick another like me,
and plant my pit beneath
your picture window
and must perforce
live another day
in the shadow of my hope,
the scent of my existence

No tengo - Spanish for don't have*

<•>

woke up bushy and mushy,
"Siri, get my muse on the line,"
wise *** asked which one,
guess she was feeling feisty
as well as girl-gorgeous,
poem perfect on a July 2 Sunday

fake growled and she said
"alright, alright, just a sec..."

"0 Muse, it's me,
it's not even seven am,
got the urge, ready to cruise,
pick me one of my Natman outfit de-skyizes and
let us write many jive poems
let us write till the sunsets texts us

sire, dude,
I'm
just above the horizon,
poems no mas,
unless you will write by
the fire of the maister's grill"

My Muse,
strangely morose, denies replies,

"sorry sire, (she's nice English)
all of the available words
have been purchased until
July twenty tooth"

What, I screamed, threatened and challenged,
must be one of those rude dude tech billionaires,
who think limitless is just another word for more please!

Siri
"get me god on the line so I can maccabee end,
this poetic oppression"

He/She an old friend,
an A list star of many prior writs,
would surely insist that a
special rabbinical dispensation,
could be found to squeeze nattyman me,
a few thousand or so

God  (looking straight at him, makes him crazy)

"so many things I do not have such as,
your prolificacy,
making me jealous that all your poets
rain down in greater quantities
than I can manufacture clear crystallinely
but now is the hour of your power,
the minute of my need,
give me some words please"

the disembodied voice's disemboweled me

"sorry son,
gotta run,
if it is words you want,
suggest get an in with
wordvango and betterdays,
me,  no tengo!
their profligacy,
poems by the hour
have drained the list,
and had I not put a stop to it,
they would have taken them all
till Christmas!"

*So made me some future reservations,
selling them likes suns, 3 for a dollar,
which is even cheaper, (Eliot!)
no ifs and ands about (it)
come see the maister natser,
my words are made of obsidian
and specialty Valyrian steel,
and nobody eats my words
they just-wink at them,
then lift some, a nice steal
cause I never read a poem
undeserving

shock and awe, shown the light, shown the door,
by the literary muses, kings and queens,
and the royal cooks, of course,
all rouse me at 4:00 am,
to salute those who can cook,
knowing how to summer simmer a simple broth of love
with richest, tasty, succinct, succulent brevity
that
keeps this wordy would be poet,
honest

all the varied spices,
artful adjectives, verbose verbs, numbing, never-heard-of nouns
are humbled in joy, all join this poet,
to honor the
curried simplicity
of  
the Bengali cook of love
from India
who says it reverently,
all
in
one
simple sentence,
sourced locally
love is his staple,
love is rice
~


5/31/17

4:10am

How to Cook Everything

the secret is in the human spices...

all dishes require clear cool scented breaths blown of pure lung oxygen,

hot dishes need heated, thrumming,
heartbeats,

stir with skin cells of a clean
finger,

stir with skin cells of a garden soil digging
finger,

to taste, a dash of salted directly dropped eye
tears,

a sprig of mind
mint,

spring water to clarify
the recipe,

the sweat of love and joyful


did you think of the kitchen speaking?

nay, the prep of the human mind
swollen with the possibilties of love.
the touch taste of two
bodies

how I love to cook!

~
Gumby, Wood Woodpecker and Me
~


somewhere in the mother lode
of a thousand poems scripted,
lies a pen-pained tribulation, an old ode,
to the taming of the shrew,
the shock and awe of my new born,
slept-on hair mode

Ogdiddy,
she says,
rise up quick!
thy self to the mirror dispatch,
see what god hath wrought
upon thy head this brand new morn

blessed am I,
at this late stage,
in posses of a
goodly and shocking amount
of hair au naturel

each of my body's parts has a mind of its own,
my hairs, each one a different opinion and resultantly
an amazing new creation born come dawn

sometimes straight up like Gumby
she quips,
sometimes a shocking tail to one side
in the style of one Woody Woodpecker,
she mockingly cries!

and on and on each daily
a new cartoon characterization proposition,
until one day in feigned wrath I do reply

*just you wait Mrs. Higgins, just you wait,
you will rue the day my do
will be best described and descried by you
as akin to that of one known as
SpongeBob SquarePants

Mr. Condiment Man

he arrives around 10:30am,
after the morning rushers and multiple malingerers
have surrendered to the clocker's red glare stare,
the little dictator of time that rules lands far and wide,
and the lunch crush is but a restauranteur's faraway dream

most days, to the last counter stool, he beelines,
the most least desirable seat in all of diner-land,
adjacent to the noise of kitchen,
and its associated higher risks perilous,
a two way swinging door "entera-ance,"
a residency to be avoided most studiously

though hardly a corner for one to go unnoticed,
by virtue of its iffy existence,
unless one likes the increased chance of
being a  victim of a crashing accident,
Mr. Condiment Man goes in and out, silently unremarked
but very noticed

in our land of spacious skies and amber waves of plastic,
customarily any "regular" is happily accorded a
rousing Sousa welcome, but that mistake now twice made,
is a historical hurry up-to-be-please-be-forgotten incident,
and the Condiment Man's cloaking invisibility second only to the
NYC's Famous Actors seeking breakfast amidst the common people

no words are passed, no pleasantries are planted,
the rule of incommunicado silence, for both sides now,
most happily observed, like a UN peacekeeping boundary

quick appears Cream of Tomato soup accompanied by
ever multiplying handfuls of packages of Nabisco
crackered packets, freshly fracked, with a ketchup Heinz handy,
a soupçon of five iodized salt shakes in the soup then interred,
salt released from the prototypical glass shaker whose universality usage seems to be a Federal law o' the land

the meal in silence arrives,
silently but oh-so-slowly-consumed,
it's extenuating circumstances lengthily enhanced by intermittent deliveries of additional cracking crackers,
and an occasional lip smacking,
and an unrequited unrequested unremarked
  "topping off" soup refillament,
this one act play presented daily
with a free tall glass of water in red plastic also refillable,
as needed

a play with no official ending,
no white topped, green lined, ripped from the ubiquitous diner pad, scribbled, billing ever presented,
but the loose change precisely, scrupulously counted then
upon the counter left, materializes by the hands
of the unacclaimed Mr.  Condiment Man,
which he sources from pockets various
in places where no pocket rightfully  belongs

you can set you watch by his timed departure
at five minutes of Twelve, he is no longer,
the play thus ended, the audience to feet leaps,
relieved and appreciative of the quiet man's drama
and his most excellent silent soliloquy

some strange human need satisfied and pleased
for all parties concerned, when the New York Times
revealed that this C.C. man left a 50 million dollar estate donated
to Meals-on-Wheels,
a fortune amassed by speculation in
condo's (ha!),

there was no shocked groaning,
only some perfunctory observing that frugality has its place,
and that this fantastick show, now closed, would be
sorely missed, for it had become a
condiment itself
a spice in the lives of so many


~
O.G.D.N.

~~~

early Saturday morn marked,
looks as if it will be a as-scheduled,
chill fall brisk one, a November blend,
sun wants in, but clouds say,
uh-uh, no way Jose,
yet the yellow star insists, persists

the bed so coy, suggests a ploy

stay with me, stay with her,
ready steady in this hearts hearth,
let this Saturday be an Ogdiddynasherday

*the blonde deep sleeps,
covers up to the nose,
she doesn't know
and never will

that the edges of my eyes filled with tears,
watery from amniotic fluid,
a byproducts of this days first time ever
birthday

a moment morning marked, colored by
early morn re-readings of prior poems,
of darling love mended with tender,
writ expressly for her,
over the years of being
together~tethered

soon that other pair (of eyes) will open,
in a new way,
anew the day,
a whole new world,
a seventh day resting,
unaware of my steadfast guardian,
over-watching protection

will inform her of the Saturday menu,
stay in bed with her obedient server-man,
performing continual catch up
on who we are and why we be a we,
with out ever thinking
that's a good idea,
just like this poem came unplanned,
just an unscheduled day in bed,
woman and man,
with a new poem snuggling
in between

~~~

threw out bottles and bottles
of aged liquor mixes and
some liquor too old
for brain risk taking,
tonic water that could
no longer tonic,
margarita mix that might
mix a stomach story poorly,
spirits that had seen better days,

cranky and worse,
twenty plus such  characters
from bottom shelf pulled
all well gray coated covered,
in twenty plus dusty seasons' complainings...

clanked and clanged the plastique bag
of liquid trash to the curb,
perhaps purposely others to awaken,
perhaps the thought occurred,
that no minute or opportunity must go underutilized,
unlike my glassy expired companions,
in happy contemplation
contemplated,
"whatever will the neighbor's think?"

****, those party animals
didn't invite us!

~

you're never too young to forget
where you left
those critical external ****** appurtenances,
the jangly, yet magically disappearing
into a stony metaled silence when needed,
bunch of keys,
so mission critical to
the sweet savory of
our lives' mission

but!
you think you should write
you're never too  old
but that would be stale bread,
old news, insufficiently poem-worthy,
coated in stale peanut butter and jelly

no, young
is written tight and right,
for in the days of selfies and tinder,
'tis the season of
easily committing grievous
social personal errors
that it almost criminal,
forgetting those keys
and their locking companion's,
who also serve us
daily, dually

unlocking our hearts
open wide
to all things
kind and wonderful,
love long lasting

yet to intently lock us up,
safe secure from
those that who would predate
their own young,
or noise suppress your own best songs

so don't casual place those keys,
in the bowl by the door,
key kept close upon thy person,
for though they may be
pointy pocket causing misery originals,
keep them forever handy
for they are thy keeper of thy sources,
the third hand that
opens up the treasures of
thyself

~

twelve princes had I,
from the sun king's corona
they were born and derived,
with a "hop" and skip
from Mexico,
they, conquistadores came north quick,
seeking the salutations and praise
of our eastern middle states'
summer breezy kisses

I met then at George's
our island supermarket,
to which they came seeking shelter

our island so small,
that all purveyors,
homes too,
are shtetl nominated by
each owner's name,
even if the first to inhabit,
though long from the island rabbited,
so they are deeded and recorded

one prince, the bravest spoke,

"Let me be the first
and  thru my neck,
you poetic thirst to quench"

and as I tippled the long necked Corona
beer
**into the overheated imagination
of my amplifying belly
their parental sun did whisper,
"**** good thing
there are eleven more!'

I would rather write one good poem
and have it lost
to you and you,
among the waterfall crushing
of trite and rushing verbal droppings
and the infrequent masterpieces

years from now
mediocre and facing  myself,
mirror-wincing,
at a dyed and dying
vanity,
years from now

admission: confession:
my goal was
glory and fame,
to be celebrated,
recalled and retained,
if only
by myself,
with smidgened satisfaction

my Cain mark,
is not a celebration
of a brother's birthright
usurped,
Frailty
thy name
literary adulation

like so, too many
other failures recorded
lost to lol but me,
but one,
perhaps
this one(?)
to enfold
in my
withering, neatly-voiceless
hands
saying and believing,
perhaps!
with this one,

I have justified
my existence

the Webster's, the Merriam's,
residents of the Oxford
say not,
an exclamation or a noun,
but an action,
a doing word,
not so much...

as a poet~sorcerer
digressing rules,
is my input
appetizer,
poems, my exported
entrées
all posted to be
dessert
for all the sweet tooth
parts of you

all to
feast on this
process,
when I
hallelujah you...

"Praise the Lord"
the translation literal

but sojourn herewith me
for a few extants,
together, let's
invigorate, expand the
understanding of an ever expansive
definition...

if I ever fall out of love,
with natural words,
can no longer
hallelujah/scribe
to memorialize
why we claim,
we are alive....

hallelujah's
praises
for you all the
master designers'
praiseworthy creations,
an extension of themselves,
they said
in each human
godlike spark
hallelujah installed

there is nothing more
godlike
than being
human,
so when I
hallelujah
I praise each and everyone

it is a mixologist's dream,
some of it a
thank you,
some of it a
your welcome,
all of it a
celebratory exercise,
in appreciation,
of the finery of what we can
be
come
greater
through
the words
of our blood
transfused

Oh!
act out Hallelujah,
write it as if you must
urgent do
Hallelujah,
do it
not just now but,
Selah!

Aging Poetry Well (proving the valor of writing poetry)

no more write, post, establish
to your immediate satisfaction,
what you are
what you think
is an amazing piece of
just you,
plus+comprehending
the world needs it, you,
ASAP!

needy for the
cosplay contemporaneous sharing,
curse of our
instantaneous time

from now on
deep down, gonna let it
casket age,
let memory
of the intensity
rust sufficiently to
get some time~plied
rusted accurate actualized
perspective

maybe trash it,
maybe tinker and
spot-check edit,
but if it is going
to stand
time testing,
let it pass a
first Herculean
examination of
fire and forget,
returning later
to collect it,
the wounded
that,
refusing to die,
thus proving proof,
the valor of
red badged courage of
writing poetry

is it worthy long after
the internal commotion
has passed,
just like
an ordinary
but very first

"I love you"

forming and reforming
then blurted in  
a wunderkind awkwardness,
that can't be
taken back,
well, *** and all that

put me aside,
could be weeks,
months,
researching
the thing I love most,
waiting for the day I
need it worse,
a lot less,
so I can
do it better

maybe even go back
look up them
odd old folks,
written in
longing ago high passion,
and come at them
differently
or wistfully,
not
and like me,
age
for better
or
for worse

soiled.
here there everywhere.
regular like.
verb and noun,
he, both.
soiled, soiled.
verb, noun.

*****.
a stupid~sounding word.
say ***** *****
***** three times fast.

what is a sound of *****?
intimate.

what is the color of *****?
every color that leaves you,
or even begins you,
soiled, sullied, tainted.
sweaty.

the intimate man did not intimate.

his stains were visible.
no need for polite,
needless the charade,
of legitimizing intimacy,
there for all to see.

they were no longer
intimate.
he did not know why,
after awhile,
he didn't care.

pretended intimacy,
which was a ***** thing,
a stainless steel cutlery
kind of *****.
a reflection visible only to the
eye of the beholder.

cutlery was never clean,
soiled, after but one use,
think.
in the mouth, with the hands.

such intimacy,
that, they still shared.
an easy pretense.

terror.
terror is intimate
and *****.

lived in terror.
not constant which implies periodic spaces.
no breaks.
the terror soiled him,
you did not need even be intimate with me.

sweaty,
see, smell it.
taste it,
even better!

though the terror was deeply intimate,
in the skin embedded,
I told ya,
easy visible.
easy to avoid the intimacy of
terror.

clean, silky clean intimates,
changed regular,
changed nothing.

intimacy was a Cain mark.
his private, public.
his public, privy.

more?
more.

shame.
shame is intimate.

there are so many kinds too.
the shame of soiled.
the shame of disrespect,
the shame behind closed doors.
the shame of public humiliation.
the shame, the stink, of failure.
the shame we share in ways
we wish not speak of.
the shame of bad grammar,
shame leaves you soiled, *****.
terrified.

shame on you for having read so far.

but you can boast
you knew me when,
you knew me
intimately,
bad and well.

you knew
that you did not know
anything about me,
even though,
we had been
at least
this one time,
intimate.

who is soiled now?

~
touch~teach her eyelashes
with my index finger,
her toes ask why
they must, no choice,
curl,
my heart answers,
one, one, one

~~

The truths that sway
within my hands,
my body follows,
am music borne,
we each of us
sway differently,
because my hand traces,
my beloved's waist,
soon enough,
never soon enough,
we are
two, two, two

~~~

no no not religious,
but miracles observed
quite regular

two becomes one,
emerald melded,
a yellow blonde, how extraordinary,
his blue eyes, lately
gray flecked,
blue and yellow
combined make
emerald melded,
thus two becomes one,
one becomes
a recombinant color,
and new is now
three, three, three

three that rhymes
not with me,
or her,
but the three that rhymes
with me and thee
which makes
we,*
three, three, three, thee
for life

who will read aloud
my poems
when I'm gone?

that old unfriended thot,
a nagging merry query
was for awhile forgot,
put on the back of an upper shelf,
where dust motes and mites
fear to trend

thoughts,
that I thought
I had dispensed with,
letting time
build illusionary wry walls,
fooling World Trade Center tall

morose forlorn,
pensiveness of
red ant armies,
incapable of
black marker redaction,
there is always one
a lingering malingerer
a sole fado singer,
playing woeful jazz in
the Quarter
on an empty emoty street,
dressed and guised
as the soul of a solitary
cancerous cell
"survivor"

cur overlooked,
biding time,
the surgeons gone,
the drugs flushed,
radiation burning
no more

begins then
the unholy
trilogy cycle

worn out, overused...
invasive categorically relentless
maybes,
what ifs,
then
oh goddamnnotagain

because believed, on knee,
I oathed that
loathed, raven nevermore,
ought
that
cracked door would be open

yet like the
New Orleans levee aged locks
hurricane succumbed
overflowed, overcome,
keyholed, infiltrated,
falllen to the enemy,
mes enfilade,
rumps up the black flag of
surrender

brain sneers
periodically,
like every other
minute, ok,
second,
coyly asking
penny for your
worthless thoughts?

just when you believed
"no mas"
was a prayer that had been heard,
teeth kicked in,
body snatching
hordes and boors
bad boys and ******,
sitting high in the
saddle again,
grinning torturous
tarty smiles
at who,
at you, fool!

you're as alone in that place
as insufficiently as that
impoverished overused
word can ere convey

the nagging realization
that when asking

no one answers

when your thinkings
perish you
your cutesy sweatshirt reads
last standing poet alive,
stabbed ded by awful-truths,
you failed and
all the black cats,
have fled the neighborhood,
just when need was greatest

who will read aloud
my poems when I'm gone,
has been silently answered

by silent applause,
the last theater goer
shuffles out, and turns
and extends his *******
his review leaves a
singular impression,
he looks familiar,
gauntly ghost,
he has accompanied me always
and his finger is his
triumphal parting shot

partly cloudy,
partly sunny,
clearly an indecisively
partly day,
bored, the heavens organized
a garden party, sky above,
eclectic crowd,
minted mixed,
party of partly
clouds, wind, sun rays,
summer showers and somehow,
I got partly invited...

but not partly windy,
no, entirely gusty

a workingman's breeze,
all grown up, full strength
has driven the good folk inside,
tho sailboats are entouraging fully,
just me and them in
Red Sea parting, a full blow,
unmistakably encouraging partying,
while under the influence
of white line snorting poetry

what is this partly poem doing?

receiving or bringing,
like the swirly gusts,
empowered but direction unknown,
I am partly confused,
I am partly clarified

lacking the metaphor skill,
he says to himself,
and to the over-hearers,
part with me not!

for I am partly this and that,
looking for reconciliation
of my accounts in full,
and will rely on your guidance
to seal the beams, patch the cracks,
write the parts of me that
you shall connect and declare
in one voice, unified

Will you?