Reflective intercessions  
With my Rabbi teaching me lessons.
Thinking about my undeserved blessings
How at times I stumble
And is it not humble .
When I think my living  is impressive
Ponder my past push play in my perspective
How can I see a mirror and just be partially reflective.
Guess its the fact that I see my body and thing I have grown.
I should look into my optics..
The windows to my soul.
There are only two options
Serve God or Sheol
Deep down I know..
Life and death.
The truth is real don't suppress it
Now check the lyrical expression..
Satan is waiting
Anxiously anticipating
For me to fall he loves corrupting Gods creation..
He wants me big headed feeling myself like masturbation
While he eating my soul, mastication
But to Jesus my life shows dedication
Walking with God I don't identify with procrastination..
Yet time  passes...
And how do I hold God close..
Attacked by worldly passions
Time is hand and hand with deaths approach..
Control fate like when we crush crawling a roach
Its cool to be a man's man
But if Christ was one, would there have been holes in his hands
Cause clearly it was in line with Gods plan..
Holding on to what is cool its like holding on to sand ....
Pointless ...
Nevertheless..
I am giving it my best...
Reflective moments only partial when I am looking at flesh
God is using me
Satan wants to abuse me..
Entice me with demonic opportunities
Like have sex with that chick with the big booty...
Challenges but I am not stupid
No I am not stooping
To a level below Gods standard
Reflective to see if I'm walking in Gods planning

Why Men Like to Load the Dishwasher

We are the artists of shape and configuration,
puzzle masters solving riddles of physics,
worshipers at the altar of labor saving devices,
this is a love poem of sorts, a Bazinga salutation,
to men and their undying love
for sexy machines.

were it in my power
all cups would be handle-less,
the dishwasher time-space continuum
would be non-interrupted by black holes
where handles pointlessly protrude,
requiring endless rearrangement,
a soul destroying exercise.

bowls of any sort should have bottoms that retract.
indeed, the capacity increase, a visible fact,
is so enviro-friendly, eminently sensible,
that the loading for mechanical scrubbing
is deserved of a wing in the Smithsonian.

perhaps the budgeteers of Congress
should be tutored in this artistry,
how to make any limited resource,
better used.

the rub, as the bard would have writ,
Is that this roaring but invisible tempest tossed
our love for labor lost to a closed sanctum sanatorium,
Is entirely due, all glory to,
the secret society of fairies who reside inside,
freeing us to write more poetry.

in so many ways that I cannot reveal,
less the other gender members squeal,
men live to love to load the dishwasher,
for the ingenuity challenge, and of course,
the side benefit of the excusing coverup,
"I helped cleanup," a relationship saver,
proof positively that the dishwasher inventor,
was probably a brilliant woman.

you make me love like sticky cakes
you make me spring like wind
you make me soft and silk like eternal space
you make me timeless like a precious
moment, tell me, who are you?
tell me, who am I?

breathe me vowels
lip me an a
whisper some e's
kiss me through an o
would you sculpt a heavy u
would you pick the point of an i?

I would like to dive into metaphors
beyond speech and easy listening
I would attach myself to silence
if there is you
who shows me how to dance.
will you?

GEORGE, in raptures!

my doctor said i'm not suicidial.
my mom said i'm being dramatic and
its all for attention.
my sister says i like my doctor.
my friends, i'm not sure what they think.

i don't think i'm okay.
i think i am suicidal,
i think this is very much true,
i do like my doctor, but not like that,
and oh dear friends, what should i do?

It's in the journey not just the exit
It's out the window through the rush
I'll take care of you always
You don't need to ask.

Through all of the distractions
The wind blowing through our hair
All it takes is our eyes
To see you everywhere

How magnificent is your city
The beauty of creation
This is what you wanted
For us all along

An overflow of creativity
For no one to be a like
But through love that comes from you
Together we're unified

As for human intentions
We may not be so sound
Still the glory goes to you
I can see it all around

Like a river you spirit flows
With peace, love and hope.
Through you all fear goes
And all it's chains have been broke

This time it's Fate.
No longer can I pretend
for we have run out of track
and we must stop now
lest we careen over the ghastly drop before us
lest our hearts inevitably smash to smithereens.

There's a small vice on my heart
that you turned incrementally since the day we kissed
Always there was space to manoeuvre
wriggle
a gap to shift around in and say, 'That's better'
to comfortably fool myself that I was not caught.
But now, my dear....
Now the grip leaves me gasping
and that metal feels cold
and I cannot ignore it.
The trouble is
I kissed your elegant, beautiful face
and I guided your hand to that vice in my chest
and enveloped your fingers with mine
We turned those keys together.
I was so enamoured
and I wanted your love.
I told myself I could get out at any time.

Too late, my love
It was always too late
For we're kindred souls across lifestyles
and lifetimes
and my body knows yours like the taste of my tears.
I resign myself, then, to bleeding.
I resign thee to Fate and what she may decide
knowing only that never shall I be your jailor.
I refuse to allow
that wild tempest soul to be anything but free.

I am happy to be caught.
Though I writhe with this pain
and slumber eludes me in my misery.
For one thing I have realised
is the depth of my cowardice.
Although yours came out as tenored and trembling
you still had the bravery to speak the words emblazoned on your heart
the ones that threatened to fall from your lips
as my head lay perfectly in situ against your collarbone
and my heartbeat and breathing lined up with yours
in our quiet symbiosis at 3 a.m.
I danced around the words
flitted lightly, noncommittal
and said 'I think I'm falling in love with you',
which was a lie.
You are far braver than I
and to this day I've run
but you deserve far greater than that which I have meted out to you.
You deserve honesty.
You deserve the breadth and depth of what my heart aches to tell you
though I am frightened beyond words that the vice can go no tighter.

I love you.

Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!

No big deal, your name, your email, bought n' sold daily,
Like a baseball card, your picture and vital stats are on the internet,
Your credit card in the fine print tells you they love you much,
But the data they collect, might get credited to such and such.

You're fair game if your sign up for anything.

Now I know I am getting on in years,
Tho spry rhymes with die, I flatly deny
Any notion that
My great beyond is just around the corner!

But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!

Got a color brochure
Suggesting that when my travels are over,
A nice place to rest my head might be
St. Michael's Cemetery.

St. Michael's Cemetery
7202 Astoria Blvd, East Elmhurst
(718) 278-3240
Friday hours 7:00 am–5:00 pm

In case you want to check it out too...

Tho I live not in the Borough of Queens County,
My zip code but a hop, skip and jump away,
The cemetery adjacent to the Grand Central Parkway
Which is actually quite thoughtful of
The mass marketer who dreamed up this scheme
(And got paid a plentiful amount of bounty).
My kids could wave as they drive by,
On the way to LaGuardia or JFK, (airports)
And say, guilt free, they visit me regularly!

Sadly, their plot foiled,
I will be buried in
New Jersey soil,
Near to my pop, who liked the
Wide open spaces of suburbia
And shopping on Route 4,
Where the selection is great
And there is no sales tax.

But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name,
And I am now target marketed,
Niched, pretty soon the boys from AARP
Will come calling, reminding me of the gap
Tween Medicare and the poor house!

Ok ok,  grow up you say, tho your hair is full,
And not even a hint of baldness shines forth,
Nonetheless, its color is zebra striped gray,
And when someone says they got my back,
I think, please, please take it and keep it....

Oh yeah,
Dear St. Mikes
You might ask for some of your money back,
Cause this sily scribe is a member of the tribe,
Some call "those dirty (hint: it rhymes with Mikes),"
It starts with K and ends in yikes!

But thanks for thinking of me anyway.

What is it like
To be nameless
Is it as if you were faceless?
What is a title but a proclamation
A proclamation
Of who you are.
Is it your position?
Your soul?
Who is that?
Who is that over there?
Is it John?
Or is it Michael?
It is untitled
What are they like?
What DO they like?
What is their religion?
Their culture?
Their ethnicity?
No one knows
And no one cares
For in this world
You are untitled
And you are invisible
In a sea of untitleds

"From every wound there is a scar, and every scar tells a story.
A story says, I survived." - Fr. Craig Scott

... a prologue to " Beyond the Telegraph Road "
tribute to a fallen brother



crampon cleats tickle her bedrock
far below the frosty powder dusting;
released from where her majestic peak
parted yester night’s obstinate clouds.

the alpine atmosphere
first chilled and then plummeted
as the starlight glistened;
illuminated ice crystals sparkled
like diamonds in the rough.

I am overwhelmed
by the peaceful aura
surrounding me.

watching how
"these"
footprints
mark the snow
...arousing
a lucid,
stirring awareness
of my existence;

...inciting
a conscious moment,  
extraordinarily deepening
the realization of being.