What will be gained
over our time spent loving others,
ignoring each other, purposefully?

Perhaps, distance built greater trust,
creating a space to be filled with new love.

This time around it could be better,
healthier than before, and somehow
smoother.

Time has come
time has gone

I remain here
but soon I will be gone

Spend the time
here with me

I will always be here
all you have to do

Is look for me

I'm in Love with a woman...
But she don't love me,
I think God took his time
and created her wonderfully,
She shines with every smile
quickly seducing me,
We have everything in common
But thats not what she sees,
We just like the Same Sex!!!
So, she started dating my ex.............

She's feeling down,
So it's time to bring her up.

To the stranger’s eye
It seemed to have no divide
An intangible singularity
Yet corporeal and multifarious
Almost non-existing, but
Standing
Still, in time
Was

My quiescence,
A Frenzy disguised within
An exuberance
Placid,
Alacrity latent subdued by
Lament
Silent,
An eternal gaze injecting an
Iridescent daze,
Incessant stupor creating
Solitude in clamour
Upon realizing

My find,
That a mirrored everything
And more
Was her too, and
Becoming
Was

I, half of
Her borderless soul
Two distanced voices
Once unsure and fading,
Now becoming
Each other and one,

Us, what seemed to be an end,
Ended, a start
Becoming.

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,  poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
___________

4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

it’s not the same when you touch her chest with your breath
what her heart hears is off key and she compares it to the best
bedtime story she’s ever heard
the kind where she becomes little red riding hood herself
with a basket of goods
that everybody wants
but she doesn’t want to fuck any of them
because she already knows that it’s the same as a sunny day but with too much wind
or one of those green suckers with a big bug inside of it

“fuck off,” she says to all the wolves and all the pigs and all the fools
they still come at her like a family of bonobos come in a day
it’s hard to run away from something that is happening to you all the fucking time
it gets you sick with a hook,

the short moments it stops happening, all you want is to run and find it
because attention is softer than loneliness
even if it is as sad as an addict tearing off couch cushions, in search of half a dime bag

- but as soon as she stopped looking for a face with eyes to love her
she took a dip in the forest, heard the birds
felt the pine needles on her bare feet bottoms,
sang like Snow White
and found herself an old lumberjack, building a house
it dawned on her that all the wolves and all the pigs and all the fools,
looked real fucking gross