Ineffable: Too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words; Too sacred to be uttered.
-------------------------–-------—----------------------­---------------------------------------

The whimpered cries of the dying
in the rubble of Bangladeshi avarice,
announcing we were worthy of life,
to which we think to ourselves,
agreed upon
with our,
a whispery, silent
amen.

The still alive cries of children,
tornado-tormented parents screaming unfair,
teachers body shielding their charges, whispering
save us Lord, from your inventive toys,

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

But here comes the Oklahoma tornadoes again,
now four more dead in Houston,
selecting the innocent, the brave,
logic in any of this, none,
nonsensical at its worst

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

~~~~~
The first I-am-alive cries
of new born lungs,
I have grandson, stain-less, perfect,
recovering in the stainless steel delivery room,
I hear the all babies in the neo-natal unit in unison
pronouncing a Hebrew blessing,
the Shecheyanu...

(Blessed are You, Lord our God, Master of the universe, who has kept us alive and sustained us and has brought us to these special moments)

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

These unspoken poem devotions of adoration
of the sleeping chamber, that cannot
be heard or answered for they're dreamt and
perchance in the morning thankfully recalled,
enough to be transcribed,

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

Ineffable.

A day, just another supplying an average day
to the mass of average.
Birth + Death = an average day.

I thank a God for the
birth of a newborn perfection

On this day the newspapers report
about silence of the God others pray to,
could be the same deity,
reporting that in his holy places,
Jew spits upon Jew,
Muslims usurp Christian lives,
all for none,
all forgetting in
whose image they were created.

to which we cannot say nor think
anything.

Ineffable.

too sacred to be uttered,
so instead of the paucity of these unuttered words,
know that each tear in
the reservoir of my eyes
is my unspoken poem prayer.,
my amen.

*Instead of answering
amen out loud,
wipe my eyes
with your fingertips,
silently.

Ilion gray
poet extraordinary
is away
learning the codes hidden in raindrops

no reason for surprise;

for the mountains of Brooklyn, the Manhattan caverns of Sunhenge^, corridors of narrow focus for trapping the declining sun rays,

neither high enough, narrow blinding,
to keep a good man from doing good things that life provides as opportunities
to do the right thing

he muses that it took five years for the other poets to understand our
poem-dreams;
avant-garde he says,
but I laugh,
never felt more misunderstood
and reply take care, be
en garde!

no matter for he is learning a new language,
the codes hidden in raindrops in a land of wheat
once called Indian Territory and eager
await his return so we may
walk along the Brooklyn shoreline,
beginning from under the Brooklyn Bridge
where Washington’s men escaped a British trap

and he can decode for me the whispery thunderous noises of
NY
showers that come up so sudden,  so roughened, but right now,
the seductive sun blinks in Manhattan windowed towers reflecting back on to our East River as golden blinks of nature

We will walk lost in the absorption of our
different commonalities, holding the hands of
his young son, and my Wendy,
both of them equal in possession of round saucer eyes
that give us poems

He calls me me friend,
I call him brother, teacher, master, better than the best,
well recalling a late night message that bred
a five year conversation ongoing

not everything need be coded
what you read here
it is not coded,
for the raindrops come clear and clean
and the poems land on our tongues
bounce on the foreheads and eyes of the babes, all stored and saved for the future blessings spoken in a single tongue

7/18/18



^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattanhenge

You worth more than a thousand golden crowns
and continent wide silks
and all the brighter, wilting stars in the dark
and had you pulled the universe to you,
it will surely crawl under your thigh
as a machination made only for you.

And you worth more than the ten thousand horses that I had slain
and I pulled them onto your sheets
as whispery faeries gnawed onto its skin
onto its slippery vein
gory, but lovely all the same.

Alas, you worth more than another ten thousand of them running
hooves clattered across the impenetrable glass of auroral dome
and I saw you rode on another ten thousand that had not deserve you-

as you deserved gold and stars
and all the greater fury of this land,
not treachery and I.
Gold was the color of your ruse
and your words deify scorching stars into bloom
and you reek of rust — the finest yellow there was.

shadows cast into clouds of sand as footprints leave their mark
voices so full of fun with not a care in this world
summer sun washed over by the crash of thunder
the sea shouting against the shells to your ears

blue whispery skies feed warmness to the skin
as weeks of a worklife pass to say goodbye
ice cream melted to cheeks as tissue lips from a nan
feed a childs cry
this is what we live for in a world so left behind

donuts sugared a thirst as sticky fingers lay ******
fish from an ocean battered or fried to the best ive ever noshed
sounds of the beach washed over me as grandads snores a snort ..
too much lunchtime pie i guess ..deserving resort
dreams of a past ...dreams of another

football played and dogs all wet scenes from a beach
alive still ...kids gone red
searing sizzles from a sun at its best as rounders run
or frisbee fetched
photo taken a collection booth ..memories made as dreams come true
dreams of a summer
dreams of a summer

365Nectar #60  Devour Me        
Fri. November 22, 2013  9:18 P.M.


Devour me...

A provocative passionate pouring
of pillaging and plundering...
A pleasing prowling
of a piercing plunderer...
A lovely, limp nymph
laid upon a sizzling alter...
Smoldering...
Awakening all the senses
a choking of lust
unleashes exhilarating
and

envelops you...

Effortlessly evoking ethereal...
a sinister seduction
seductively seduces
and hungry hips
breakdance with hysterical
Stimulating a surreal surge of a sweet seeping...
waiting...

impatiently...

For you to chisel
an unimaginable devouring...

S slow steady climb to the summit
of the ultimate ******...
Time-
Time-
Time... a tool to employ flamboyantly...
immediately...

eargerly...

Expose my conquered heart
that leaks
of streams
of cream
of succulent sensation...

Expose my tamed moistness
that whispery whines
as you build a legacy
of torturous licking....

Seductively...

Slithering in spicy spirals
of stirring screams
from stormy shivers
of steamy anticipation
of your redefining touch...

Suddenly...
drowning in the sticky sensation
of all that is us...
A tender luscious love liquefying flesh
and penetrating souls...

We blend in blazing bliss
tapping taboo for titillating thrills
you rock a rowdy ravishing
inside me...

I whisper wet whimpers
and beg for bitten breast...
Our wrestling hips
hug, *****, and groan a hungry growling...
Pounded into saturated submission
I linger in lubricating dreams
for you-
to...

devour me.

She looked at me with a whisper, a whisper of impossible tonics kissed by error and wrapped in something her very own: a cobblestone alleyway with gas lamps.

She whispered through centuries and languages, from unintelligible crude rocks to dashes and swoops of a corset. Through blue eyes and clouds, through dizzy spells of humanity’s uproar and endorphins fueled by alcohol.

She whispered and yelled and then she screamed, with the power of an open heartbroken and men fallen, up through the air and down through roots long faltered.

She screamed and screamed and nothing came out like it did from her whisper. She fell quiet. For she was nothing without the lilt of a tongue when greeting the one vitality she couldn’t make tangible.

It's the monster in your heart
The one that never gives in easy
It will follow you around till you finally
acknowledge it
It will haunt you, in your dreams and
your reality.
It'll make you draw back, intimidated and
terrified.

If you never look it in the face,
you'll never see what it means to fear
You might draw back-
one step, two steps, three
for you're terrified.
He's standing right in front of you,
his wild smile just for you,
the physical personification of your fear
And then you lean in, closer to his face,
growl at him to stay away.
Now it's his turn to draw back
As he throws his head back and laughs
in wild amusement and the same pride,
parents feel at the accomplishments of
their darling child.
He leaves you that day with a whispery
kiss on your forehead
but he's back the next to make you even
more scared.

One day, when you don't fight back
he will look into your eyes and see your fear
and will frown at the defeat in your eyes
He'll use the dirtiest of tricks to make you fight
He'd do anything to make you fight back
So if you crumple to the ground in defeat,
he'll make sure you watch as your worst enemy
receives all that you had been fighting for
right in-front of your very eyes.

His sense of humour is critical
State of mind, questionable
Love for you? Unforgettable

Whispers of the wind
Were drawn on the sky
Of the bitter mind you left.

Words of the swing
Were drawn on the lie
Of the sinner and his theft.

Poems of the lost
Were encrypted on the smiles
Of the blackest mind,
The inconsolable, misguided ghost.

Lyrics of the raws
Were sung in an old, crumbled swing
Forgotten in a pencil's graphite,
The Creator of the whispery wind.

A whole story was scattered
Like sand's little grains.
Each word was shattered
Until whispers have lost their shadow
A rememberance of us in a fabled meadow,
A pencil on plain paper,
It's all that remains.

the room is filled with
old lady stank
the kind that assaults the nose
and crawls down the throat in
an angry attempt to
drive you right out of the building.

she says the walls are “peach”
but I can see behind the cracked flakes
that it was once yellow.
I just grunt and sit at the edge of the bed
determined to hate both colors on
principle alone

I don’t want to be here, in her stank
I don’t want to look at the cracked
and pitted
desert that was once her face
I don’t want to strain to hear her
wavering and whispery voice

Yet here I am,
surrounded
by horrific images of a ****** Christ
nailed ironically to the walls
rosary beads hanging from
every candle in the room
and the Blessed ******
fighting
for space on the walls next to her
zombie son

where’s her god now
I wonder sourly as I strain to hear
her wavering and whispery voice
relate how nice the orderly was
who
washed
her prune of a body this morning.

hell, forget the god
where was her family
or her friends
or her nut job preacher

there’s only me
carrying my own stank of
whiskey and smokes
sitting here on the edge of
her bed
listening to her stories

Like so many
times before,
she went out
into the dark
and pulled it
around her--
its cloak of
          charcoal
              staining
        her fingers
as she
grasped its
deeply opaque
fabric of smoke
turning her
eyes into mirrors--
mirrors reflected
inside out, thoughts
and feelings
brash and quiet
in their subtle
points of weaving
until the cold
gleam of shards
of the onyx air
clung to her form
like an inky abyss,
the very reverse
reflection
of black snow
spilling and seeping
into her essence,
filling the weeping
in whispery presence
until all she could do
was curl into the
soft embrace
of obsidian,
surrender her soul
to the starless sky
and let
it in

even in my youth, i did not dream of evil.

i could not fathom devils or demons
endlessly circling around a fiery pit -
painting their whispery words onto the pages
of other children's fairytales.

before i shut my weary eyes and closed the pages
of yet another gold gilted storybook, i thought to myself,

"i cannot imagine evil" -

not one dragon's white hot flames;
scorching the stone foundation of a dark tower
where a porcelain princess patiently awaits the end of a solitary life -
braiding and unbraiding golden hair until her fingers bleed.

"i cannot imagine evil" -

not one prince's frustration as
soft lips and slender hands are torn from him
and all that is left of his newfound beloved
is a sparkling slipper carressing the castle stairs
while the twelfth boom of a clock still lingers in the evening air.

no, i did not dream of evil in the twilight before sleep.

i dreamt of a delicately aging queen,
sick with worry when her dear stepdaughter did not return
from the twisted woods before the rising of a silvery moon.

i dreamt of her graceful arms outstretched for a gentle embrace
as the huntsman and the raven haired girl enter the glass hall,
hand-in-hand,

a basket of innocent ruby apples
swinging in time between them.

i am sitting on the bridge i grew up on, where it smells like skunks. no one minds. i am listening to four creatures soaring way over head. then there's the crickets, the tree frogs, the breeze through the leaves. the soft  brushing of this pen hitting the paper. my breaths through a stuffy nose, leaves interrupting the creek's flow, ever so slightly, a few rocks and branches deciding it's time to change location from the top of the hill, to the bottom, and a comforting whistle i cannot identify. and that one being, maybe a tree frog, that sounds like maracas shaking or a basking tambourine. the footsteps of a stranger, maybe a friend, but the rhythm sounds foreign, heavy. when i close my eyes, it's now Mt. Pocono 1998. i am there. acorns and pine cones introducing themselves to earth. all the spiders in the world building their webs, their homes, the whispery rushed sound. and if you listen long enough, someone mowing their lawn, another driving too fast, always in a hurry, could be anyone. all i know at this point is, it's not me

If you can't spot infatuation
like black crescent shaped moons of dirt
packed up tight beneath finger nails
which wave and sway and point me in
all the wrong directions-
then we have a problem.

Barely propped up on my bed,
slightly hunched, typical 4 am candor-
“You're full of good songs”
you begging for sleep, me begging for company
sitting naked, adjacent, tossing cigarettes carelessly
out a second story window, between a softly lit lamp glow.

HA,
speaking of second stories- here's one for the books.
I can make out that shady sauntering silhoutte from miles away
in the blackest of places, abyss like spaces.
And can hear your muted whispery voice-
coughing up a lung from a song you've left unsung.

and while its far from symbitotic
and edging closer towards psychotic
there's a problem.
If I can't be responsible for myself,
for my stumbling and mumbling
and tracing goosebumps up your neckline
falling in love with the slight hint of a spine-

how can I be a mother and a lover
an obsessor, undressor, pining to
touch my tongue-
to taste the cut from some rusted razorblade
that made its way across skin untouchable-
must've tripped over that notch on your neck-

another night, another bar-
another random blonde girl craning her neck through foggy windows
past me, hungrily
searching for your eye contact
all the while i'm pressing the pen to my own fatal contract-
no more, not worth the time, not worth the effort for the pursuit of his comfort-
She looks like shes salavating, pathetic and starving-
If you have this effect on every girl that resembles me-
then I wish you'd leave me be, let me sleep, disappear from dreams

but how can I be trusted to disregard a feeling
that is settled so deeply in the pit of my stomach
one which swirls and twirls like sand
disturbed by some prodding finger
at the sight of you -

illuminated, engaged, aware of every ambivalent motion.
at your entrance, a beckon, an accidental glance
you happened to toss in my direction-

Everything you do seems arbitrary-
pity kisses, responses days late
with this ever forced fake mysterious aura-
come & go as you please,
feelings absent – words incoherent.

i clench my fists and crack my wrists.
the human experience isn't one best done alone
(not that you'll ever know)
having some eccentric faith in autonomy
and an innate interest in my anatomy
all the while believing its a form of blasphemy
to take some remote interest in whatever I can claim to be.

The undertaker’s blues
have nothing to do with a proximity
to death. An occupation is just that.  

Unwavering with his
probes and mysterious poisons,
He may even be mystified by the lilac flesh,
so whispery-cold and delicate now.
And yet depression
burrows into his psyche,
searches for the richest soil in which to plant itself.
Its roots spread  
like sharp serpentine veins growing
from an evil heart.

Maybe,
New and severely altered thoughts
make a man stop
and think. Maybe he will worry
as to how our bodies become
so soulless
immediately following death.

Solitudinous man,
questioning…
The true definition of death?
Does it really require wrenching that final,
most prized,
breath from men that still
have noble things to lie for?

I’ve seen my own father
ask these same questions
Of colleagues—
the living cadavers.
Those so void of concern,
that which departs a soul upon
our otherwise useless caverns.

At breaking of dawn
in early morning light
when you first stir
and I'm your first sight,
when you gently taste
my satiny skin
teasing me awake
as our day begins.

With whispery touch
lips moving down my back
urging me to waken
love you with no lack,
arousing from slumber
with passion fully stirring
tensions already built
and motor whirring.

Hair tousled upon my pillow
as I come to you from sleep
then eyes widening with surprise
as you meet me so deep,
sun never burst
across morning sky
as the explosion from you
sending me into convulsive sighs.

Day has begun
with morning ever so bright
as you come to me
bringing total delight,
passion untethered
in wave after wave
leaving me sated
from the love you gave.

Few things lying on my table
a yellow scrap book
a gold key
and an empty photo frame
things that were tangible and could be counted
but what was intangible
were my feelings
I could not measure them
But I could sense them
solvent and velvety
soft and whispery
Teary and stirring
like clouds with little drops of rain
refraction of my subtle emotions
on the horizon
shimmering like a *** of vivid colors ....

you dream with eyes wide open, & i want to be part of that ****** ***** nestled within the lacing of your ribs.  say something or don’t even speak, just run your fingers down the curve of my spine & tell me you love me.  take me to neverland & don’t look back, our secret world, & ******* if i don’t love the way you make me feel infinite.  no more clipping my own wings, i will not be an emergency waiting to happen.  stay with me until the sun supernovas and we explode together in a shower of sparks & stardust.  stay with me.  you sing lullabies with your reaching arms & kiss my eyelids closed, soothing me to sleep with whispery words & strokes of skin on skin.  maybe there’s a rainstorm in my brain, but wait with me until the sky breaks through & our cheeks are bathed at last in blue.

Thin whispery clouds formed around the distant hills
as I looked out into the vastness
Moonlight reflected from the dew as the dawn did open
Little fairy's danced before my eyes seeing life be born
And the sky did open

Light became light to the roar of sunlight warming the earth
Shadows formed to hold the darkness of night just a little longer
I stretched to the start of a new days dawning
Feeling my skin warm to the glow of the fire started in the sky
Life was waking ..I was alive

Cool breath from the night still filled my lungs as I exhaled the dark
to breath in the day
The sweet sweet taste of morning felt so good so fresh so alive
This was the taste of Earth
This was the taste of living

An ageless whispery weave we sit on
As friends on an ancient glade,
Our grain heads bump into one another's
Eternally shifting sighing movements
Remarkably from one place to another
Without anyone losing their wheat

Strangely on grey days we encounter
An unexpected rolling back
Of the strangest colorations of our minds
Sadly, we do it to ourselves
We do, we do
And that is the hardest part about flying
To awaken ourselves from our thorny nests

Let's carve wooden boxes for each other
Wrapped in green cloth, hidden under arms
We'll pass these boxes along until
Someone finds and opens it
Inside it a dagger, as all helping hands become
And though its edges are sharp and painful
With use, brush will turn gold and fall

What's left behind? That's the adventure of love.

I. The Assassin

    Smoke and dust
    **** oxygen
    from his puny lungs
    as he rises on an
    ancient freight elevator

    At the warehouse window,
    he assumes a darker mask,
    his bony finger
    tracing the trigger's curve,
    his beady eyes narrowing in
    on the slow moving target:
    that famous sculpted
    head of state
    so perfect
    in the plaza light

    Finally he will plummet -
    a bruised puppet
    slipping through
    a surreal night,
    a phantom of smoke and dust
    blinking in the glare
    of a Dallas lineup

II. The First Lady

    Her deep whispery voice
    unspools a reel of film:
    crowds, blinding sun,
    a promise of shade
    in the distance,
    then a sudden odd quizzical look
    on her husband's face

    She recalls that moment
    of slow motion shock:
    that serrated piece of his skull
    floating lazily
    in a blur
    toward
    her
    bright
    pink
    lap

Some kind of beautiful Finch
came to visit today.

She was black and blue and
two shades of grey.

As I sat on the stoop
with February's day.

So much sunshine
it would be hard pressed
to feel dismay.

My mind drifting
like in a dream...

Where you can't
quite make it go your way.

Just float on my back
in the whispy whispery world.

Dream of a day where  
there is no need
to have a Flag to unfurl.

You would've been able to call me a waste a space
I was just someone who was waiting for a taste
Nothing more than a little piece of a creation but more than a disgrace
But how could I hide all the pain away with a smile on my face
Used to run free out in the open
Until one day it felt like I was at an arcade and everyone took away my tokens
But if I had realized there were words I shouldn't have spoken
I never would've fell in a trap for my heart to be broken
It was all in the past so i'll leave that as history
I was lost and confused like a ****** doo mystery
I always dreamed about living my life like everyone else so blissfully
But to everyone else I was unknown because my voice was so whispery
I was stuck in a dream where I couldn't reach any pearls
It was too late to revive my soul its horrid dreamworld
I was lost going in and endless cycle like tornado swirls
But what I went through was rough nothing more than My 2D World

I paradox questions, ask
me, to what I wish for
what i want, Or, is the word I search for,
desire?
  whim is soft, whispery
would never fit, poetically,
my emphasis I seek.
I require a design of permanence,
Or do I?
Need requires, want desires,
whim is sudden
specific to now,
nit pick,
I do
what I meant.

I am born in the springtime, underneath a moon
swollen as the abdomen of a rat. My body
out of the womb looks like the shape
of my mother’s wedding dress. From there

I grow like the belly of a pregnant cow, only
with no milk to offer; there is nothing pale
about me: later my parents will call me names
that translate into nighttime and I will hear them

and I will go to them, mindlessly, like a bucket
of breathless water. Today is my sixteenth year forty-sixth day
and they still call to me and I still go to them, but this time
with a face like red seas. This time they look at me

with fear knuckled through their voices: I look like the raw
and sore underside of a cold nose, the kind you get
from enough crying and not enough sleep, and also: I
am too thin, my bones stick out from my body like the stripes of a bee.

Days like today I wish for somebody to sink into like tissue paper.  
Days like today I think about being in trees with my brother,
the world dark enough to make the two of us look
like scratched mirrors or splintered eyes. We do

not speak to each other, do not look at each other, but
our breathing is identical, both of us shadowed away
from whatever screaming sounds the house may make
when it is late and my mother and father do not know

what to do with the worries that take over their bodies.
My seventeenth year forty-sixth day I will go to them
and I will apologize, my voice whispery like a soft limb,
my bones less visible, more hidden, more like ghosts.

Slender reeds sway gently
in the cool breeze of your passage.
The whispery songs of dusk
carry across the placid waters.
The trembling shadows of clouds
skim lightly
across the liquid mirror of the pond.

A flock of young geese
is pecking hungrily
at the waterlogged and bloated corpse
of your tutor.
The axe wound
in her eyeless skull
gapes darkly
in the dying light
of a perfect summer day.

As you glide back
across the dew-glittered meadow
toward the house,
the first tremulous notes
of the nightly choir of frogs and cicadas
float up into the darkening sky,
blanketing the thin and muffled screams
of the tutor’s daughter.
Her head cracks and implodes,
like a coconut wrapped in a wet towel,
as I lean on the handle
of the big vise
in our toolshed.

Equations and asymptotic curves;
Variables and discontinuities –
I Subtract Thee From The Sum of Humanity…

The eels down at the murky bottoms
will have thoughts for food tonight.

She climbed up to the highest branch on that tree
Clung onto one piece of bark at a time as she ascended.
Found a seat padded with leaves to soften the branch
She yelled from the top of the tree
'You look small, like an ant from here',
She made her way back down,
Stood in front of me , face to face,
She said in a whispery voice
"You look beautiful and handsome from here".

He is, to his way of thinking, the only one wearing shorts;
The nine young men with him, baggy-wearing and body-pierced,
Swoosh-adorned from head to toe,
Sporting something which seem close kin
To blown-up Bermudas or women’s culottes.
Back in the day they would have been laughed right off the courts,
But it is not his day any longer, as he is constantly reminded;
He wears shorts that merit the term, old leather Converse All-Stars
Cracked and faded as the berm of the back roads
In this out-of-the way locale,
A faded and decades-laundered jersey
Bearing the name of a long-defunct auto dealership.
The kids call him “Jumping Toyota.”
Yo, Toyota—no dunkin’ on us tonight, OK?
Hollering and laughing as they dap and jump-and-bump,
Mimicking playground ballers in cities
They have never been within three hundred miles of,
And he smiles in grim resignation,
Knowing he might get a fingertip on the rim on a good day.
His game is strictly cerebral, horizontal now,
The muted, pastel joy of a solid, timely pick
Or well-thrown bounce pass
Has become his vehicle of blacktop epiphany,
And he eases up now and then on the offensive end
To provide succor to tendons and ligaments
Which, in spite of admonitions to himself
That at your age you need to take it easy, *******
Will still register their protests a very few hours from now
Leading to tortured grimaces and the occasional audible grunt,
As he holds his place on the third-shift line at the Alcoa plant
Bringing his co-workers to ask him,
In that hazy place between bemused and stupefied
Man, don’t tell me you’re still playin’ ball?
Once in a while, though, he will still drive hard towards the tin
And, eighteen again for the a snapshot of a moment,
He will stop on a dime and drop a jump shot
Making no noise whatsoever
Save for the whispery snap of the bottom of the net,
Sound every bit the same as it was
Before his knees and ankles went rogue.
Outside the chain-link fence, a young man plugged into his iPod
Bobs his head in time to some unheard song
As he leans in an approximation of nonchalance
Against a great old elm tree
(Branches bedraggled and drooping,
Giving it the air of some old warlock gesturing in mock-menace
Though his wand has gone a-gleaming,
His magic having deserted him as well)
Which bears a large painted orange circle
Signifying its imminent destruction.

How do you do it?
The sound of your deep whispery voice,
The sight of you sweet bright smile, oh
Makes my heart skip a beat.
You my darlin,
Lift me up  so naturally.
I don't need a pill
Or some other substance.
You and  only your energy-
Powerful and intoxicating
Giving me a high
it's-electric
Unlike anything  I've ever known!
More, more, more...

"We are the sum of our past experiences"
If this is true,
Then:
You are where I picked up my walk
You are the source of my jokes
You are the wave I use
You are how I write my 4's
You are how I stretch after a long nap
You are the way that I sing,
Low, Whispery, rasping away at the song

But soon I fear I'll forget you all
And with you, the things you taught me
So question is,
Who will I be then?

me.gs

PATERNAL LOVE FOR ELDEST DAUGHTER
(written about a cloven hoof gallops ago - when thee eldest exceptional progeny chomping at the bit to break free and clear from this papa and the missus re - biological mother).

Heartstrings plucked tender swansong
upon hearing the plaintive
wail of me eldest lass
whose whispery voice barely audible

yet these keen practiced ears of father
detected tortured despair
her pounding headache
which wee hour of this morning

October third found me mentally fumbling
with helpless at her severe physical discomfort
and found my own ability to slip into deep sleep
compromised on behalf of this darling dame

who (ever since her debut – fifteen years ago
quickly sped fast forward to six mo' orbitz
round the sun - this then december twenty second ~2012)
found predilection to be goaded into
surrendering thyself (and/or limited finances)

to fulfill wishes by hook or crook
lest self disappointment manifest itself
once she ventures out into the blue beyond
i.e. the world wide web extant upon this terra firmae
leaving me with mere wisps of memories to cherish.

Listen to me
Hear the echo of a whispery voice
The resonating of a breathless rasp
The song strangled and overanalyzed to death
Listen to the stillness and coldness of my slow-moving blood
The souls I trapped,
The one I lack,
The shadows of their shaking vocal chords
Pleading for release
An entreaty long ignored
The crying, yowling, screeching, wailing, begging of man
Lost under the reverberating vibrations of eleven bells