Let me be aligned
centerwise,
carrying at my core.
Have me understand
the hands that have sung~wrung
and the feet that have wandered
without wasting
a lifetime.
Make these words away from the margins
so that when an editor arrives
they see
they write
from the red-line window
to my purple passage.
Build this poem as a pillar
so that it should not be knocked down as a tower of babble.
It is the writer's respirator.
It breathes, beats, bleeds.
Nov 18, 2025
Nov 18, 2025 at 12:18 AM UTC
The guns've been left at home,
and the ladies are going with us.
These are hills holding high
as the sun spills shine
as the rivers run 'round
as the trees tip tangerine
as the flowers flush fuchsia
as the grass grows green.
It is all included,
so you won't have any of it.
Nov 18, 2025
Nov 18, 2025 at 12:09 AM UTC
In her absence,
my bedroom inhales.
Who had been ******* in the thick underbelly of our loathsomeness,
holding its breath for a moment
a-lone.
I am in this room.
I have the light on and an iron against my shirts.
It sighs a fat gust into in my face.
For a moment I almost turn,
expecting her to carry in that smoke and rotting bouquet.
Nothingness enters,
I understand this means I am stirred.
She makes a motion,
but not one of ripples or waves.
This is the hail of your destitution.
Nov 18, 2025
Nov 18, 2025 at 12:00 AM UTC
(from "To: Mimi Romanelli"
~indebted to suggestion of
https://hellopoetry.com/MacGM/
for filling me up one of the trillions of missing datapoints
in my slowly diminishing insights & missing knowledges
<>
"I am happy, Dear, to have walked with steady faith on the waters of our uncertainty all the way to that island which is your heart and where pain blossoms. Finally: happy."
from the poem by Rilke
"To: Mimi Romanelli"
see notes
'~~~'
so worthy of my/our attentions,
his reflections on loss, grief and mortality,
for in the natural course of this poet's story,
the interplay of this shopping list of preoccupations,
foremost on this temporal frontal lobe in these waning days
of my perhaps, last summery summary,
that falls upon your eyes with
my guilt that you have clicked upon
this e~pistle, in and un~
tentionally & tensionally
thus demanding & tendering post-haste
my apology
so be advised, be learned, and query why
an essay on ending mortality should be
be finished with a concluding a
"Finally: happy."
by breaching this poet Rilke essay,
one discovers
this poet sees through the storms of his preoccupations,
"the red of his blood,"
because he loves
another human, being,
so many would agree,
yet so few are so certain,
as Rilke,
and yet,
"*It is still always that death which continues inside of me, which works in me, which transforms my heart, which deepens the red of my blood, which weighs down the life that had been ours so that it may become a bittersweet drop coursing through my veins and penetrating everything, and which ought to be mine forever.
And while I am completely engulfed in my sadness, I am happy to sense that you exist,
Beautiful. I am happy to have flung myself
without fear into your beauty just as a bird flings itself into space. I am happy, Dear, to have walked with steady faith on the waters of our uncertainty all the way to that island which is your heart and where pain blossoms.*
Finally: happy."
<>
Writ the last week of August,
and the first of September
2025
Nov 2, 2025
Nov 2, 2025 at 1:06 PM UTC
For MacGM
*Promised myself,
The. Big, the really big promise,
That a day will come, of mine own choosing,
Write the nearly perfect one,
Sans flaws, sans common nonsensical,
just brief enough to be long enough
Heated but not burning,
Soothing but yet permitting me to accept the pain,
Exactly right amount of sugar,
Invoking the snap crackle of all my five senses,
Almost flawless, but just almost,
Reading about the sci-fi that came true,
Capturing it in one fell swoop, so easy come,
but all I’ve accomplished,
Is to be still, utter, mutter, then scream,
That perfect poem,
"And that, of course, never happened."
but that is not closure, indeed not,
It’s the doorway to the entrance hall,
Where my writing~breathing occurs,
And say it again, each time I compose:
but just, an ever so slightly flawed, a minor modified version*
~~~
“And that, of course, will happen,
Each and every time
I
Compose”
—————————————————————————————-
MacGM writes me:
I've been trying to write a poem about
how some poems are about things that have never
happened but still have great meaning,
much like a parable or fable.
This reminded me of the line which was my original idea to
build off of that I ended up discarding,
"And that, of course, never happened."
Hopefully reading that has the same vigor it did while thinking it up.
Nov 2, 2025
Nov 2, 2025 at 1:04 PM UTC
could call it quits right there, label this a pithy one,☝️,
but the poem informs, it wants, desires, driving home,
as an under aged teenager
you are my fodder, my salad’s fixings, you supply and
I, high~five,
you, cause you make it so easy; the finery of
thy words, “inscribed upon my spine,”unceasingly grabs
my eyes, my voice, chokeholds like a snowflak’es trigger,
and it’s off to the races, a Kintucky Derby 10 furlongs, um,
long, and ****** the horse just threw its~this writer to the,
ground…
yup, that’s about the extend of it, here I’ll quit but
repeat my fair warning of long ago, anything you
tell me is fair game, for my inspiry, cause ******
ya’ll say the damndest things and write some
seriously good poems, that, keep me up at night,
plus lbs. of coffee imbibed, and a conscience that
needs a serous vacuuming, to get the guilty-as
charged words to stop yakking
and get the heck outta of my brain…🙈
Nov 2, 2025
Nov 2, 2025 at 1:04 PM UTC
I noticed a mouse in a glue trap,
tiny body trying to pull itself out,
tug after tug.
My dad meandered in
and threw the whole thing away.
No ***** given,
he turned to think of other things.
And that was it.
The little critter will just go the way of all flesh,
die in some family's trash.
No sweat.
Not even the one you wake up in at night,
praying you will receive more forgiveness
when you find yourself a trespasser
on land you didn't know
isn't yours.
Oct 18, 2025
Oct 18, 2025 at 9:21 PM UTC
The doctors slice into the truth:
a hospital bed has again become an excavation site.
His parents dig up his belongings before he is old enough to understand ownership,
and do away with them.
A memory quilt that does not cover both the mother and father is sewn.
Their bed is as the whole Earth,
but West has been removed.
We tried making coffins to preserve such broken worlds,
but now we just have distant galaxies.
Oct 17, 2025
Oct 17, 2025 at 7:30 PM UTC
Tell me what is on the news
and their outrageous opinions on it.
Like to flap their gums against the fan.
Believe they should get to say what they fancy and never face the corner.
Want to be correct.
Can't understand complex sentences.
Say nuh-uh a lot.
Would like me to know they are not the one who started it.
Cut the crust off of morality...
Am I just as childish as they are for bickering with them
Oct 17, 2025
Oct 17, 2025 at 7:27 PM UTC
The face of the Earth smiles upon me,
and this renewal of mine blossoms.
My existence is ripe as strawberries bought off the street corner,
and rich as raw honey.
It is a tree sprouting so quickly you can hear it crackling with life,
fiery with the first reactions.
Every day arrives dewy as though freshly,
kindly,
and gracefully born from the stirring dawn.
All this bounty in utterly defiant spite of many difficulties,
like the beauty of a rose above a multitude of thorns.
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 9:02 PM UTC