~**My portrait was painted by Jackson *******
<|>
“***there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and perception is only your truth.
Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips, you make them into paintings that hang in your own private museum,
but signed by me as first passenger***”
<|>
when did I write these words?
can’t recall, though undated,
they seem all too familiar, and thinking that if I didn’t,
I should have…
for the title of this ‘poem painting’ has lain in quietude,
a resident in my file of
“someday writs, awaiting,”
when the itch demands you will
essay
**the admixture of words and swords
that will cut a newborn corded reciprocity of thee and me,
an unbound bind that ties and frees us
from and by our shared senses…**
today, an inadvertent blinding sunlight stumble is demanding a
fulsome scratching
<|>
the portrait of each is the irrational intersectional of splats and drips,
each viewer, reader, filters the image through a common
uncommonality,
which is as it should be,
**for if we are each created in His image,
how glorious is the diversity of our deities,
each of us a tiny drop of paint on a tableau
of a small planet, insignificant but
uniquely beautiful intelligent species of godlike creatures,**
human
<|>
the précis of this conundrum conversation bewilders,
a single word drops,
of plaint, paint, blood,
a seconds blush blurred
that is the building blocks of imagery
I state is mine,
but now realizations swiftly fertilize,
**the portrait is not of me,
but of me blended into thee,
and this poem,
is our composition**
that hangs in each of our primary
museum,
newly re-titled,
A Passenger, Realized
Dec 20, 2025
Dec 20, 2025 at 11:38 AM UTC
*And whatever happened
To Tuesday and so slow*?
Van Morrison’67
~~~
in the young days and nights
of a youthful summer,
Van’s Brown EyedGirl
played endless on the transistor radio
the dry heat was endless just as well,
and the slow was just the way the
time was counted, when it was counted,
which wasn’t too often
was 17 years of age with no cares,
worries did not exist, ‘cept when I dreamed and conspired inside
how I was gonna get that blue eyed blonde devil temptress
to kiss me
before the new school year commenced
at the quarry where we all went swimming,
the music asking questions,
that nobody knew how to answer,
whatever happened to Tuesday,
and so slow,
so slow, we never knew what the name of the day was,
no reason to check the farm implements & hardware store calendar,
or to X off any day special,
for there was no such thing
No, never got to kiss her,
left the so slow,
me and a buddy. took a rebuilt junker and set out for Cali,
where the girls,
where the beautiful girls, just surfed and smiled,
and the nighttime beach parties went on
till the when the last person left so quiet
not sure how,
ended up,
in Seattle & Oregon,
where met I my brown eyed girl
whose car was over heating, steaming on a coastal highway,
on a Tuesday,
and it was no longer slow,
it was treasured fast and a whirlwind blast,
and
that was 2025 - 1968, so 57 eons,
nowadays, know what the name of every day is,
where I’ll be and for how long,
but truth be told,
in my happy moments
if you asked,
could not tell
the day, the time,
when the brown eyed girl and I
smile into each other’s eyes,
and so slow
is the sweetness of our lives,
Dec 13, 2025
Dec 13, 2025 at 1:26 PM UTC
I see you looking back at me,
but I have no memory of you,
no name or event to link us
as kindred soul.
There's a sun playing
expressionless games
about to fall from the shelf,
my feet may burn, but never my heart.
My mirror is a broken window,
the broken window, a city,
and a man and woman
are crossing into it,
—crossing my mind,
fused together.
Their laughter like
claps of thunder,
bursting forth in a sky
devoid of any signs of me...
Dec 12, 2025
Dec 12, 2025 at 2:19 PM UTC
*Inspiration pretty much finds you
even when you walk outside
to await the newspaper.*
A summer poem for a winter's day.
___
morning slow sleep walking,
reviewing my
evening sleep attire,
am I appropriately dressed,
to publicly receive
the somber weekend
Wall Street Journal?
which is hopefully waiting for
my rational embrace
where
the driveway meets the road.
as I walk, I note the:
seamed stitching
on my shirt,
a series of
crisscrossed stitches,
pattern of acute angles
stitched in Thailand,
or perhaps Bangladesh,
and when machined,
did the seamstress dream that
with a single blink,
dream metamorphosis
stitches become
crisscrossed out entries
in the diary,
that I don't keep,
the notations naked and rendered,
I don't want you
to know about,
so scratched into oblivion
but in a orderly fashion
before spilling them freely
to any misfortunate innocent Joe,
nice enough to ask me,
how ya doing...
impatiently waiting on a country road
for recycled newsprint
impressed into the service of the
Canadian Pulp Navy
a paper mache arrival overdue
via a technology of delivery
some what quaint, a photo dated
impish young boy
upon bicycle,
with angel wings
who when he passes,
winks at me, seeing my impatience,
(his cheek delighting my cheeks!)
and with robust throw, salutes,
Mission Accomplished.
as I wait
the muses attack,
a formation of
no-see-ums insects bite
ruminations brain-inserted
war correspondents now embedded,
a fifth column
to betray me
and I wonder about:
newspaper printed words
stale seconds before
they are writ,
which makes think
about time,
about making plans,
to do lists,
about how fast my coffee cools,
about how slow my skin colors,
About the first time I put words
about doubt & certainty
on paper
summoning up the courage
to look foolish and
how great it felt,
at the time.
**I fresh slap realize
these "poems"
are my diary,**
so for the record,
let it be duly recorded,
the paperboy delivers to me
the New York Times,
in error,
a cosmic sign
that this is where this
deuce minute walk
into the mind of a gnat,
should randomly end,
and be
crisscrossed into
oblivion.
summer 2012
Dec 12, 2025
Dec 12, 2025 at 2:18 PM UTC
I saw her.
She reached out her hand to me
an unmaterialized thought
of a world I would like to live in.
Her body was clothed
in fabric of many colors,
and on her left shoulder
she carried a grey spider
stretching out its legs
not to attack,
but to spin a thread of life
bathed in morning dew.
Someone will see danger in this web,
someone else a soft net of nourishment.
In this chain of events,
we consume one another
one by one,
turning our faces away
from an uncomfortable truth.
What is loud is better
for a moment.
Behind the effect
walks a procession,
of clapping hands.
In a day,
everything that was
will melt away,
and only this thin thought
will remain in me:
What do I think about
when I lay my face down
at three in the morning?
Which word returns to me
the following day?
Dec 12, 2025
Dec 12, 2025 at 2:13 PM UTC
to right poetry upon her skin,
with fingers tonguing, eyes to
guide this coupling pas-de-deuce
it is my left
to hold her for as long as
the sun shines, and the moon
substitutes, to see the clarity
of my own deflection light
returned to me shining
it is my two paired:
hands to speak with
the certitude of a silent
quietude that tomes volumes
that upon her spirit inscribed
nostrils flaring inhaling her
exhalations into my bloodstream,
oxygen dioxide doubling up
the heightened sensory eclipses
that stun my ducts to weep
copiously, flood my mouth
with scents, traces, bouquets
it is my right to write poetry
upon her body, attaching a
lasting moment in her memory,
that will pass long after I’ve
given permission for
my body to depart, thus giving
to her what will be
a writ
for a rite,
what is
left
of me,
of my right,
to compose in perpetuity
my poetry
Sat Dec 6 2025 New York City 8:55am first poem of the day <nml>
Dec 6, 2025
Dec 6, 2025 at 3:54 PM UTC
heard last night, a creative, an innovator,^
speak of how we teach young childeren
to draw;
the know-everythings supply paper and utensil,
telling the child, draw me a person, and the child
envisions, drawing with decisive precision, an
confabulation of lines and squiggles, circular
polygons, with a river for a body, mountains
as hair, a mobile phone as a body, and love on
its tongue...
the know-everythings, say, mmm, let me show you
the right way and quickly perform a surgery of
a stick figure, always a totality of a thin linear,
a sideways seven for a nose, a hyphen for a mouth,
and three curvaceous
lines indicating a fulsome head of hair,
"and that is the right way to draw a person!"
this indeed is the wrong write way…
we rob, suppress, incarcerate, the innate
intuitive, the natural great expectations,
the visions that crust eyelids of time deem
define as the incorrect, the acceptable, thus,
we ***** one more sparking of great creativity
perhaps this is why the world is a mess?
here I am, a ancient man, nearer my god than thee,
who deems that the anew precious day now aborning,
the semi~clean scent of a new york city morning,
is a gift that demands three whole in & out breaths,
with hand on chest, the blatant acknowledgement
the right way, the only right way, the inherent way
to draw, by human hand
that owns no wright nor wrong,
never no too short too long,
only homage to the possibility of
next clean sheet of blank,
answering
the hand inquiring, upon uptaking
the communicative the individuated,
you-tensil which asks each sense,
how shall we fulfill ourselves today, my partner?. <nml>
8;31am
Tue Oct 28
2025
Nov 23, 2025
Nov 23, 2025 at 9:20 AM UTC
when
the parallels swerve,
crossovers, converge,
intersections of short circuits,
unexpected becomes expected,
roles reversed,
you the objectified,
storyline switcheroo,
you’re the ill,
not, the meds,
disorienting dizzy,
finger-snaps beat-less,
irregulars are regularized
and you are surprised,
when you realize,
the hands holding
your head, are yours…
Nov 23, 2025
Nov 23, 2025 at 9:19 AM UTC
*“For the tomorrows are where the promises resides
…that determines tomorrow's flavours”*
Marshal Gebbie
**a long day in the city, tired in way that only
a New York City can happily tax a body,
awaken just momentary before midnight,
greeted by two disparate realities and peeks of what just
past the bend might bring,
one man laments with utter love
the disappearance of his beloved behind the wall of dementia,^
and another,
by email, newly arrived from New Zealand,^^
inflaming a sensing the common nearing, future of our demarcations,
and yet, he, we,
double down to push yet another blocking boulder off the road,
always one more,
on the collective property that our humans minds share,
with an optimism,
that makes me pen, instantly,
for I am choice-less; now as before,
inhabited
by demon devils and good people,
crying out to all the winged muses hovering, come aid me, unmuddy these rivers of darkest chocolate interlacing the loveliest
of buttermilk vanilla
coursing mightily through a re!freshened brain,
all the clashing contradictory flavours demanded from me
by the powerful quietude of silence
that opens a new day, even though dawn may yet be
many hours away
here I am scribbling, words dripping, page staining,
after a long period
of my soul’s inability to pierce the Jerusalem city walls
of no inspiration,
and the contra~indicators of sanity and its opposite number,
of glowlights of positivity so deep rooted,
that even a lighting strike cannot knock
Oak
down, though deep may be the scars residual,
in a dark home,
where the evidence of life is in a handful of lit windows
across the avenue, of the adjacent sleep noises,
all signals that though spent,
we are not yet rent,
that life’s pleasuring are well and holy embraced with smiles demure,
recalling tales of past that are sugaring our souls, and the saddening
reminders fresh,
that all this, too, shall pass,
our own markers, unique,
all becoming, will be coming
with us
of course,
there is no resolution formidable to these warring states
of mind, and nowadays days,
repetitive searches for the perfect word we once knew too well,
oft come back as
N.C.A.
an acronym of tired sparks saying, that word, beloved to you is,
“not currently available”
as if it has been perma!checked out of the library,
unable to be returned…
the clock has moved us unwillingly to what was the morrow,
to well into the here and now,
and the swirling swishing eddies smashing into each other
yet palpitating vigorously our soul’s surfing,
muscular chested musings,
and our pangs of hunger for perfect certainty of
what will become of me are quietly stored back on the shelves,
of the closeted acceptable uncertainty,
my eyes revert to back to Marshal’s words,
and I make this
promise
to anyone within eyeshot, across this
global sphere,
that whatever are the colours of my continuous searches for that perfect mot,
will end only
at a time and place of,
with words of,***
mine own choosing
12:57am
Sun Nov 23 2025
<nml>
Nov 23, 2025
Nov 23, 2025 at 9:18 AM UTC