Last-ting Pleasures (Leonard Cohen)
“Morning coffee on the balcony of this old duplex, the cat at my feet, and a couple of biscuits. Notebook near by. No one coming over.“
Leonard Cohen
<>
aging with graces saved from so many spectacular failures, I took droplets of wisdom where they were free to drink, yet
the best, were the most costly, for which you never end paying
but here I sit, well traveled, in Los Angeles sunshine, do my calculations, my final preparations, memorizing the blessings
so they flow easy, no stumbling, unbefitting a poet-writer lover
obligations diminished, bills paid, goodbyes said and spent, so long Marianne, lines of jewish buddhists wisdom seekers not too long, a few women come, last looks, a reminiscence for themselves
lovers seeking preservation, a signatory on their diaries, proofs, of what I know no longer know to state, sated, the statuary
sentence almost served, and last scribbles, to notebook dispatched
It is His Will, and yet here I am, asking forgiveness, as tradition demands and more, understanding, for it was all transcribed into praise of You and your god-sparked creatures, ah, bon chance, until we meet again, bring your robe and tallit, let us recite psalms
for if there was ever a wilder king, finer poet, lusting for life and god, all of us just birds on the wire, gambling which course to fly, where to, so waiting patient, resolution of the only remaining unanswered question, who by fire?
anyone, each of us, who first asked ourselves why not! before we ever thought,
why?
Oct 31, 2020
Oct 31, 2020 at 10:59 AM UTC
<>
*the supply of words is not inexhaustible
neither are the combinations thereof;
what is inextricably true, of these two linkages
that is not exhaustive, is my endless delight,
in finding the ones that I’ve yet to contemplate
till you brought them waving to my eyes,
so as far as I’m concerned, you originate
delight daily, and that is the spark you create
making every day, the eighth day of creation of the world.*
Sat Aug 22
2020
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 10:35 AM UTC
*homeless, nameless, tragicomic living past the place where scavenging doesn’t last.
ready supply of wretchedness unlimited, shopping cart full of your discards skimmed.
no more we say evil Oh God, words over exercised, gone, excised, fk-you-exorcised.
lost the remaining of the last promise gripped, the losses are ice in July, fixed.
my suburban brain, burned, the volunteer firemen failed to care, appear.
put my past you, you, exhibited the lesser lesson, the faun ceased dancing.
my cunning can’t be higher’d nor hired, arm won’t raise/rise
over the head.
where the bloodlines went, just veins who purposely are now deafened, dumb, silenced.
no depth, no plumb line necessary, for measuring the zero deep, the last imperfect pairing.
ditched the muse, the witch ***** who offers tantalizing sweets, poison spoiled.
the next SUV I see, won’t see me*
Jun 7, 2020
Jun 7, 2020 at 1:44 PM UTC
***lost the last promise I gripped, slipping, the losses now fixed
homeless, nameless, tragicomic living past the place where scavenging doesn’t last.
ready supply of wretchedness unlimited, shopping cart full of your discards skimmed.
no more we say that evil Oh God, words over exercised, gone, excised, fk-you-exorcised.
lost the remaining of the last promise gripped, the losses are ice in July, fixed.
my suburban brain, burned, the volunteer firemen failed to care, appear.
put my past you, you, exhibited the lesser lesson, the faun ceased dancing.
my cunning can’t be higher’d, hired, arm won’t raise/rise over the wind head.
where the bloodlines went, just veins who purposely are no deafened, dumb, silenced.
no depth, no plumb line necessary, for measuring the deep, the last pairing.
ditched the muse, the witch ***** who offers tantalizing sweets, poison too, nicely spoiled.***
May 13, 2020
May 13, 2020 at 11:25 AM UTC
is
the trying is the finding out of the unique
all about,
losing battles to find yourself a
war-won victor and a long term loser,
making the process new, requiring expensive
for the event custom made expertise trainers,
re-acquired to shoot your foot straight
and laugh about it when you do it
again and again
for the relearning love is the crown jew-el,
that jesters rob from their kingly masters,
nothing more precious
pride in love is the fall season preceding
Canadian winters,
always thinking you know better
this time
you cannot learn from love,
cause it’s twice, two times,
never the same,
the all over modifying
past lessons, so, ain’t no prologue,
the body is the wafers
sometimes vanilla,
sometimes chocolate
and the epilogue is 100%
poem~songs that I love writing
and hate remembering
or is it the other way round?
Oct 24, 2019
Oct 24, 2019 at 2:44 PM UTC
the inevitable can no longer be delayed or ignored
it is 8:58am,
the wafer needs consuming
so the bodies of the
sons of god can rise
it is 8:59am
the credit card payment due,
needing doing,
this, my juggling act
commences ends
@ the righteous hour
now,
for the numbers flip forward
the 9:00am mark officializing
a living
commencement
and the first poem of the day
prayer
is spoken, prayed, stated
commenced and ended
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
ran into a whispering angel at the cemetery today,
customary to have a small ceremony
when the monument finished,
the grave now well and truly marked,
an unveiling held, the kaddish said,
a small stone
placed upon the monument,
a five thousand year old tradition,
started by Jacob
we line up to place our rock of ages goodbye token,
an opportunity to angel whisper one last goodbye,
but good bye is not on my mind,
no, my own approaching deceasing dead,
for the pains come regular now
in the places that means trouble ahead,
and no one knows but me
so to my friend Al,
who once asked me
where do the poems, the words, come from,
I whisper in your six feet underground ears,
though I swear I hear ya laughing both
right behind me both
at your jokes, and at me,
“see ya soon, buddy, see ya soon”
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 5:49 PM UTC
on the Earth, some need a heaven and hell above,
which suits the powered up reigning status quo rulers,
promising that by being just and docile,
one will earn frequent flyer life miles
to a destination ticketed & named,
but not by actual visitation,
a return confirmation, never
some take your self-love as their own idea,
reselling it over and over again back to you
but know that when you sing your own song,
the discoverable truth is we all
get to go to sort of a sanctuary,
especially if you record-keep your flaws,
in order to constantly reinvent yourself
in order to
reach some kind of agreement with yourself
human gravity is hard enough to escape so travel light,
shed those skins over and over again,
each a modest improvement sequentially,
leave your exited charred speech behind,
knockoff the blackened flaking edges, a discarded cutaway,
this way to transcend phony notion redemption requirements,
redemption
is a toxic emblem, a symbol unrequited and a sucker’s play
I am the spirit of another’s name, who, here to teach,
this being today’s lesson;
how to reach your unique
truth sanctuary,
where the stronghold of who you yet-to-be, can-be awaits,
the reinventing ones, successful, some call poets,
they do not confuse redemption requests
with sanctuary
only provisioned
by yourself,
for yourself
Jun 21, 2019
Jun 21, 2019 at 3:46 PM UTC
we lay together, 6:00am, body warmth touch-sharing,
as the June morning summer chill coming off its night nadir coolness
surrenders very reluctantly,
full length pajamas, blankets and coverlets in use,
keeping cold out while bodies touching generate heat -
a big difference
through these layers of cotton controversy, my right arm,
my cunning, falls awkwardly upon her, advising I am woken
and aware she is as well, hear her earbuds emplaced, make shushed
whispering noises re the future of artificial intelligence
and other such mental knottings
my awkward angled arm rests on her landscaped outline of shape,
coming to rest where legs meet at the top of an upside down V spot,
which makes no request, but accepts my bequest of steady
stroking of her ****** as an unnecessary
but atheist-acceptable to her
morning prayer ritual, kept at the intersection of the
physical and physics theorems
funny how some prayers,
where recitation comes thoughtlessly and routine,
uttered without any contemplation are yet
deep comforting for their inherency,
so I pray a stroking repetitive on her body,
well hid neath a summer coverlet,
wordlessly chanted, wordlessly accepted, silence connoting approving permission
I comfort her,
above and through a floral coverlet for her floral coverlet,
till the sun rises enough to truly warm up our plot,
my praying reaches the end of its rope,
where quality and quantity achieve unanimity resolution
no longer needed,
but am appreciated, besides my arm is cramping,
not designed for the rising, unleveled angle of her breathing bodice
my comfort is her extra comforter,
an offering of coffee my reward,
for my daily work has begun,
and I have many more poems stillborn
that require coaxing stroking
to become
witnesses to living
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 7:32 PM UTC