sunrain
one of the Dakotas
“So come, my friends, be not afraid. We are so lightly here. / It is in love that we are made; In love we disappear. Tho’ all the maps of blood and flesh Are posted on the door, There’s no one who has told us yet what Boogie Street is for.” L. Cohen
the acorns tumble, the dried leaves slip slowly sideways,
each a slow motion death, almost balletic, or acrobatic,
the decedents, like bodies on the Field of Hastings, their
skeletons to be consumed by a history ******* earthy soil
this more than any thing, as much as covid deaths of known
older brothers more than the messages on the answering
machine from robotic nurses and truly concerned doctors,
impatiently waiting to discuss test results with still alive patients
four lines in each stanza was unplanned like sets of decades,
that the man’s life can be retrospectively be divisibly assayed,
each titled, consistent of games and sets, until the last match
not on center court, is finale tie-broken, the faults too numerous
he writes this unshaken, but stirred, for the hours spent observing,
of each trajectory of every fallen leaf is distinctly connected to losses,
oh! how the losses multiplied; loves, children, unspoken words of
affection and forgiveness, mounted, moats, barriers to fulfillment,
a lawn of dead shriveled things, mounting, dear mother of god, all
préludes that hasten(ed) the shedding of lives every August!
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 3:52 PM UTC
next to never (a pair of ones)
squeezed between nuh-uh and fugetaboutit,
is that long gone notion in the nation of concepts,
like one true love, the connected lines on each of our
bodies, certifying we are a pair of ones, a strong hand.
there are chores to be done:
reread Guy de Maupassant,
delete two thousand unread emails
cry for my so lost children
let Walt Whitman wash over my body like oil
kick the guy out of bed so he can make us coffee.
a ton of stuff to do, good thing, we got a strong hand,
that pair of ones.
which I am now informed is called a pair of
Aces.
Who Knew?
7:51 Sun Jul 12
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 8:06 AM UTC
~for alison~
sun’s come out, yellow invitations issuing,
let’s walk, asking, my afternoon habitué, you’ll talk,
I’ll listen, maybe a poem, a tune, who knows,
what will come of it, surely ain’t exactly clear
Nina Simone on the phone, called,
letting you know, she’s feeling good,
subtly pointing out you could too,
what will come of it, surely ain’t exactly clear
Adele rang up, just in case,
you were undecided, to keep on
chasing pavements, even if,
what will come of it, surely ain’t exactly clear
Elle King came by, shame she said,
what’s you need getting into is shame
‘n trouble, the kind that makes ya shake,
what will come of it, surely ain’t exactly clear
Chris Stapleton, didn’t have no idea,
you knew him too, reminding you that
Tennessee Whiskey ain’t the answer neither,
what will come of it, surely ain’t exactly clear
Amy W. stopped in, in case you needed a ride
in her BMW, just to say hi, you ain’t no p.o.w.,
stop cheating on yourself, it ain’t no good,
what will come of it, surely ain’t exactly clear
my woman, sat down next to me, demanding all
my devices, pad and phone, you’ve got memories,
roots, a home on the ground, no nighttime gypsy you,^
don’t need no sad other women music, surely what comes
of it is exactly clear.
^Alice Merton
May 27, 2020
May 27, 2020 at 3:27 PM UTC
strange professions and true confessions from a lockdown town (4/17/20)
————————————————————————————-————-
not a great idea,
in the not-yet-dawn,
to write
a poem entitled
strange professions,
true confessions
dried stains of prior leakings
upon old ‘n yellowed linoleum,
no need for more friends,
for sure, for sure,
that’s the smart play
you see! right there
I’m professing age
old wisdom,
confessing my sorry face is
well acquainted with
floor coverings,
where even the
soles of my shoes
won’t admit they been polluted,
having stepped in rooms
of low and ill repute,
those them there,
right in here
poetry writing sites
where there ain’t no
guideposts, reminding
what’s in the heart
pretend stays in Vegas,
but what the heck,
since I’m here already,
might as well,
ready go and spill,
things you don’t
need to know but...
help the time pass
in this lockdown town,
where total silence is
the loudest sound around
wine, empty beery bottles,
bad rhymes give me up,
just before I start a hey look!
it’s a brand new
sunny rain afternoon
the governor pronounced
we all gotta be masked,
24/7 inside and out,
the women complain that it
musses hair, the men say,
who me? nah, got
nothing to say about that,
We, don’t make no con-cessions...
when you can’t see
my lips moving, or my
one good eye be winking,
means it’s likely that I’m lying
they say, I’m going
stir crazy,
not me says he,
unlike some guy who
wanted to blow up the
Alice-in Wonderland statue in
Central Park, hell,
u could look it up!
guess I coulda call this
here epistle, official “Lockdown Blues,”
but I jes heard gotta stay inside
till June Seventeen
that’s the good news,
plenty o’time to set
my affairs in order,
burn the poems nobody
needs seeing, those them
there with weirdness galore,
say no more,
you can whine, it’s fine,
no caring, no hearing,
past way the point,
where running or returning
is an option viable for nut jobs
them, with strange professions
and true confessions...
May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 4:56 PM UTC
in quarantine locked is the mind
never free,
when the body enslaved
you think,
you are free to dispute
this contention
or so you think...
*but when you write of your current condition,
understand you’ve lost in thinking winning
the body|mind a single singularity, so
when you smack your head against the Fifth wall,
desperate to believe, concede to conceive that
no in Hindi, same in any language, caged body
is pleased to misdirect, dress up yes, but my elder
wisdom, has read Monte Cristo, and no matter how
you count, until free in both organs,*
you can’t count as far as 1,
the nomenclature of unity.*
May 11, 2020
May 11, 2020 at 11:19 AM UTC
what you leave when you’ve left (mending the tormenting silence^)
———————————————————-—————————-
your words rock me, like an old time preacher,
mending, begetting, tormenting,
fire and brimstone you sinner,
if I don’t quit this life of loving words, saloon music,
guitar picking in low down dives,
liquoring and sinning,
choosing to choose poorly,
never and always thinking about the songs
you’ve left behind unplayed, pained
got the sun and the rain and all afternoon,
to contemplating leavings,
the crumbs you let drop,
the missteps took and missed,
drank too much, hurt too hard,
the silence of my history, it’s renting,
unrelenting, tormenting, lamenting and such,
those loves, labors that don’t amounted much,
a slow rush to fall, to count it all
you say, always time to mend what life
has rent, if you spend the time thinking,
‘bout what you gained, what you lost,
the net of both added and subtracted,
what you got, what you gave,
the sum of your begat,
a life’s story, to tell,
of life’s misgiving, unforced errors, and
crimes committed only you know
not sure what the total bill due gonna be,
combining the costs of the here,
the now, what was and wasn’t,
what was said, not believing but yet singing,
so when the check comes,
the summation of your life’s calculations,
get to add on a tip, a good-as-gold saying
it’s time that can mend, but knowing the true costs of time,
maybe, maybe not...
<§>
let them reap what you have sown,
for the great designer will surely inquire
what everybody knows is the forecast standard to be met,
it is not what, how much you got, but what you begat, when,
you’ve left
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 5:41 AM UTC
in these days of sheltering on the isle-of-isolactation,
a place amazingly located just ‘bout everywhere,
staying occupado is muy importanto
taught myself Latvian, can identify a thousand Avian,
can vacuum the house in ten minutes flat,
can count my steps mentally walking from the bed
to the kitchen and on the way back again, detour via the den
when I get really bored, sneak away to grab the laundry
from the dryer, I’m on fire, desirous of my sanity, fold them twice,
so they’ll be enough nice to meet her exacting standards,
going directly into her highest level, Type A, storage drawers
but hit a snag, on certain articles of activewear, not to mention
you know, the unmentionables, which don’t present corners or angles
to lend novice folders directional cues, cannot even determine
which is inside out, or outside out, with too many bedeviling straps
too proud to ask for directions, after all I am a grown man,
checked youtube buddy, they had no clue, unless it was a tutorial
on how to remove them bodices from them body, which I will,
study later...but I winged it except for those couple of items
which I hid under her too many bed pillows!
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 5:54 PM UTC
a thousand days, mornings of mortality debated,
irregular they come, days of stranger awakenings,
my soul kept, yet residuals of torn indecision,
what value, do I bring, purposed me for what?
this letter addressed to the however, the whomever,
who know the asking is greatest yielder, creator of
valuable doubts
them those, that beggar the question,
their unceasing answer repeated, confident and
without shame and remorse, their constancy, granite,
the surety of logical visions sourced from the holy dark,
give yourself away, what you got, give, let them take it away
let them reap what you have sown,
for the great designer will surely inquire
what everybody knows is the forecast standard to be met,
it is not what, how much you got, but what you begat, when, left
gave yourself away till ‘tis nothing right is left, and the emptiness
is greatest fulfillment, the slate shared, is the joint fate best reaped,
your best storehouse spent on the sustenance of others, give, away...
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 7:32 AM UTC
the architecture: our design, our formulation
~
**we design as we go along.
plans develop themselves organically.
somehow, we formalize, organize spontaneity.
learning-as-we-go, ourselves teaching each other’s selfs.
celebrating, locating our tangent intersections,
plotting points on the X Y axes of us.
labelling our quadrants,
past, now, planned but yet-to-be,
the unknown unknowns,
all upon blue lined graph skins.
a formula of a celebrated curvature, two unknowns, solvable, we are quadratic.
the precise precious precarious solution,
a single square root,
that intuits the wee of our
innate
relationship.
our solution is annotated for all
mathematicians as the**
square root of us.
2/18/20
6:25am
somewhere in the internals
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 5:47 PM UTC
No know sense of infinitude (asking why not?)
~
noun: the state, the quality of being without limit, infinite
drew first breath, woken to the heart’s thankless task,
conscious aware, that the solved proofs deny infinitude,
yet, triumvirate of five senses, brain waving, a steadying thumping heart,
all asking why not?
can I will it?
the body’s parts convene, debating furious, some claiming
a sell-by-date cellular programmed, nothing to be done,
dimming of the day, a human necessity, the self-salvaging process
but a single cell, a mouse-sized squeaker, boldface stuns,
”feed me, moisturize, give me sleep + blue blood nourishment,”
the others ashamed of their festival of fear, knowing well
what has gone before, thought dreaming of infinitude, go silent,
while “why not?”
lingers in the lungs, the breathable atmosphere,
the senses spread the quest to every remote province,
with each continuing a chant grows ever louder,
a millennium of poems concealed, yet awaiting conception,
all entitled
“why not”reverberating.
<+>
7:36am 2022020
nyc everywhere
Feb 2, 2020
Feb 2, 2020 at 7:43 AM UTC