the tinkling kiss,
tween silver bell
and the windowed door,
at the ice cream store,
announces with the delight of
a tingling excite

a novitiate,
a well scrubbed innocente,
a suckering, youthful customer
has entered the store

all the ice cream poems stand up straight,
paying cold attention,
the little boy ones,
fix their crookedly crooked bow ties,
the little girl ones,
pat down their crinkly crinolines,
all best behavior-ed,
shivering cold from hot anticipation,
the idea, the conception
of becoming
the chosen one,
invited outside,
for delight,
the pleasure of melting into
sweet, sad loving death,
in the smiling mouth
of a young fan & reader

now, they all know the rules,
no calling out!

just stand in frozen attention,
glistening, shimmering,
displaying their true coloration,
hoping to be the selected election

but that rascally bad boy,
with salty language,
yes, the salty caramel one,
can, in his over-sized container,
no longer can contain himself,
screaming out
with  an aura of entitlement

"pick me, pick me,"
read me, eat me,
favor my flavor"

all thirty one flavors,
one for every day of the month,
start to shout,
like a raucous caucus
of politicians huffing and puffing,
wheezing and whining,
pretend crying
for the  favored blessing of your vote,

"pick me, pick me,"
read me, eat me,
favor my flavor"

there is even a
"flavor of the day,"
usually a newly minted green poet,
a chipped one,
seeking to find a permanent home
for its fresh faced tasty, word sensation,
but after thousands of plastic spoon samplings,
nonetheless melty-dies in the corner, alone and forgotten,
for fame is fleeting, and not always long term good eating

so many to choose, got the poetic ice cream blues,
sweet slow aching of loving infatuation for the iceiest of
tongued-licking caressing, the only way to be consumed
organically

"pick me, pick me,"
read me, eat me,
*favor my flavor"

T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers,
these tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.

Each a troop,
in the army of orphans,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.

All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to the rabbled boors,
the imagination suppressors!

World:

cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.

Poets!

Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.

With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
taste his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
becoming one who was, yet still is,
because of you,
because of poetry.