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Preface
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early Sunday morning her head, half pillowed, half my-chested, in the shady, darkened room with just enough entering daylight to clarify the assortment of miscellanea you are mind visualizing, ordering...it's the exact time when the disguised passing thoughts traverse mixed in with the ordinary of the day ahead, the day passed, your passionate emails, that require complete, non-hasty, contemplative answering, the onerous chores, the pretend-someday-additions to the reading list, the running time for the my little pony movie (wasn't awful), the chances we will be a football team with an 0-5 record (we are) at the end of the day when god ******, well lit,
it sly sneaks in,
I write for women
auditioning as a possible poem title
and just to be sure, it performs a singing audition, we hear it loud and clear, as it snaps fingers and makes Pandora play:
"Your love keeps lifting me higher
Than I ever been lifted before,
So give me love, Which is my desire"
caught, exposed, *******, brain chiming, nails chewing, cylinders firing, pas de choix, and it's now my fingers turn, not to snap,
but to obediently tap
the truth about me, man
10/9-17 8:29am
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I write for women (give yourself away)
alternating currents, one electrical impulse sparkling sparking
to prove I am among the living, and that the engine, yet revving, the beating, the heart toe-tapping, and the next,
is an explication explosion for each and everyone, for you, just, you,
why, I write, for women, for to give myself away
please say your name out loud
right now, right here, don't process, proceed, if you can't...
then
répète après moi,
"he writes for me and no one else"
it is not sorrowful but it could be,
it is simple words but not simple in the slightest,
for constantly falling is a ******* the soulfulness,
hard, too, is in the re-collecting the absences, the aloneness,
even as hard as the opposite, the constant awrying of the daily plan when so much bountiful beautiful
makes an ordinary crazy extravagant delightful,
so so necessary, so **** elemental - it is true oxygen of sustaining,
so necessary to be beyond
to write that every moment is a possession (yours) would be an
understatement, even wrong...for I am a molecular composite of your mystique mystery, each time i am writing-returning
one bone chip excised as an accounting, the untainted marrow where-the-will-from-where-I-came from, which is from you,
one birth mother,
but so many names many origins all one cell subdivided
each livre is an escapee, a de-lightening runaway, of me,
and in the emptying is my creating
a happy self conception
a Benjamin Button reversal, as was intended
this is the hardest poem I have written in my abbreviating
years, but if not now, when?
I hand-wring cause
I cannot successfully explain well enough the
why
easy understood, why and try rhyme so naturally
I will once more walk the city streets, each espied
a dream mind-see to connect,
distributor to each of an odd shaped token,
a failed self-explanatory thank you for existing,
no whys or wherefores,be given-out
regardless of creed, color and age,
but not ***, for absolutely this is all about ***,
repaying the grieving and the believing.
the obligation
the happy diminishment