The fruits of another day
                     have been mashed up
       by my mother's
                treasured mortar and pestle.

   I will gather the
         crushed seeds, and    sprinkle
               them with care
  upon the freshly baked

           fluffy, strawberry
                          faith cake

          of which I will slice
                      and feed my family,
     and all of those
             wishing for a bite of love.

                    I will take the
                             sunny, sweet juices,
             drop in a handful
                          of humble tea leaves,

   pour in half a cup of
               fervent longing's
fuzzy, pink lemonade,
  
          a generous amount
  of golden, savory
                 poetry syrup,

and three spoonfuls      of my grandmother's  
            lovely minty remedy
        for calling forth
                           the spicy, sultry desire to live.

      I take my
               Lush Life's Drink
         into the Purple Midsummer Cafe,

   and quench the thirsts
                of translucent, paper people
  tolling throughout
endless
          days and nights,

          solving countless
                      math & society problems,
  writing novels of
      insecurities, acceptance,
& hope,
   
         and every evening,
all gathering at
       the Purple Midsummer Cafe

to faithfully consume    
my
     Lush Life's Drink,

          paying up the small fee of
  a tender smile or so,
         a warm enveloping hug,
                  a handshake of
               gratitude & humility.

If I could
pinpoint the
exact moment
your breath
touched mine
washed me over
in ocean waves
sea creatures glowing
in delightful recognition
as the seedlings
of connection
shimmied into our being
and, dancing within me
in its own lifeforce
your mind a living,
breathing animal
your heart, purring
and whirring its sacred forces
into my molecular structures
your soul throbbing
in mitochondric pulsing
(oh what
a delicious vibration
of ribosomes)
Between us, we hold
the true treasures
close, in frothy
                       tenderness
a purity of the expanse
of our universe,
swathed in prismatic color
colors that shift,
these fresh hues
for which there are no name
they are lucid and fine-woven
as silk histories
yet deep as earthcore
your eyes, voice
are forever burned
into my own
every day scriptures
that rock my shattered parts
into wholeness
and,
like ancient magic,
I conjure forth
the holy gospel
rising from our bones
every second of
every minute
as our deepest fires
our most secret filth
our murky corners
our darkest hours
we weave into light
brilliant and lustrous
multi-layered in the richest
folds of the earth
and as you place me
upon the shores
of your garland-graced
                              throne
Now I'm alive in a new
kind of light
and
all I can do
is love
        and love
and love

My soulmate died


Before we ever met


That's why I feel like this

This book is full
of my father's eye lashes
He treated the pages
rough like his sons
pinching the daylights
out of them, I remember
mud and grease
on calloused thumbs
and you can still smell
Four Roses bourbon
in the morning
through the onionskin
He would not weep
he knew most folks
never kept their word
Anyway, his death
came through
like a hitchhiker
You could see it coming
like the slow light
of a faraway dead star.

the shock
of bodies—
a sound
rippled in
cheetah lightening
to wings of blasted
flowers taught
red
yellow
lavender sky—

butterfly wound
festering pollened
breeze to
where your
mouth
is opened
breath
tongue
and twisted cord—

opaque bee
twirling with
opaque stamen
lit
in a wall of
rushing
waterfall—a
perfect contrast
of forgiveness

for Lys


1. Born and bred
2. Do you like it?
it is: as harsh as a tundra, as dangerous as a jungle, as hot as Singapore on a bad summer Sunday, not as mean as the West Side of Chicago gangbangers random violence, but much more beloved as a target by terrorists, a grrrreat place if u got money to burn, or know how to live off the land on five bucks a day and don’t mind standing in line for days to get cheapo tickets to Hamilton and can learn to like standing room at the Metropolitan Opera

the subways ****, most people are overly wired, highly competitive and peace of mind sometimes come when you cut somebody out of a parking spot or slide into that last seat in a. crowded bus cutting off that little old lady who crowns your success with an eloquent and loud *******, god bless her!

if you slip in the slush and fall to the ground five maybe 10 people will pick u up, call you an ambulance or wipe you down and if you are cute and single offer you their real cell phones numbers

the people are now normal, as in normally crazy, and the average speed is less than 4 mph in midtown and u gotta go five and god help you if you think you can walk in a meandering course while looking up you will be anointed publicly as a ******* tourist

where that gorgeous girl is a Broadway dancer who is likely broker than even you and listens to your spiel and shtick with an open mind if it means you can supply her with a decent dinner and some glimmers of decent possibilities

where romance dies by a thousand cuts a thousand times of day but oft is anew reborn walking home in deep despair cause of that ugly tail that your coat is too small to cover and if you are brave and keen and value yourself  the chances of getting what you want without debasing yourself are much much better than the
Powerball lottery by a city mile!

Do I like it?
it is all I know, shoot no clue, like most places, happiness is 98% *what’s within you no matter where you are, 1% luck and 1% learning not to give a fk or rather to mastering the skill of letting go of crap quicker and quicker and telling the truth to your heart

3. Could anyone like it?
well new rats arrive daily as thousands depart for less stressful pastures. And who wants to live in a pasture? But the true answer is no, just anyone could not like it but a million someones do...maybe the answer is in of  my 1500 + poems and with a little bit of luck you will find a few where my love/hate for the city comes shining through and get a better answer... so it is past midnight on a Sunday and I looked quickly

try this

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1619503/2-years-ago-manhattan-vignettes/

or this

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/664969/a-commissioned-poem-just-another-nyc-saturday/

or this

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/459773/911-distilled/

or this

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1512685/a-love-poem-lush-is-the-quietude-of-the-early-saturday-city-morn-­true-quiet/

or this

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1621192/artist-working-by-candle-light-neon-lights-coffee-shop-lights/

or this

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/794183/the-creed-of-new-york-new-york/