And in her last moments,
my grandmother turned to me
with tears swelling in her tired eyes
and said
I weep not because of the beauty
which I am leaving
but because of all the beauty
which has yet to come.


I still weep with you.

In lonely rooms
the end comes too soon

But hey,
not such a bad way to go

With a bullet in your head
blood splattering your pet succulent

At least it's not suffering
in the pale sunlight

Watching it glint
between the panes

As they tell you
that there's so much to live for

When you know
the opposite is true

Good for you
you clipped my wings

Watched me crash to the ground

I swear we were flying

But it seems it was
just my ****** gums, knuckles, and thighs

Are you happy?
you hurt me unlike the others

Are you happy?
taking but hardly giving

When I pledged my soul
I never knew you intended to shred it

Or make my head
just a trophy on your wall.

the undulating structure of the sea, woman

~for Megan Sherman~

you message me a brief, sweet like of
my poem's structure,  describing it as
"undulating like the sea."

you deserve much more that I can now provide,
the hour late, yet your succinct observation
engages my retinas deeper into oceans of imagination.

but told to "turn off the light,",
a standard life intrusion,
so for once in my life,
perhaps brevity, may here gain the upper hand.

but probably not.
no, this poem does not undulate.

I live by the sea, and its habits, guises and habitués,
her stockings and high heels, and come hither looks,
well known to me. Ha! most nights it even feeds me.

as I compose, she hides quiet, fifty yards away, no more,
causing no trouble tonight, yet seen it don and unmask
a schizophrenia of multiple personalities most terrible
in minutes as short as seconds.

rage and frothy spit, begging she be allowed to
swallow whole men and ship, harboring monsters,
that populate the nightmares of one called Jonah me.

her murdering riptides and lunar tricks
that are mathematically calculable and therefore predictable,
even then, wise man still most helpless charmed by
the fake news of the surficial, gentile, ladylike, curtsying, cutesy lapping, waving oh hello waves,
drown us with the greatest of ease,
which is what I think you mean when you say
the sea **** be undulating, performing its best and finest trickery.

yes, the sea is a women and its fluidity, nonpareil.

Have you ever seen a woman undulate?
see my notes below;

when the sea or a woman undulate,
things too oft die.  

this poem is unstructured, its heartbeat,
arrhythmic, and now, well, lady past midnight,
indeed, unhappy, unsure of the why of this poem,
its purpose undefined but you said:

                          un   
du
                    lat
           ing
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

causing the sovereignty of my un-conscious
to see a ballerina, her arms, moving unnaturally,
laying herself down to die

did I forget to mention
this poem was born on the ferry crossing the sea,
required to reach the island keep where
the home that I now lay prone in bed now writing
almost, soon enough,
"the end,"
having read your words, felt a poem instant birthing,
as the bow cut thru calm, undulating waves
while a storm in my eyes, the rancor of experience screamed,
my aminotic fluids joining the waters beneath my feet,
your words caused

and a ballerina waving arms swept me low,
asking, imploring,
watch me undulate unto death

and better now I understand the why of you,
for we both ****** addicts,
enslaved by the undulating
arms of our muses, and this then,
the nature of our
shared genius

so be wary of the sea, and writing, the ****** of poetry addiction,
given half a chance,
you will quite happily drown
when they both beckon,
come hither.


<•>
8-19-17 ~ 8-20-17
11::04 pm - 3:24am

The most beautiful face
is the happy one
No matter what the years
testify contrary