No mobile phones
No internet
So my children poets whom I love dearly
What would you do?
A scrap of paper
Written on with I'll formed letter
To the girl/boy of your dreams
A grizzled old man
With a droopy mustache
Riding 150 miles
In all weathers with a six horse string
Day and night he'd ride with little food
Little rest
And he would cover that 150 miles
In two days

If he survived the weather and Indian attacks
That then was your internet

People
who hold to be sacred
different Values
may indeed be
of comparable Worth.

In-groups
and out-groups
are lousy and petty excuses by which
humans seem to like to justify
inhumane injustice.

Yet, I dare to argue
that, as conscious beings,
Consciousness itself
is the only true in-group;
all other schisms are artificial;
artificial lines drawn
upon beaches of our Godselves
by fingers of our own Devilselves.

All things;
potential and manifest,
named and unnamed;
are equal in the dynamic, flowing balance of the Tao.

~~~


reaching hard for words

~~~

enter tip toeing,
the loudest noises off,
save for a silent, seriously-forming smile,
re-designing your face,
while in the orbit of early morn,
mapping your return to the planetary
bed
all the while,
observing her
while closeted, comforted and cloaked,
upon their/his
landing zone bed,
honing your return re-entry voyage
home

the blonde in her traditional,
sleep arms slung in wilding, disarrayed
repose,

and
her breathing stride,
regularized and still,
yet so humanly unpredictable
wild ride

and your are surprised

by surprising yourself,
once again,
that you're in this position,
when an unforced, yet an enforceable,
warm hearted girl-glad,
chest centric?
envelops and coddles
and yet
shocking you,
that this never-expected-gift is capable of being felt

at in over up outside inside
below across beneath above and the
all encompositional prepositional,
throughout

forms of its own accord,
not asking permission,
to exist within

your body that not so long ago,
forgot where it kept
the
how-to manual

and you,
obligatory poet,
noblesse oblige,
try reaching hard for,
top shelf, newly combinated,
adjectival adverbial nouns and
verb words
to encapsulate this
shocking development

but finding none,
save for the the silent, seriously-forming smile,
busy re-designing your face,
quiet like,
it,
thunder claps slaps
in your mind

enough!

your smile is
this time

self-speaking sufficient
and
there is no need
to reach for words

~~~


9:03am
The Sabbath
1-15-16
nyc

never made it past my bed
never made it past my head
never got past pj's
ennobled by a ditty bathrobe
making ditty poems from within
a tequila shot hungry hangover

just past noon,
day halved, brain salved,
with leftover
breakfast shooters

the hairless dog
did not bark in the night,
gelid Angels chanting hymns,
maybe it's just my frozen nerves,
or the eyeballs hi ding ing
under the covers

don't think I'll accomplish much
less than more,
cause I am
never gonna get past my bed

~~~

how to cook a poem/poetic theology

so many ways,
but one favored

after oh so many trials
after oh so many errors

taste tastings, plenty,
some good, some feh

some inspired, some liared,
but it's the process

the methodology,
that becomes your
poetic theology,
of

how to cook a poem

slow simmer,
as if it was
a hearty filling stew,
with the red wine,
you flavored,
for style unique

stew
over it,
add pinches of
contradicting adjectives

icy hot,
bland spice
and not everything nice,
bitter herbs,
fatalistic flaws

make it
to
make the left and the right
side of the brain
argue and engage,
let it taste of the foment,
of unease, disease,
and the
coming to terms
with the
alternating au courant currents,
of fashionistas

don't forget
the final seasoning, the finishing
reasoning,
the perfect certainty
of momentary
peace

uncovered, derived, home grown,
after a thirty years war,
and the
perfect uncertainty,
you still aren't sure,
which side won
and why

some fry in nastiness,
some broil,
flaming to burn away,
some boast to roast
of the average angst
that breathing
seems to
require

some peel,
some imbibe the raw,
all get sorted

for even what
writ in haste,
all sourced from ingredients,
taking years of seconds,
in the assembling
the trial and error
the preparation,
required for living a life
cooking poetry

~~~

a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one

my poor soul,
my rag tag heart,
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy get, easy spent

if only,
how I wish,
could harvest my best,
and with golden cutlery,
excise
the single flawless poem
that I know is in my possess

lay down this hand, so weary,
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that when my casket lowered,
two hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best,
to ease the rest,
a papered poem record to join his whited ash,
his flawless poem,

his very best

*now eternal,
at long last