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~for r, just because~


put her in my mouth and she became my
mouth.

put myself inside her and she became my
insides out.

spill good words on her belly, licked & laced together, wrote my  
poetry.


on elbow, she claimed coauthor-ship, demanded her name above mine.


I smiled,
surely they’re your creation, you-ruler, procreator, foremost, first,
the ABCedarian,
the muse goddess of alphabets, all that is poetic divine.

I’m mortal,
your transcriber, copyist, alphabetically seconded, merest mere,
the ABEcedarian,
am rudimentary without you, lost midst the masses o’poets nameless.

She snorted, said “sounds like poetic *******” to me, but returned to her sleepy heaven, mumbling most contentedly.
ABECEDARIAN (noun)
a person who is learning the letters of the alphabet.
a rudimentary beginner in any field of learning.
she said:
you are a man knowing cruel, knowing hard,
with strangest soft skin, a funny way of talking,
lick my face with your words so I’ll learn,
to be tough and tender too, this I want, wanted


he replied:
life gave me splinters, broken from rough edges,
left under my exterior to fester, blister, and scar,
life licked my face, taught me mean, and the words
that came with that, were sand papered on my skin


she answered:
I’m not blind, I can feel, smell your contradictories,
want your antibodies in my blood, survival skills,
to be what I am not, and keep too, what I’ve got, to
be infected and protected, knowing words defensive


he listened:
what you desire, is the health that comes after,
after what you don’t understand, until you’ve
loved, lost, been beaten down so that getting up is
miraculous, this unteachable, this licking by words


she insisted:
your arrhythmic rhymes, skinflint perspectives,
this is what I ask, what I need, what you can give,
what is in your possess, what you need to unburden,
making me better for making you lessened


he wept:
and said nothing.

for nothing taught appreciating silence and
was the beginning,
of what she wanted,
of what he did not
of what he gives reluctantly



8:16AM
Wed May 20
Isle of Mind
abecedarian May 14
<>
“Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun,
(there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.”

Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN

                                                      ­ §§§

These admonitions are the ten, conditional commandments of straight talk, boy, you spent a life lessening and lessoning, all laid before you for taking, gaining, of what?

Start this day, having spent night with you, possess less than what my completed, unfinished commencement provisioned, a simultaneous beginning, finishing, emptied, a fulfilling questioning.

What  does this life desire of me, that it granted and then removed, the knowledge of perfection, leaving me striving, writhing, shivering unceasingly, in my saddened, bursting, hackn chest.

Walk same cobblestone streets, observing the tugs portaging, paging homage to East River tides, carrying the goods, the origins of all poems, from where, to where, unknown, but always past my eyes.

So I do look, with our eyes, filtered by a century’s discoloration, forgive me for recalling sights that you observed, but I never witnessed first hand, sharing a stolen wisdom with you.

The new millionth sunrise bids me stand, observe the river traffic from my window, accept that my takings, are debts, paid back, most still owed, the origins of all my poems, oddity old, unoriginal, second, third handed.


                                                    §§§­§§

6:24AM
Manhattan Island,
By the East River
Thu. May 14, 2020
  May 13 abecedarian
Nat Lipstadt
”And everyone has a heart and it’s calling for something
And we are all so sick and tired of seeing things as they are
Horses are just horses and their manes aren’t full of fire
And the fields are just fields and there ain’t no Lord
And everyone is hidden and everyone is cruel”

“BRIGHT HORSES,” NICK CAVE & THE BAD SEEDS 2019


<>
some of us got a heart, that trys to reason with us,
some of us got a mind, that doubles as a hearse,
taking away, e-thots that were dead on arrival,
electrified by their unacceptable eclectic nature

some of us got word games to pass the day, doublespeak,
some of us illustrate, words that try to litter the literate,
seed the atmosphere, make it rain, confuse our ****** tear railroad tracks,  
those without final terminus, mixing them in, as a subterfuge

reality *****, even bites, of that the philosophers have no doubt,
some say they died for us, never having asked permission,
some say they saved us from ourselves, claiming cursed credit
that historians will purposely ignore, non-truths worthless

what is, is what I got to write down, to remember, to make
my Case for saving grace, is my only purpose, to make
my Case that a woman needs loving, giving her & man the
only Trip-Tik road to living, children, nothing words, liquor can do

May 12th, eyes opened of their own accord, made a treaty with
them thoughts and prayers hanging round, needy for a go to place,
cause they well aware, their welcome ain’t, so instead wrote these
words purposed to give me reasons to rise and try to make sense,

a Case, that conversations tween my five senses that can be enCased,
that anything I got saying may be worth hearing to one or two, hell,
may get lucky and reach ten, socially distant max, forgetting fools,
now acquainted with my Case, your Case, calling for something

that makes real OK, seeing things as they are, ****, even passable^






9:39AM
nyc
Tue May 12
jes making my Case
^ or  ...making even, this ****, passable.
“the pleasuring words”


~
are not of necessity singularly complected or of one nature

know them by many other names, colorations, languages,
throat growling purring, pretty soft and stern, singsong,
begged borrowed stolen, barked and pleaded

but when the eyes quietly say,

come to me
darling

in manner unspoken,
the pleasuring of the silence
greater than if sullied by a vocalization,
the wild sounds my heart commit
pounding mounting ever louder,
requiring no translation, though with repetition,
they grow louder
with every heart throbbing,
a new language relearning

the pleasuring words are spoken
by silent eyes when you
call me by my other name

my  

darling
the anonymous who keep us fed,
allowing us to stay in shelter, hide in bed,
while they masked and gloved,
go about keeping us safe and living

with no glory, the invisible,
the shelf stockers,
the wipe-downers,
of our collective spaces,
disinfecting when we
are home in our heads, while
their families worry~wait

we are the indebted,
so our collective can prosper,
no one calls them heroes,
but we would be at greatest, fatalist risk,
if not for the burdens they accept,
for they deliver
us.

so I when I ask nowadays, where is shelter,
the answer is, it is on the way, it is in their hands,
being delivered!
in NYC we are able to survive only because of this army
  Apr 21 abecedarian
Where Shelter
my nose now runs seasonallyfrom sigh droplets

every new season celebrated by the constant continuation
of its running from, running to ?, or as I joke,  
from  September to September inclusive

but something new, my eyes now watery, a permanente daily irregularity, the imaginary laundry lady whines consistently, as she cannot always locate, prior to machine insertion, for all my secret hiding places of the always everywhere ***** tissues!

“too many pockets, too many tissues,” she underbreath mumbles,
but secretly I observe her similarly daubing~dabbing of the eyes,
in this time of constant sorrow, no one immunized, the sigh droplets
pass through any mask and gown, and then become full time residents

wry thinking, “let he or she who is without stone, cast the first tissue”
but we are all ****** all the time, heavy heaving, eyes tearing and
noses running

it don’t take much, the continuous reportage batters me and turning
away from my electronics impossible, they now hard wired inside the maniac-brainiac, wifi’d, from every side, even a actual glance outside at the desert of our dehumanized streetscapes always amazes

we no longer worry that every sniffle or tear
is a warning sign of  a more serious ailment;
no, we understand too well this is a sad spirit inside,
it’s symptoms unleashed but un-lethal, the antibody
to a weariness that has no name, only tissues that

cannot cure nor disinfect
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