Shakespeare predicts the future!

  Marian. The devil a puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ***, that cons state without book, and utters it by great swarths: the best persuaded of himself; so crammed, as he thinks, with excellences, that it is his ground of faith that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work.

Twelfth Night Act 2, Scene 3

at the point of entry (explicit)

it does not strike me strange
at the point of entry
when the heightened senses and the dark subconscious merge

when the lust and the sweat intersect
with ego desire and self is everlasting everything
that the ***** words secretion is sticky on my tongue

when I pant poems born in rawness and tears
on this the last day of the year
and eyes closed see visions extraordinaire
and the Maker whispers in both ears see!

it is the see of what is me,
it is the point of entry and departure,
one and the same,
conception an immaculate mess,
the emptying and the fulfilling, when unkempt promises
are born free flowing and semi-truths transform into
actualities unforeseen and my child cells of new poems
are injected, stored, awaiting the birthright
and the death of publication,
my moment of privileged perfection passes
and frowns and smiles are
one and the same, silken thread wove open and shut

the precision precious circumcising of flesh and soul departing

the utter collapse from within, the drowning in the amniotic,
rebirthing rebutting my denying that I have no more to give

I believe I belong to you for it is what the desire firing cylinders
say repeatedly in the union of the up and the down cycle:

come, come inside me,
I am the pleasure
you are the treasure
in one cup measured
conjoined container
when the point of entry is the point of departure
and with eyes closed from satisfaction and prayer
I see everything all at the same time, uttering:

I am undone utterly and the difference between
the end and the beginning can be seen only
at the millisecond long seven decade coming
point of entry

12/31/17 5:38am dawn dying and new day mourning

oh drat,
you are reading this,
my little kitty ditty,
jinxing my super duper secret plan,  
my walter mitty,
if no one reads this pretty
then the algo-rhythm
sure to pick me out of sympathy
to be the
poem-of-the-day!

so thanks for nothing, Jinxy McJinxFace!

do not give me away
with a finger or a heart,
lest the algo smells a rat
realizing that I am artificially intelligent too!

Ogdiddy Nash

“My poems are often wiser than me, lean into a more keen universe of understanding.” Joy Harjo

<•>

instant recognition moment, Joy, your words,
(despite the kitchen cooking clanging chatter next door),
spilling into the quiet space of my thanksgiving brain

my wiser poems are insights inscribed inside,
exposed and released all in their own good time,
they, always blogging, leaning out to escape,
asking the Governor for clemency, early release

poems that are my self-defensive explicit explanations,
excuses, convoluted ratinocations, prosecutorial accusations, leveled by my disbelieving, revealing, sworn to silence
not-to-be-trusted-confessor-me against the indefensible

nobody likes a wise guy,  
but out they come, under the covers, dem poems  
of nighttime darkness, spilling beans and silent screams,
asking you if we remember that time when we...

yes, we.

but writ in the first person personal,
in words summoned from his own ****** deep darkness?

better in plain english when sharing shadings of universal,
and you leaning in on me from within,
presence of pressure, a plaintive palliative wailing,
ejecting an ******* of joy

when “please release us” is honored with our
collective wisdom

<•>
11/24/17
9:07am