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 Apr 2015 Grizzo
wordvango
by an old poet
migrate north
to between the ears
from years ago
when all I felt was between my legs

memory makes
a false verve
thinking still hot I can
and remembering
sweet flavors
when all was felt was passion begging.
I'll never understand,
the rural American mindset.
And in kind,
I am alien to most rural Americans.
How do you people stand it here?
Does time not pause for you as well?
The looks I'm given,
when I express my yearning,
for concrete, glass and steel.
Yea,
I suppose this spring air smells quite fine,
but it lacks the flavor of a fifth street dive.
And all summer long you all fish or you hike,
I miss just smoking cigarettes in parking lots,
at night.
Many assume,
one who holds such animosity,
towards his fellow man,
would prefer a smaller population density.
This is false.
It's easier to remain enigmatic,
when no one has the time to remember your name.
Your face.
I blend well,
and I do enjoy the fresh air,
the wilderness.
But when I leave work at night,
sometimes,
sometimes I still sit on top of my car and smoke,
just watching traffic.
And I think,
the city is forever in my bones.
And on those nights,
I miss my home.
 Apr 2015 Grizzo
Nat Lipstadt
21 hours ago
received the message below,
from a fellow poet, here,
now somewhat, more disappeared,
resting in the shady quietude of
Elliot's servers

a mere 21 hours ago,
a thunderbolt telegram
of virtual dots and dashes,
well received

she,
whose name
you have forgotten,
even if you knew it back when
and,
I shan't knowingly now reveal...

perhaps if you were
one of the
multiyear variates,  
still here, still seeking
solutions
to the
equations of the
human formulation,
one of the veterans of the
early word wars,
when the line between fellow poet
and human being was full of
invitational openings,
tween those dots and dashes,
we all eagerly entered those places,
crossing over into
those human openings,
making poets into friends,
yes,
if you webbed here back then,
you may have known her too...


21 hours ago -

"there's a reason
I got to know you,
even though that might
sound silly.
In a way,
you saved me
two summers ago..."
~~~~~~

this message,
teaches me to remember
the power of words
supercharged,
be careful what you
write,
you just might save a
soul...

didn't not ken, well enough
the pressurized curve of her bend,
though read all her private journals,
her thesis academic,
her private ascetic analysis
and poems that milked & masked
the angst of a life
really real hard

today
reread,
tried anyway,
two years of messages

could not feign
the pain
unintentionally recovered
while looking for
clues to myself,
this purported savior


all I recall is
a woman near her ends
woman near no means
but knowing the meaning of
the power drink meaning of
"just going on"
that was dug deep in between,
and how we traded poems
for each other,
and I called her,

daughter

but from now on and within,
when I see a message
time stamped
21 hours ago
I'll be
better ready
for the
explosions of myself
21 hours ago
"However long I don't talk - for whatever stupid reason I never have the courage to talk to others when I am lost in my life-- I still think of you and I hope you know that. I still think there's a reason I got to know you, even though that might sound silly. In a way you saved me two summers ago..."
 Apr 2015 Grizzo
A Watoot
Exult
 Apr 2015 Grizzo
A Watoot
A statue of beauty
Slowly being unveiled
By the artist so proud of his work.
Only to see that
Its clay arms melted
Along with his dreams.
Too bad people cannot see beauty in imperfection.
 Apr 2015 Grizzo
A Watoot
Sand
 Apr 2015 Grizzo
A Watoot
Sand on my hair,
Salt in my ears,
Fish on my toe.
I grabbed a handful of sand
and tossed it in the sea.
A ripple formed.
The hardened sand scattered into the sea;
tiny little grains;
And I remembered why I did not choose you.
It's because you never really loved me.
ah.weird memories. no ache.  plain numb.
 Apr 2015 Grizzo
A Watoot
Simple
 Apr 2015 Grizzo
A Watoot
It's pretty simple actually.
Make love to me like you don't know what tomorrow is;
Like a hungry animal craving for flesh.
Worship me like I'm providing you air for breathing.
Love me like I'm the best person in the world;
Like I'm the perfect person.
Make me feel that I'm special.
Even if I'm the ******* person in the world,
Make me feel like I'm a special kind of ****.
Give me the love that I deserve.

*Treat me like a queen;
A queen that loves you, she bows down to her slave.
It's as simple as that.
 Apr 2015 Grizzo
Francie Lynch
Some writers are like comets,
A flash, and soon gone;
Some that burned brightest,
Are rocks that don't burn long.

Some writers are like meteors,
Burning hot through spheres;
As meteorites they stay with us,
Though brighter in younger years.

One writer, Leonard Cohen,
No brighter light revealed;
Still yearning for the fire,
Still burning all these years.
Leonard Cohen: Canadian novelist, poet, singer, song writer, etc. Just released another CD. His likes don't come around our world too often. Get to know his work. He tours too. I've seen him four times over the past forty years. Hope to see him again soon. Oh, he turned 80 this year.
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