All of my mothers have gone...
I'm sure their spirits live on
somewhere
but it feels like not here sometimes,  ya see...
ALL
of my mothers
FEEL gone...even
the ones
that I didn't particularly care for and
right now...
right now...
I really would like
to... maybe...
have at least one'a dem bodies
with fleshy arms and
warm soft bosoms
to pull me in as only
full women with fleshy arms and
warm soft bosoms can-
kiss my forehead and
tell me
no matter HOW it feels in THIS moment Baby
it's gon BE alright...
cuz you come from ME... and
MY strong mama and
HER strong mama and
HER strong mama and
HER strong mama...
so
before it gets too late
before somethin in me breaks...
I'ma wrap my own fleshy arms
around my own full *****
embracin my own self... and
know that I know that I know that
the spirits of all my mothers
even the ones that I didn't particularly care for
are ridin wit me
and I'ma hafta make up my mind
to be
comforted
with that

Cuz I know that a mind is a terrible thing sometimes… the way it can turn on ya…. I sit here tryin not to judge…  but  can’t help but see in the corner of my eye… and oh no… tell myself that I don’t … see her face… all screnched up… lookin like a car done parked on her foot… all screnched up… lookin like she got a helluva Charlie- Horse in her left *** cheek… as she tilts her head and digs in her scalp… diggin like she tryin to get through… to herself… in some newly discovered way… and keep on diggin… and keep on diggin…  til she finally come up with somethin… and right there… in our too crowded office… she… with relish… and with gusto… in slow motion seem like…  deposits her newly found treasure… Into. Her. Mouth… and with a loud and wet POP… then with a satisfied sigh… finishes her memo like this is nothing... no thing at all... a regular occurance… leavin me right now starin straight ahead… writin a poem... and "blessin-the-goddess"glad... that it ain’t me... partakin of… untraditional snacks… cuz life can be rough and cold like sidewalk concrete in winter… and if you hit the wrong way... sidewalk concrete in winter... somethin just might break... and obviously there is a... not so readily obvious problem here… so I decide that… I ain’t one to judge…  just act like I don’t see… and  finish my own **** memo…

Seems my life’s things
Have been disremembered…
Either
Accidently just
Fell away
Or purposely
With focus and enthusiasm
Put away
As things of
Middle Aged People
Sometimes are

Noticed today that
Our room smells like
Old People…
Like dust and
Things sitting
Too long in one place
Reluctantly forgotten
Yet stubbornly retained…
I’ma fix this...
Cuz I’m not there yet…

They said
Tell her we said “hello”
Not knowing
That she had lost her mind
Many moons ago… so
I pass the message anyway
She sneers her lip
Turns her face away
Stares out of the window
Into a day
That she refuses to feel
And never says a mumbling word…

I don’t smell him
But he looks malodorous
As he…
Oblivious…
To the rest of us…
Sits here on the city bus
While I unsuccessfully
Try not to see
Him oh so enthusiastically
Pick at and between
His gnarly toes… and
As if this is apropos
He never says a mumbling word…

Hate the mornings
That I awake with regrets
Open my eyes
With weight on my chest
from
If onlys… and
I wishes…
til
eyes  squeeze shut
to not start my day
by futilely wishing
life was some other way
So face down in my bed
Sigh deeply and pray
But never say a mumbling word…

while it is understood...
and probably
goes without saying
that everyone
as the saying goes
is a critic
most self appointed reviewers
fail to realize that

Poetry exists in the mind
belonging to the thinking subject... rather than
to the object of thought

Poetry is personal... placing emphasis on one's own moods
and attitudes... funky or otherwise...

you love it...
or you hate it...
you read it...
or you do not read it...
it does nothing to you.. or
hits a sweet spot
ignites or dampens a fire
permeates the soul
takes root... and
stays with you
for such a time as it is needed
to brighten your day...
luxuriate in solitude...
commemorate a love... or
accentuate a hate

Poetry
is abstract... illusory... instinctive... relative
to where one is at the time...
and therefore
not open to
editorial examination...
or critique

...I'm just sayin