Plane Poetry: I go to Barber*

aisle seat C 14,
an emergency exit row,
forced to solemnly swear
that for the extra legroom,
I will solemnly assist to open
the exit door, me first as my reward,
and keep my terrified screaming
below an elephant's trumpeting mating call

what hast this to do with a trip to Barber?

you Brits and Aussies, ever economical,
say went 'to hospital,'
leaving we Ameddicans
to dignify that august institution
as going to
The Hospital

Thus advised, be apprised, a
Nota Bene Benidictus:

I go to Barber,
Not
I go to the barber.

Samuel Barber,
Adagio for String Quartet, Barber

If unfamiliar with this piece,
you will recall it well
if "Apocalypse Now" registers at all

If not stop immediately,
return to Go,
start here,

www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRMz8fKkG2g


be prepared to surrender your mortality,
listen and if effected,
if you find yourself on your knees
weeping, recalling the days of loss,
the early empires of hope,
the first kiss
of your firstborn
and unknowingly,
the last you gave
a loved one

if you have the courage to
be touched and impacted,
as I,
then welcome back to
right here where why...

I go to Barber
where violins soar me heavenwards,
where violins rip open sores long since scarred over,
I go to Barber
and float, eyes sky'd, as water
fills and departs my body simultaneously,
I go to Barber
to know that art can rise beyond,
that my weakened, wrecked human flesh, surpassable  
I go to Barber
to harmonize my disconcordia,
romantic lyricisize my waning days,
I go to Barber
to voluntary confess, admit my impoverishment,
to acknowledge that they, my days, yet are capable,
I go to Barber
to remember and to forget,
to mark and unmark time
I go to Barber
to be created and recreated,
to be destructed and despaired
I go to Barber
to acknowledge, as human, better is forever possible,
for of the god spark, yet unextinguished
I go to Barber
because there is no plane as fast as his slow adagio,
to transport me to the who I am and should yet be

The Realized thinks:

flesh and the blood demands
you spew your stuff in me,
deny me nothing
even as I am sleep full,
thy cravings grow fuller, not fewer
craven not I,
to demand my satisfaction in the
rendering of yours

for you are of my flesh eaten
for you are of my blood tasted
tho the universe placed a spatial divide,
an atmosphere tween our celestial bodies,
t'is a temporary condition,
you are but moon slivered,
man half if not just quartered,
less than whole,
when disjointed and not inside
the incontestable undivided me of us

the Other Seductress
easy teases with adagios and pinprick words,
offering lifelong immortality  -
words like fish in nets,
loaves of bread,
that will
fill souls with insight long after
the physic man's grave site location forgotten

your muse, she bemuses:

I can make
you come and
make you
go
multiples of multiples nightly,
ripping your word seeds from your body
the pleasure insane, your mind enflamed
even now in the air above this planet your earth,
I am your mile high and river deep,
you belong to me and spill the verbal deeds,
your art is mastery more than
any physical sweating
of blood and sweat or tears

the other laughs and counterclaims
that all that is promised is but a mere secondary
derivative of who you are when you
whisper excitedly I love you
and this belongs
to me and no other!
where is your immortality better scribed
when your issue is woven in the tissue
of two, for you are only one when realized
your self conception nightly reborn in me

it is I that feeds your eyes,
your vision delights in me and thereby
you give birth to the art that makes
Who You Are
who you are,
for all clear all unconfused when
your soul stiffens and a single truth
are your emboldened by, and that
truth is real and is my temple
where carnal is incarnate
and you reincarnated in every way

the long haired and ever young muse
in ire arises and finger pointing a j'accuse,
says I am your eternity, the self same
that you existence demands be satisfied

only I, only I,
can provide the living will
that will exclude the black and the worm of ignominy,
place your time shopped physicality
in a state of perfect preserved beauty,
I am the mother of thy art,
the if of thy futured existence proofed,
I, thy future and the
***** that makes you beg
more, more and gives the birthing to all
your multiplicities,
never questioning, receiving all,
the good, the bad, the psalm, the ditty, the prayer,
loving best the most
ordinary

*whom did he choose
whom does he choose,
whom will he choose,
the tenses answer all
and in all, lies the answer

The air is dark, the night is sad,
I lie sleepless and I groan.
Nobody cares when a man goes mad:
He is sorry, God is glad.
Shadow changes into bone.

Every shadow has a name;
When I think of mine I moan,
I hear rumors of such fame.
Not for pride, but only shame,
Shadow changes into bone.

When I blush I weep for joy,
And laughter drops from me like a stone:
The aging laughter of the boy
To see the ageless dead so coy.
Shadow changes into bone.

People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.

But we could be a family.
We could be a whole.
We could be together.
But no one could be cold.

If we could live on an island,
no hate,
no guns,
no war.
We'd look back and wonder,
what was it all for?

People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.

Gangs,
tempts,
nudes,
exempts.

We sit at desk,
eating or eaten.
we laughed at or laughing.
beating or bleedin'.

We know the truth, but call it cruel.
The cruel one is we, the blind fool.

People diein' on the streets
****** puddles at our feets.

Who shot the most guns?
Who then killed them all?
Who didn't mind a casualty?
Who could be responsible?

"Not me!" we cry,
"I'm a good soul."
But even if we declined,
can I be told where they go?

Trending Tags
#love #life
#sad  #pain
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#death #you
#sadness #heart
#hurt

this is my concession speech

having dabbled in the above black arts,
what needs saying, been said
and pun pardon,
not too alive,
like fav jeans,
pretty much worn to holey death,
put aside for a well needed rest

I am losing,
a real loss,
not candor, not inspiration,
but finding new ways to say new things,
well aware that Balanchine said
"there are only new combinations"

nature, I have dabbled,
but ready, easy to concede
this is Harlon's
River, his wilderness territory

he without peer,
unequaled in essaying on
this planet's essentials

as for the magic of daily grinding,
nothing could be finer,
than to see the family and the daily bread
made, fed, and put to bed,
than by the hands of
betterdays,
while
Pradip
makes me laugh,
with his wifely wisdom and jokes
and the humanity of his insights
and prods deeper,
make me a
weeper-profusely,
keeping us all
real and unplugged,
and
Bala's
journal's mysteries illuminate and spice
the places hidden,
by me, from myself

the
r
man who has got his shoes impudently railing,
cap'n never complains or whines,
but in precious few,
he rivets you to the earth,
fixing rooting you to a rooted place,
he intoxicates with
southern simple and pithy,
and makes the title poet,
a worthy one

could I go on naming names?

sure,
Mother
Maria
said, "chile, it ain't necessarily so,"
Kelly
adds beautiful,
and I agree with her rose
that grows even in her rugged soul's clime,
Simrik,
a child who writes
old wisdom from where acquired unknown,
and
Oliviaputs the
O
on my mouth smiling


anyway can't,
write so good no more (see),
finding
SJR's
voices now
in my head,
saying
careful boy,
you already wrote that
in a single consorting chorus voice

been authorized to dribble drivel,
but that don't cut for prideful fools
like yours true and truly,
tho looking at this,
what lies above,
would be doing
an inaccurate accurate,
calling this worthwhile,
feels like
a phony smile

so what to pursue?

silence not an option,
for the brain inferno'd
and the devils pitchfork
pinpricking with stabs of
visionary guilty judgements

so of what to write?

the answering simple uncomplexity,
Shauuna,
so here are the things I tell myself

forget the me in we and write
of thee, let that be my solitary
tag,
pray god don't make a hash of it,
write of new poets uncovered,
play thru ego and play hard to
recover thyself
by focusing on
uncovering
thee,
the new poets who
will lead the way,
bring this old dog~man,
way back from astray

"Grow up tall,
little kid,"
said grandpa Joe.
And so I did.

The watermelon grow tall too.
The sunflowers look to the sky,
keeping their chins up,
raised real high.

So maybe it's silly,
watching grass grow,
but if you never try,
how could you ever know?

So maybe it's crazy,
chanting for the rain,
but if it never comes,
how could I grow the grain?

I'd prefer to stare at clouds,
than sleep forever like a rock,
skidding by life.
Why, that would just ****!

So, if you ask me to leave this here place,
you better shove it,
before you wake up
in an unknown space,
******* with lace,
with a disfigured face,
completely full of mace,
and a strange case
of something poisonous.

For Fin's Mother (read the new poets)

I have not seen nor sipped
your adoration for Fin

no ma'am,
I have gotten drunk on it

the duality of motherhood,
essence caught and captured,
fathers too, but different
not lesser but concocted
in other ways

I go to battle for you,
I go to battle with you

it drives home the greatest truth
that took me years to fully appreciate

the best poems are not of nature
or love or sadness,
of fear and fates cursed,
tho all these here interspersed,
in this dominating, forgiving song,
pure ode to Fin, and every child

But something that is beyond complicated,
so multi colored, so beyond my elementary,
that I revert to something simple -
a summation of creation

God bless the child that's got his own

A mother and child union
that celebrates its reunion,
nay, it's unity,
in every kiss, touch and even,
even in every memory -
if that is all there is,
for the memories are just as real,
as if it but an instant passed