read a thousand love stories,
pause, rest awhile,
read ten thousand more,
and then deny equality.

If you ask for no more than you can give,
you ask for not enough

love is imbalance not an equation,
with a single solution

love has both constants and variable factors

so you write of tribulations and tributes
so you write of lamentations and liftings

you think you are on the same page
perhaps
but do we not all read at different paces?

one of you is solid, one is dotted and dashed
one of you is straight, one is bent, forever curving

when you think you are
in balance
in the same place
in syncopation

perhaps you are for a moment
a calculus of one point on a trajectory

and you say I can only ask for what I give
and am given
and no more,
you have miscalculated

this flux
flummoxed
when the old terrain is flayed flat
but thru the windshield you see the
plateau ends, the geography unknown,

when you see unknown
when you seek the unknown
when you give from places you did not know
you had to give from
when you kiss a hand
for  twenty minutes more than than the one minute you intended
when you give more than is asked
when you ask for more than you can you think you can give
the imbalance is the only concert
the imbalance is the the only constant

how do I know this?
what are my credentials?
you are not a teenage girl,
what matters of what you know of this matters?

I am who I am
a diversity of man and manner
I am past prime and in decline
but this I know
for having failed ten thousand poem times
you must ask for more than one can give

but that's not fair!

silly one, still wretched confused,
even after one hundred
thousand poem times

you must ask of
yourself
more than you can give
and ask no less
demand no less

a body in emotion is not a body in rest
when the imbalance is too great or insufficient
then you write a poem
look in the mirror that cannot lie
and move
on
or
move
off

and begin to ask
yourself
to whom may I give myself
more than is asked
then you have finally asked
the correct solution to the
unsolvable equation

spent years wandering halls
cutting the "i" from my sentences
forming words from vowels
and emotions from consonants
hard and solid, but nothing
without that internal structure

guess that describes me pretty well
all consonants, harsh "t" and definite "d"
and the ever-slippery "y", like me
never making up its mind

felt like a half-learned language
still do, really
like someone forgot to learn the proper nouns
forgot to turn the sentence around
grab the sound and speak it

there's an accent colouring my life
awkward and stuttering, unsure
and never fluent enough
to step in time with the music
for long enough to make it matter

words from vowels
and emotions from consonants
hard and solid, but nothing
without that internal structure

I. myself

I don't see any sense in books or talk therapy
for self help.
place em all in a box
place em with the throwaways on that
bottom shelf
and I ask myself whats it worth?
kneel to the darkness of the moon
and cry out in prayer to the earth.

where am I? Because I miss knowing that first person. So I pray and plea for an "I love you."
from me...

II. you

I don't see you often or talk to you much.
and if there is such thing as a loss of sense it would be touch.
because in many senses I have lost all five.
without you, I find it have to stay awake or stay alive.
it's survival of the weakest, a testament to how helpless I am-

To The Things I Have Lost.

They wanted to build
a counter culture
a version of
whatever
needed straight from
society

I shoulda' been born in the 60’s

cause I recycle more than
I create trash and like
an acid flashback,

I don’t even have a license
just bicycle from point A
to point B

I realize,

I shoulda' been born in the 60’s

they call me a hippie but
the fringe and leather
don’t make me

it’s that I practice what I
preach

I listen and I teach
I reach out to the old
faith
Gandhi and passive resistance
tryin' to make a difference
even if peace don’t
“exist” at least I don’t
reach out to war
as if it’s at my fingertips

and just like braidin’ hemp
the center splits-

I shoulda' been born in the 60’s

I listen to classic rock
and jam to an mp3
records and tape decks
old school

is where you'll find me

Jimi and Zeppelin and
The Doors make me jive
without that music
I don’t even think I’d be alive

it’s that drive-
like man, you’re either on the bus or
off the bus

but I hopped coast to
coast
cause in love we trust
west to east in a retreat,
just to find the true me.

I shoulda' been born in the 60’s

I wear flowers in my hair
and sat on stoops
in Haight

I grew my hair long
and I sport natural waves

I don’t wear makeup or
go to raves
I try and find my grass roots

while they sport white collar jobs
and dress up in their suits

I write poetry and rhymes
I paint and I draw the line where man-

I should have been born in the 60’s
but I’m 93’
and thats ok with me.
in this current day and year
of 2014

You say doctors will
make the best poets.
They will search your emotions
by the skin; cutting open to reveal
and revel
with surgical precison.
They will play with
heavy drugs and blades--
nothing shall hide beneath
the armors of bone and muscle.
They know the anatomy
of the heart too well.
They will find the things
you have hidden in your chest.

I say
doctors will never be poets.
They are too mechanical,
too fast with their edges
and ridges.
They cannot see the pain
as pain but merely as an anomaly.
That sadness is black bile
not melancholia.
They cannot sing to you
but only clammer in medical jargon.

Poets will use their imperfect words,
and perfect rhymes
to find the secrets of your rib cage
with ease.
They will find every flaw
of your broken body
and make it the best story
you've never heard.

Doctors,
they will put love to define as
a momentary rush of adrenaline,
an arrythmia for another human
caused due to an imbalance of the heart rhythm.

Poets will tell you
that love is the first jolt
of life for them.
They will say love is a state of euphoria
that takes those irregular rhythms to perfect symphonies.

Doctors say that
veins carry blood
devout of oxygen.
I say that they carry your broken emotions
to their feelings factory
to mend it within its beautiful catacombs.

All those doctors
will find and fix you
with perfect solutions.

And these poets
will do their best
to be your perfect solution.

When more isn't enough,
consider less.

Yes, freaky man on bus
Those are my *******, I'm sure
You must have seen a pair before?
I can tolerate a quick glance,
But is there any chance
You could take your stare elsewhere
For at least some of this journey?
I saw you pay in cash
At least you're getting your money's worth, at my expense.
I'd crotch-watch, pointedly,
Except there isn't much to see.