~~~
dear god, what you demand of me
is inhuman,
which is likely why
you demand it with
gleeful and gorgeous
word-worthy delicacies

walk forward to the small rise
overlooking the water,
the new cloud variation of this day's
particuliar peculiar moment,
a watercolor painting deserving
of the posterity of oil and
yet another poem...

raise my arms
half beseeching,
half grasping,
you color me every day
with your revisionist perfection
every day, nay,
verily each minute,
a new canvas revealed,
each an indie movie shown
but once,
then never again,
as seen from my reclining platform of soil,
kneeling on the crest of my sheltered home's soul

am compulsed, compelled,
addicted to finding new words
praiseworthy of a unique finger painting,
recombinant blue earth, soon turning, light green water,
all ring fenced
in the white ermine of a cloak of sand,
all worshipping alongside me,
the newborn sky of every moment,
majesty so nonpareil
that it chokes my tongue to silence,
hard slams shut my
desperately, deficient dictionary
to praise proper

yet every pore eager to share,
fall upon my naked knees,
as supplicant and mendicant both
to the majesty of this
particular minute's DNA
tasked to me to regift so pathetically

a man destined to fail,
who in advance knowing
unequal to the task,
grandeur impeccable,
in words henpecked,
mortal kernels of awesome and wow,
just don't cut it,
for this late afternoon tapestry of a
summer day's coronation,
it deserves far far better than this

the now multi-blue shaded water
wears tinkling diamond dust,
perhaps a piece of the sun's tiara
has gentle fallen to earth through
the puffs of Mistress Skye's
white, shift-shaping unceasingly changing
etchings

knocked to my knees,
gasping at the greenery on the far shore,
color contrasts from across the ocean,
raising the bar even further,
enfeebled by a chronic-need,
an aching desire
imprisoned in the right brain's stubborn will
to create,
to write down in words,
the glory of this workmanship

begging impolitely,
please oh please keep on testing me
this way,
so that I might
cry aloud my
failure in words,
just once more,
gleefully and gorgeously

for what,
for this,
dear god,
that you demand of me,

I thank you...

~~~

Shelter Island,
this moment,
this Michelangelo ceiling,
this
August 10th,
and days, years, centuries,
yet to come,
et en passant,
2015

There was a mad person
We all gathered round
Quite the sensation
This strange passion
We found

No ties to morality
Could flag our attention
Those of a studied mind
Also suffered this condition

I've sat there next to killers
Staring at a thief
Pointing bloodstained fingers
Those **** solutions of the elite

Mob mentality
An anomaly that blinds nations
Social conditioning
Media manipulation

No worry
It happens to the best of us
But now it's time to look within
The world will always be in need
Of any love that we can send...

By Arcassin Burnham

I,
Use to be what everyone thought was a easy target,
It's so sad that they make fun of the wealth,
Say,
What they want , I just turn the other way and
Never look back,
I don't know what to do with myself,

So get your fingers out my ******* face,
I really hate violence,
But I have to put you back in your place,

I really changed alot for you

I,
I never meant hurt anyone I was living a horrid life,
There never was a plan for me,
Said,
What they said and it defeats the purpose when I didn't
live right,
But there wasn't a purpose for me,

And while I put you back in your place,
Bad luck on my side,
I just wanna get out of this human race,

I really changed alot for you.

Her bed was
fashioned
into a grave

Her blanket
was fabricated
out of dirt

And now her
sleep is calm
as a wave

She rests in a
place where she’ll
never be hurt

©

Time
continues                      turning
left                 ­           or                         right
but
eternity's
dead
ahead.

"I write because writing is the hardest work I’ve ever done. It is slow and painstaking and frustrating. I do not begin with an idea or a theme, and I don’t make outlines. I don’t have a plan for the ending or, usually, for the next page or the next line. Even short pieces might take shape over years. Everything that I have ever seen, done, or felt, had, shared, or lost, is in play, and*
the word of the day is, on most days, confusion

I no longer regret writing, or the life I have made along the way. I’ve learned too much and come too far, and I am in pursuit of an art form. It took a long time, and a lot of work, to get to this point, and I will never find an end to it. I have a problem that can keep me busy for the rest of my life. I have something to look forward to."

Donald Antrim^


~~~

though the waters are eerily placid,
the beard roughened wind
beneath a grey, solemn overcast,
predicts, foretells, enhances, over casts (ha!)
the mood of the moment

but it is not causal for
native, irregularly regular
is the word of the day,
on most days,
confusion

life is my tale of two cities,
for now, for me,
it is best and worst of times,
a cyclical, bent and dinged cylinder,
contains a shape shifting persona
seeking the solidity of a
single polarity

higher highs and lower lows,
the new normal, a new word,
still a slung slang concoction,
not yet unapproved by Merriam Webster

I drink up the external contradictions of
the stiff breeze buffeting the
serenity of the water's horizon
a perspective that always calms,
mirror mocking, so matching
the stiffened interior of
this buffeted flesh form

"I no longer regret writing,
or the life I have made along the way
I’ve learned too much and
come too far, and I am in pursuit
of an art form"

rewriting my own internal art form, daily,
incorporating the free, external, unasked for edits,
craft blending the backwards and the forward,
living the confusion that birthed
this poem,
this person,
this art form
~~~
July 18, 2015
Shelter Island, N.Y.