Dig deep poet;
You too reader;

Commandment One:

Both must obsess to possess,
Air the curvature of each line
shape with two hands, creasing and
no ceasing not till the air waves have filled
your flushed face with compressed comprehensions

You weep as you compose!
Good!
The well of tears where hid
the pool of emotions
in cavernous reservoirs
in the center of your
gravity,
needs a daily tapping,
a draining, a purification,
a quenching sweet and
raucous

where you dig, salted water will come

in the soiled, imperial but imperfect body/mind cappuccino,
there are swirls of treasures, sins and histrionics
that need discovery, expiation, expulsion,
when~then, object is surgically removed,
accept surging water will desoil,
and you can revel
in the revelation
of honest effort

Debate Commencement:

reveal, which, what and how
much, how much? how much?
(this reverbs)
what must be shared,
what must be reburied,
what must be refuted,
what must be reconstructed,
refurbished,
and what must be
demolished & deconstructed

ah, but as soul judge,
you hold yourself to a higher standard,
but in all of this but two constraints rule:

the quality of the recalled data,
the quantity of storage space delimitation

do not tease us with rivulets, nor bury
us under thunderous rushes of memories
spilling and cresting with a reek of abandon,
unless, you’re abandoning the memory en tout,
giving us your newly orphaned all innermost,
then, we must accept the product of your labor,
whether it be spoiled fruit or glorious
                            truth

Tuesday Apr 16
8:32AM
(the year of pollard, a/k/a 2024)

Whenever I think and have it strongly willed
I fly to the place where stands the play field
to run in the sun and burn in the heat
be again amongst faces that haven't changed a bit.

Catch they cry out the ball in the sky
coming down fast tho soared up high
staking my heart I roll on the green
both hands grabbing to smother the spin.

Who'll be in which team they call out loud
to be in the game is enough to make proud
blazes like lightning the foot with the ball
attack and defend, rise if you fall.

The bruised little frames are smeared with dust
have given their all though win isn't a must
so in this field they'll again come to play
the children of past and then another day.

When I'm stuck in a poem
Do I come out wounded or healed
Are my emptiness deeper or filled
Do I smile or feel a lump
Or in that wondrous bump
I jump in the joy of crying
And cry in the joy of knowing.

You have so much to tell
And upon you when I dwell
I'm changed and evolved
The exchanges lifting me up
Adding eyes to my eyes
You take me through sunset and sunrise.

If I'm eager to listen I learn
You give my life a new turn
Each poet is a unique book
Transforms me, my outlook
The young makes me grownup
The old makes me a child..

Such is the magic of poetry!

I'm grateful you took me in
Gave my life a new meaning
Gave your shoulders to cry
Offered your heart to dry.

Life has a short span
But I'll be here and hear you
As long as I can.

She led me by the hands
saying she would never leave me.

I was happy
for once believing
and loved her more.

The little I had in the purse
was hers
saved nothing willingly
sure as I was
one day
her love would save me.

When I fed enough winds
to her wings
she flew away to a pasture
better and greener.

She led me by the hands
and for once I believed
she wasn't Miss Leading.

The air was warm , the warmest day so far this year . The sky was bright and blue with a brisk wind that made everything bearable . It was short and an unremarkable tribute that lasted merely minutes . No songs , no tears , no shame , and all unbearably lame . They don't lower the caskets in the presence of the attendees anymore . That's really a loss as no one can toss any dirt into the grave . I'll go back in six months after the grass grows over and the footstone has been placed . Then I will leave the state and never return . When the circle has been broken then you make a square and put a headstone over it .

Dark night, dumb fright, furry foxes howl
Shy moon, hides soon, barn owls sharply call
In thickets, chirp crickets, mew nervous cats
Above meadows, paint shadows, low flying bats.

From soiled bones, rise the moans, of souls buried deep
Clothed white, in low skylight, you hear a spectre weep
The cottage light, now out of sight, the dark is denser still
You want to run, to safe someone, but frozen is freewill.

A few furlong, but seems so long, now turning back
Your heavy feet, can't do the feat, finding the right track
You can't run, you'll be outdone, and it's not a myth
When you move too far, break the bar, winds stop their breath.

The hood of dark, makes its mark, you're nomore seen
It's too late, to change the fate, not let the fear win
You forget fright, dive into night, it's turned a good game
A foxlike howl, a hooting owl, you're happily one of them.

When the sky was blue on a windless day
the net would stretch they itched to play
the racquets rose and fell in grace
smash and volley in quickened pace.

The three boys ran the hardest race
there was a girl they must impress
among them was the beauty queen
that stole the heart burned the skin.

The wintry noon passed pretty soon
on the blue birthed a crescent moon
a clap from the girl was reward enough
those times of life were fairytale stuff.

On the court in that playful bliss
each boy dreamed the girl was his
by the racing clock went past the days
the field fell empty they parted ways.

Hook him up to the machine.
Shock his brain into
mediocrity.
Death stalks him;
he is aware.
There is too much
flash in his eyes.
His brain needs a reboot;
he needs to forget,
like a goldfish, like
a monkey in the zoo.
Hook him up to the machine.
He is too sentimental.
Salmon swim in his blood;
he has a paisley heart,
and a tie-dye soul.
He can smell colors.
Hook him up to the machine.
He has Van Gogh eyes, and
a Bukowski gut; he walks
like he's lost in a maze;
hunchback sadness,
butcher knife nerves,
Hook him up to the machine.
He believes in love,
and has too much trust.
His vivid green memory
is a curse, we need to
crash it, **** the eternal spring.
Hook him up to
the machine.

The cats gather
en masse every
time I sit
down to write.
One by one, they
jump up on the
big maple desk,
and walk across the
keyboard.

Mojo swats at
Shadow's tail.
Bukowski nips at
my fingers as they
peck at the keys.
It's going to be
a long night.
The cats don't
understand poetry
or marketing.
Shadow hisses, and
jumps down.
Bukowski gets
bored, and bites at
the cords.
He gets overly
excited, and slips off
the back of the desk.
The wild look in
his eyes flash
centuries of power
and sadness.

I think of my feral
days on the streets,
stealing *****, and
sleeping under
bridges in
December.
I wrote my words on
the walls of the
abandoned
houses.
And now,
such beautiful
providence.
I quit drinking and
I live in a town with
a clear lake.  I catch
fish and eat them.
I've published three
books and I write my
poetry on a
computer that my
three cats view as
a playground.

Sometimes,
it all seems like a
furry dream.