<•>
too oft, so oft, the absence, the imagining, that
no such comfort exists, that remorse may n'ere complete its course,
when a time for love is beyond beyond, is a bridge too far,
a notion so fraught, a vision unwrought, that we do not
recognize the why and the wherefore to step forward
even for for the next breath small, the in of inconsolability,
a deeper welling
so consequential there is no seeing a piercing light

then come to me, come to me then, when words can be
a symphony of violins, an orchestrating examination of
thy wounded chest, and caressing slow repetition
deep moaning, understanding waves upon the shores of my arms, my shoulder, my chest, any piece that can be yours,
a shoreline of relief, and listen with great care as the subtleties change, the pastoral comes in an ever ascending
crescendo of lifting, a stabbing, resurrecting but not fully repairing,
restoring but replacing sensation, for inconsolability is a disease
difficult to defeat, deserving of being memory-recalled,
but the ability, the cure, the rhyme of
hope and upward ***** of open eyes will penetrate surely as the potion of the music of my words lay you down and rise you up,
and that is enough, to begin the renewal,
the campaign of commencement, the possibility of clarity,
it is the journey,

the changeling we call the
destiny of our designation,
which is forever the next destination

9/17/17
7:20am

<•>

10,000
early morning muses
but sometimes late at night

he brings enough sun
to make 1000 poems look easy

he is the leaven to our loaves and
the tequila to our margaritas

positively
positive he works through
the dark of night
to bring us light
and for the full effect
of his efficacy
drink dark coffee
first

then
sufficiently caffeinated
awakened and ready
to read
put in the work
to discover the words
his encouraging words of life
and maybe you’ll burn to earn
a bonus of how to survive
so very little sleep

for me

personally
its more about
the lines between the lines
than those not spoken at all
or written at all
rather realized
                                  
if I were to
focus on others
half as much as he
then maybe my life
would be less miserably
my own

more jokes than yokes
and less wails to no avails
no non-satiated regrets
or cratered frustration
rather
peace in a storm of senility

he writes for us all
with a message of hope
like the god of HP he sees
we are radiating rays
positivity pointed
one and all and
all together at
the same time
toward heaven

he moves freely
amongst our home page
from whence did he come?

from the fourth dimension
he brings forth conjuration

his style is love
his style is hope
his style is empathy
his style is encouragement
his style is truly who he is

he is an early morning beacon
bewildering
he comes from the east
to rise across our browsers
seeking the infection of discovery
in each hissy fit writ
we write

Neck-deep in the business
of business,
only his head remains sleepless
in the dark of early mornings
to enlighten those
who sleep in, and spotlight
his peers who delight him.

His capital investment
is love and empathy;
he replenishes the funds spent
on an island of shelter,
the helter-skelter of Monday-Friday
a Distressway away.
North Country chair on the dock
over beckoning waves
sounding their Circe song,
drawing him to the bedrock
of peace
with himself and others.

Generous with his words
his head runneth over
and verses cascade down,
filling one from another
like a mountain of flutes
poured from a veritable jeroboam
of the muse's vintage.

Only love shows as he writes
doing the poetic hokey-pokey,
left foot in, left foot out.
He has turned my world around...
and that's what it's all about.

before~after / conception~completion (my coordinates)

<•>
for the caretakers of the next generation
<•>

comes the everyday, the mundane,
the profane, meeting at
the X,Y ordinates of
ordinary sweat and struggling tears

oh! this stuff of life,
makes me groan and wonder out load,
what is the purpose beyond the
existence of being a
constantly in need of maintenance,
sustenance machine

then I hear but do not see
the hallway pitter patter,
the thrumming of purposed
direction certain,
four little feet
who between them don't posses
even a decade yet

on their way to the
sunroom, now renamed,
the playroom,
expropriated by their toys of eminent domain,
on their way to the life between the
before~after / conception~completion
and this point,
of a single moment,
an invisible sound,
of this particular life,
this extraordinary ordinate,
this X,Y locus,
this precision perceived location of something real,
it is a realized abstraction,
the exact point,
where my **coordinates are
harmonized

9/2/17
5:11am
SI