My novel has never ceased on writing itself but
*I wonder why it left some pages that should have been filled years ago.

No one awakes knowing
That today is
The day
That you're going to die.

Death doesn't
Call to confirm your appointment
(No calls either
Human or computerized)
You can't cancel
Or change
Your mind when you arrive.
It doesn't matter if you
Have insurance
Or
Promise to pay on time.
It won't ask you to
To sign an ROI.
Death doesn't reschedule.


Death accepts no excuses
It won't wait until
It's a more convenient time
Or have you check
Your schedule
Your bank account
Your ethnicity
Your marital status.
Death won't take
Your past history.

It won't give you a coupon
Bill your mom
Take a bribe
Or
Give you a referral to
To another specialist
On his time
Or for that matter his dime.

Death has no bedside manner
Won't prescribe you drugs
Doesn't care what your
Father does.

Death won't even
Look you in the eye
Check your side
Listen to your complaints
Or successes
Show compassion
Or
Give you
An empathetic understanding sigh.

Death takes no names
And takes no answers
Death has no samples
Studies
Or sage advice.

However death is like
Waiting for the dentist
Your turn is going
To come.

Sleep is called
Mini-deaths,
All of this
No wonder I can't sleep

And by the way
Death doesn't schedule
Follow up appointments...

~~~
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

As the downpour continues—
So as my tears.
Your last words still linger;
"...always face your fears".

Head throbs, I want results, I need results, today,
No dice, I want a gun, persuasion, for results, now,
Idiots all around, is it me or is it them, I wonder,
I see them dead, better than Red I think, but,
Why so hard I ask, always the same, pain again,
A voice inside says, that is why, I still get paid
Big bucks, to take this strain, and not complain,
I need a cat, to kick, humane, because it seems,
It will survive with nine lives, and I have only one.