Woke up with children in my mind, wrote two new,
then stumbled on this...
I give this poem to an orchestra leader I know, who understands better than most, that conducting and being surrounded by many, is oft the loneliest task and who knows best the meaning of
"finally, all synchronized in time and space, on a single continuum, within, without and through."

Thanksgiving Day 2011

Through
the picture window,
watching
restless generations,
multitudinous compilations,
children's backyard runnings,
all about, hide n' seek,
uncoordinated coordination,
well calculated randomness,
perfection in its
discombobulation

Within
my bloodstream,
chemical changes,
blow thru my veins,
direction home,
like leaves,
on a November weekend,
windswept from a thousand directions,
endless energy, noise, and commotion,
results of internal tremblings,
the side effects of satisfactions,
in ways I could only dream of...

Without
knowing, nonetheless,
the knowledge rests within,
footage of future days of
quietude and satisfaction,
recalling earlier simplicities,
records recorded somehow
before it happens,
records recorded now and then,
but only for
future consumption.

Harmonies of times,
well deserved,
to be future spent,
now, finally, all synchronized
in time and space,
on a single continuum,
within, without and through.

They say that Einstein erred,
time cannot outrace gravity,
therefore it cannot be
that I have seen the future.
Yet, I know with
unerring certainty,
these truths
posses the gravity,
that thanks,
I have and
will again,
gave,
and will give

The remainders,
the children,
the net of our gains and losses,
within them,
        my thanks lives,
without them,
        I am lessened,
through them,
        I am whole,

I sorta sleep in my underwear.

Another lie.

I sleep in the ****,
when I have the energy
to remove the day's toil off of my
skin, which is not so easy.

No special creme, cleanser.
too tired to tirade, living life,
fall in to bed worn,
shoes et. al., the ones that need soles.
you already knew that.

wake up in the dark.
start to disrobe,
and soon enough, *******,
another poem done.

the poem of course is me ****,
so you get to see what
is under what I wear.

So I sorta sleep in my under-what-I-wear,
is not exactly a lie,
just me dissembling^
and/or disassembling
another day in this life.

I spent today reeling you in.
                     threads of your silk love
fluttered through the air  
                     like broken, escaped spider webs

                                                  how can you be at once everywhere and nowhere?
                                                        ­            on an old voyage moment
                                                        yo­u rebuked me:
            “You’re looking with the wrong eyes,
my dear”
              But my eyes don’t dart differently.

                            I sit with the innumerable knots of your
                                                                ­         miscellaneous elations.
                                                       I sift for the ends to start
                                    unraveling, adapting
                         but maybe you are just one continuous
Idea

             as lo
ng as we’
     re
tan
         gled,

                              Bind
                the­ fibers of my physical being
                              catch
                   ­       the flapping petals
                                         falling from my
          composed mannerisms

                      stitch
                 your whimsy
                                          into each atom
                                     of my salient figure-

fuse your feathered fabric
into my most raw elements.

                               My life is a matted disarray
                                  of your truest notions-

A yarn Mount choreographed from
the diminutive strands
of your blinking captured freedom

                                    I spent today reeling you in-

So- entwine me, Love,
net me forever, Sweet,
my dearest jumble to disentangle

He is my least favorite vegetable.
                                                   
                       No amount or level of preparation makes him taste better:
Boiling-
brings out his bulbous, insipid ego
the texture of his flamboyant ignorance.

when I timorously sip him in soups or broths,
his oozing insidious misogyny
contaminates my blissful dining, contorts any ingredients still pure.

I fry him, striving to remove the  
excess of impertinence which
permeates the oxygen I feebly inhale.
but he evades my maneuvers:
usurps bliss and violates all semblance of tranquility

I cannot prevail
against the throb of his assaulting narcissism

I must instead attempt
to comment
(arduously, fraudulently)
on the delicate iridescence of his silkily mucoused membranes
and admire deftly
his indefatigable ventures to pervade my
every.
serenity.

insouciant
— adjective

free from concern, worry, or anxiety; carefree; nonchalant.

Can barely pronounce it,
Vaguely recall it.

When I was twelve,
Lived by the Atlantic Ocean,
On my red cycled steed,
Disappeared, roaming for days.
My parents were not insouciant,
Tho I surely was, by definition.

Perhaps
Someday,
Will feel that way again,
Recognizing the carelessness of living life
Without regrets, worries, all kinds of
bills to pay,
Re-collecting payments made
From my freedom, my early days.

But I wonder to you, H.
If my life was indeed insouciant,
Would my poetry be any good?

If you should ever see my face,
Be curious enough to
Venn diagram it with all
The intersecting particles of this
Leaning, listing world.

Should you happen to notice,
It also appears on the list of the
FBI's Most Wanted,
A kindness requested:

A twenty four hour
Head start.

Worth at least that, no?

Dear Best friend.
                       I cried today.
Not because you left me dancing in
                another hemisphere.
Not because I receive one paragraph
       of sparse-nothing information
                   from you a week.

Nay-

I cried because
you are the kind of best friend
who wafts beside me
                                                                            (like that time we led each other with our eyes
                                                                                                                             closed through the
                                                                                        crowded theme park-full of nonchalant
                                                                                                                        cotton-candy-people)
in all my sly, lively moments
and exerts more merry influence upon my wanderings
than all the other

7 billions souls on this               [The Foolish Blue Globe]
put together.

I live in a world
            full of people with your name
but not the way you articulate the consonants
            or the way your eyes dare
listeners to
            contradict your intricate intonation.

                      correction

I live in a world
           full of people who think they can have your name
without having your soul.

I love you like the first lemon I tasted
you stormed into my life
                             (like the sour in my face.)

        you changed the expressions I choose to wear too…
but instead of making the grimace-squeeze face of
                            acidic lemon

                                              I tend to be too busy smiling.

Wrong question.
Wrong footed.

Let's review:

With a woman,
Created  life,
Can, did, and
done.

This new life,
Automatically a replication,
In my own image,
Subject to my modification.

Control my death.
Choice is mine if I
So choose.

The body instrument,
If tended well,
Will run as long as
It can, longer than
Most can imagine.
All machines wear out.

Can ****,
If so choose.
Can save,
Some, not all,
If I so choose.

Do choose.

With practice,
Will get better.

Let's review:
The power of
life and death
Is mine.

My choices coded,
By a moral standard,
Designed, modified and
Chosen to obey.

There are elements
Can't control.
Not a fool.

Let's review:
Man can make it rain.
Man can blot out the sun,
If he were so foolish to do.

Can fly.
Go under water
For extended periods,
Live to tell.

Someday,
Will ontrol most
Of the elements.
Not all, but many, better.
Those that can't dominate,
Will forecast,
Move aside the wrecking power of
Tsunami, volcano, tidal wave,
Diminishing their power.

Can go to other planets,
In my solar system.
Someday, will visit
The Milky Way,
Cause that would be cool.

On and on and on,
Could go, but let me
Summarize with a question...
That points you on the direction.

Does god believe in me?

The answer of course provided
poetically,
But let us to the conclusion come
Holding hands friend,
Yes, to both.