~~~
(Inspired by Miss Ohio,
I read your work)
~~~

"This time, but once"
one of my oldest companions,
surely,
my most favorite dessert
and lie
of greatest acquaintance

who, in posses of the
electronic stimulus card key,
mistress unlocker,
privateer explorer,
of the Venetian Grand Canal passage
of my ear to brain.
temptress of words-whispered,
always inviting me
straight to the dark places
of just us girls

this time, but once,
no one will care,
no one will know,
fumble, hurry, do it
quick now, quick here

just this once,
just this morning,
but not tomorrow,
just this night,
one cocktail can't hurt,
a few strokings,
a drag of desire,
a hit of heat,
glide path, short and pathetic,
this momentary shame,
for the quid pro quo,
of the satisfaction gained
from lying to one's self...

so I lay with a lie
to startle start the day,
come night time sleep,
speak of a sequential array of
pleasurable fantasies,
lies repeated repeatedly,
do not become truths

thus,
a bookended graduation
two endings,
a matched pair
a commencement to start,
a commencement to finish

and the truths in your poetry
in between,
*but just this once

for Catherine,
who did not request this,
whose soul prospers, more than survives,
but forced me nonetheless,
this poem~quest to address

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
do not come,
turn back now,
disjoin from a
voyager to the harshest disheartening,
to the crux,
where essence oils aflame
burn smoke, stymied from being
expulsed, expelled,
through organs that have
no natural orificial cavities
allowing escape

the hell of poetry

no, paeans,
yes, pain swirls,
Greek laurel wrapped headbands
squeezing temples, give no relief,
confusion sewn together,
a mixology cocktail
of the ends and the means,
of giving up yourself
in, and to,
poetry

no tribute,
but only that which,
we must pay,
and pay on
in the coin of the realm,
which expires valueless
at the end of the day,
so you awake,
broke
in every way possible for a human to be
broke

busted bird, wing broke bent,
judiciously waiting for
a capricious time to heal thyself,
but time never healed anything,
where grievous grief knows no horizon,
from the absence of some sounds, voices,
that can never be heard again

toil (a/k/a light),
trouble (a/k/a diamonds)
double that,
then raise it again to the power
of anvil crushed chest compressions
preventing basic breathing

all this to get to
the crux,
that tormenting, familiar place,
where difficulty lives on a
one way street
with a "dead end" sign at the beginning,
a self-mocking "no outlet" at the end

this crux,
inflection point,
****** peak imploding,
*** of brains boiling over,
more crucible,
where molten metal
reformulates into words

why do you want to go there?

the heat of me cannot be measured by
any mortal thermometer,
the pressure of blood cannot be calculated,
the stained consciousness maculated
by past and future sadness

of death, no fear,
writing poetry from the places
where it's well down drawn.
terrifying,
like waking up

this is where one goes,
when your pick up the gun of pen,
in vainglorious hopes of venting
the bullets of gases that seek
an unplanned escape
from a place you have no business
visiting for business,
certainly not,
pleasure

this is here, this right here,
where existence is identified,
where the sun only burns,
word life selection, a humming curse,
and the voracious need to write
boils in your blood,
chokes the throat
with your own two hands


for their is no perfection in poetry,
there is only a voyage to the crux,
the hell of poetry...
where Faustus and I
rue the day we deemed ourselves
more knowledgable than the gods,
selling our souls
for fleeting, human skills


**why do you want to go there?

you want what I cannot create.

you want what you want,
you utter incantations,
to harness my magic
to no avail.

long time lesson learned,
so obvious,
so human,
for trying to change
what is
given us,
our source material, life defined,
limiting us to what is visible.

creating is a coexistence warring,
but it is a closed loop,
no external input receivables acquirable,
other than thru the filters of mine own
misperceiving imperfections

you demand, insist, that I
create as in the past but

I cannot.

my needs complected, complex,
created incomplete,
you want the simplicity of raw,
scratch me for pain, surge waves
of love from tempest hurricanes

you crave the sad and the sadder badder,
I crave the exhilaration of watching a
new day's light earth birthed,
the small ironies appeal,
tiny is better than
the major battles, remembrance
of  past morning glories

you want what I cannot create.

strange.

I want what I create.