be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit

give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration

so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction

more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying

speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them

Inspiration pretty much finds you
even when you walk outside
to await the newspaper.*
A summer poem for a winter's day.
_


morning slow sleep walking,
reviewing my
evening sleep attire,
am I appropriately dressed,
to publicly receive
the somber weekend
Wall Street Journal?

which is hopefully waiting for
my rational embrace
where
the driveway meets the road.

as I walk,  I note the:

seamed stitching
on my shirt,
a series of
crisscrossed stitches,
pattern of acute angles
stitched in Thailand,
or perhaps Bangladesh,
and when machined,
did the seamstress dream that

with a single blink,
dream metamorphosis
stitches become
crisscrossed out entries
in the diary,
that I don't keep,

the notations naked and rendered,
I don't want you
to know about,
so scratched into oblivion
but in a orderly fashion

before spilling them freely
to any misfortunate innocent Joe,
nice enough to ask me,
how ya doing...

impatiently waiting on a country road
for recycled newsprint
impressed into the service of the
Canadian Pulp Navy

a paper mache arrival overdue
via a technology of delivery
some what quaint, a photo dated

impish young boy
upon bicycle,
with angel wings
who when he passes,
winks at me, seeing my impatience,
(his cheek delighting my cheeks!)
and with robust throw, salutes,
Mission Accomplished.

as I wait
the muses attack,
a formation of
no-see-ums insects bite
ruminations brain-inserted
war correspondents now embedded,
a fifth column
to betray me
and I wonder about:

newspaper printed words
stale seconds before
they are writ,
which makes think
about time,
about making plans,
to do lists,
about how fast my coffee cools,
about how slow my skin colors,

About the first time I put words
about doubt & certainty
on paper
summoning up the courage
to look foolish and
how great it felt,
at the time.

I fresh slap realize
these "poems"
are my diary,

so for the record,
let it be duly recorded,
the paperboy delivers to me
the New York Times,
in error,
a cosmic sign
that this is where this
deuce minute walk
into the mind of a gnat,
should randomly end,
and be
crisscrossed into
oblivion.

summer 2012

i love you, i love
you, i love you, i love you
these, i tell you not

I want to dig my fingers past the muscle
and pull out my heart
so that i don't have to bear
the arrhythmic beating.
the banging on the drums
that cuts at my veins
which stings my wrists
places that I've bled before
fresh wounds
pouring out sweet regret
alternative realities unexplored
I wish I could've loved you.