this kids,
is how you do it

in the mid of the dark hours,
when two am is your new oldest friend
when sleep, your oldest old one,
left town on the midnight train,
taking your peace of mind

though she is far away
lost in dream-thoughts caught,
but only twelve inches close,
granting you an unasked permission,
you ok to stroke her hair,
undisturbing her, yet comforting yourself,
every voice in your temple'd altar praying,
one glorious chorus godly chant:

Oh Lord, what would I do without her?

and you stroke her hair and are saved.


2:51am

May 2014

a thirsty soul suspended over the
waters of this heartland like some kind of
symbolic sacrifice to the lesser demigods
she is wearing a hippy skirt and a fashionable hat
a swift sunrise gives her aspects of divinity

she tells me she came here to go shopping
but in the turbulent space between our hearts
something has changed
she tells me cloudy days make her sad
i tell her rain is a companion to no man
but the flowers love it just the same
she knows she loves it too

i pick up her thought and bounce it like a rubber ball
cause it keeps comin back to me'
just like that mysterious smile that
lingered on her face
long on my mind
i cant seem to shed the thought
that it all means something someplace
always somebody thirsty somewhere

the clock stopped at a quarter to four
and a shameful woman sits there fixing her face
with the wrenches and hammers of fashionable practice
seek to be the same as everybody else
someday your bound to get there
just to find yourself questioning why you
bothered once your there

her and the shameful woman put a
heated argument in the pocket of hunger
and giggling like schoolgirls walk away
to go find a mirror to get lost in
swap makeup and spit in some bathroom selfies
girls night out

i'm standing out here in the open air parking lot
watching the heartland of fiveashes sink slowly into the sea
walk on the puddles reflections of clouds
as they break apart to bring us a brand new day
rain is a companion to no man
but the flowers like it anyway

~~~

this is my opening night.
this is my final performance.

this is the very first poem
I have ever written.
this may be the last poem
I ever write.

I cannot be sure.

so utter these words before you write.
pray this commencement invocation,
each time, every time,
for who can know when it will be
the last curtain call,
for your first may also be your
finale.

you are the architect of an edifice,
that will be tested by time.
before you lay the cornerstone,
before you press the save button...

ask - is the best I can do?

this creation, forever etched upon your face,
will be reflected in the eyes of strangers,
are you satisfied with your appearance?

must answer this question.

is this the best I can do?

must answer this question.

whatever the answer,
you will know what needs doing, before,
before you do it.

This is my first and last poem.

1431
poems in ye old inbox,
genteel knocking,
whispering thru stolid front door
love me a little lot,
little lot, love me?

this is not mere work product,
collegial-laid upon me for gentle shared, for pre-review,
Nottingham Forest arrowed, bow shaped
pithy comments,

these are the holy-of-the-holies
attention-me-crystal-cries,
prayers, wry observations, nature collations,
me and thee adorations, heart rendering
screams of need,
these are the moments in your life
raw-roughened gifted or threaded smooth cursed,
but tendered unto my caring.

(an aside:
perhaps you understand better now
why woman-in-the-moon imagery,
red bowed, grapefruit tasting hearts,
all the lovelies, word shape shifts a/k/a
Imagery
language delights!
but time-using, confusingly confuses,
and has been erased from my own poetry frame)

gnawing doubt me routs,
god gave me humans,
and gave them speech,
to bring me
closer to him
thru them.

somewhere in those 1431 essays of labor,
dashed off, handcrafted, pithy or poor,
just might be the one
justification for my opening my eyes
this poetry someday Sunday sun-day.

put the cofe on
(saving letters, saving time,
deleting unnecessary e's
from my life till when I am dying on
all-on-that desperate
e-n-ee-dy day).

loaded my shotgun heart with
loves and likes,
yellow thunderbolt bullets firing,
and considered yourself
notified
I'm a-coming over,
shoes on the cofe table,
breaking taboo's
gonna read 1431
and when dining done,

gonna pay attention to my muse,
my woman, cause she is the
original e,
that provides the raw materials,
in ye old nat-box,
that lets me love ever one of them,
she is the e
in me

and me will be in you,
starting now.