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.

our love making is an  
amphetamine

coming together,
crack ******* this stunning pleasure

wilding dreams,
mescaline pretense too real

daily life,
the modulation high of a flotation device,
some call it cannabis-like

gentle drowsy,
a glass of tea and
she...

~~~

how I find her...

so many possibilities

neither fire nor spark

more beacon, aura...

mesmerizing inciting comforting suffocating

guiding mystifying arousing yet never

blinding

always binding...

hydra headed sun

this, the one poem I cannot

but fail...

the light in her hair

find her, find me,

a match, a deuce,

she be my selfie

see me in

the light of her hair

~

in sympathy, in honor, in horror
with those whose heads are shaved
against their free will

and to uncover
my nakedness before you,
as prisoner, as victim, as poet,
nothing must come between us
even this:

and yet,
the prickly stubble head resprouts
soon enough,
spring floral efforts
an annual reminder,
that even undisguised and exposed,
my bald palate plate,
is just another nether hiding place

~

~


not a fan of reality TV,
plenty of "unreal" episodes
of my own direction stored,
available for further review
in the storage units of
neuronic black and white prison brain cells

which is why I have free~will chosen
to enumerate my poem~videos;
for easy retreat retrieval resurrection
of the travelogue of mind own insurrections

a garage of mobility devices,
car, rollerblades, cross country skis plus,
a potpourri of escape methodologies
that by definition are all round trippers,
returned to their storage unit after use

and I count them Noah~like,
two by two, as they come on board,
and when they disembark for days of
rest and recreation

this one, #4,
is born
among headstones,
just anther memory storage unit
specialized,
flag decorated,
but different

This is a one-way,
no return,
unit

but
it can be viewed at anytime
by those who care to be users,
by speaking this:

Read to me poem number four,
on a day we celebrate,
about free men of every color and persuasion,
who are calling out to
open the door to storage unit four,
so we to can perform
our once-a-year
Tour of Duty
to the those who called,
and answered with limb and love,
for by their glory,
we are
free too

to remember in any way we choose



~

poetry composed in perfect silence
for which
there are no noise canceling headphones,
a coachable prevent defense,
protecting my inner ears from hearing
words forced to the surface,
loudly spoken, up floating
to the mind's enraging waters admixed
in the high definition
disquiet of imperfect silence

frag grenades, IED's detonate,
nicknames for the brain's multi-voices,
all argue raucous, unafraid of exposure,
over~shouting to be heard,
freely secure in the silent privacy
of mine owned
internecine slaughterhouse

but what I write down,
is mine to keep...

my home is an isle,
an atom of Earth
split by a broad freshwater river

land spits on Google earth
can be witnessed, seen plotting,
injecting  themselves into
my two~sided, belly~soft
unprotected riversides,
forming bays and coves,
hiding places for
crafty
human devices

my poor mind is my river,
mind the sailing craft called poetry,
a ketch to keep afloat,
while avoiding the backwash wakes
of larger enemy ships of state,
those who gladly drown me
for pleasure