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as i sit staring at the trees flit by, i leave
my head, no longer living in my sunken
sockets, descending deep down into the depths of my womb, stretching into my twitching ****.

every rumbly tumble of the ten ton
vehicle vrooming down the turnpike
outlines the echos of his hands.

the echos of them in the negative space between
my thighs that exists only in my mind as they
intimately embrace each other against the bus seat.
the echos of them still filling me making me feel
fantastically full and yet frighteningly empty.

i feel firmly on the fence between ****** and
arousal, every pothole filling my holes and
lurching me
towards ******, every
soft vibrational hum of
against my asscheeks, pulling me back to my pleasurable perch.

i have reduced myself to merely a
wiggly wash of titillation, teetering in between
temptation and utter satisfaction.

i close my lids slightly and breathe in the
absence of his presence,
as if ive been staring at a dazzling light too long left only
with its dark twin in its vacancy.

the separation stretches speeding down highways, so i must
wet and wistful, to be bathed and
blinded by the brightness once again.
i need you to go
so that i may miss you
auto pilot kisses
caresses out of habit

if only i could open my lips and close my legs
speak and not moan
words not whimpers

need to be alone, need to think, need to feel
can i still feel

so much to say but nothing
if my lips are on yours
if my throat is around your ****

fill the hole in my head
the hole of my ****
the hole that is my heart

rub away at my **** and through my self-imposed numbness

**** my words and my thoughts  
down my throat until they disappear

but they wont

will i
He Pa'amon Nov 2019
I have nowhere to go
nothing to do
no one to be.


Splayed out, face to the sky
let the ground consume me
let me melt into the floor and float
down a river of onyx oblivion.


Hovering between inhalation and exhalation
let silence tattoo itself onto the back
of my lids
and stillness weave itself amongst my ribs.

Soham- I am that.
He Pa'amon Nov 2019
I’m bald as a rock, with a million arms
and a million words on my tongue.
The night’s darkness keeps me warm
as I take world into my lungs.

Stars make me sneeze
and tickle the inside of my nose
as I sway in the breeze
and wear the twilight as my clothes.

My tree is made of clouds
and its trunk is made of me.
I stand alone in a crowd,
rooted in thoughts and inquiries.
He Pa'amon Oct 2019
i have stars on my knuckles,
a spiral on my head

an amorphous blob,
feathers and pounds i have both gained and shed

tangles in my underwear and on my toes,
stripes on my *******, ***, and thighs

a dent in my chest,
and dust in my eyes

my bellybutton is a blackhole

i am a work of art,
an unfinished collage
of heart, body, mind,
and no soul
  Jun 2019 He Pa'amon
Nat Lipstadt

“To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.”  Henri Bergson

well in that case,
I’m either the most immature teen here,
or Rip Van Winkle

the re-creation process is six, nearly seven,
decades long (you thot days, ha, no way),
can’t recall the last name
I called myself

the delving, the researching, the forgetting,
the fifty first dates of no short term memory,
the checkdown, throwback Thursday of
did I write that?

no recollect, the pretense of
prehensile strength to touch
you and me simultaneously
might, could be true,
if you claim I authored it,
ok with me and all that

life taught me this,
the one who oft  hangs around
very young kids
learns a lot,
and soon recognizes

maturity indeed endless
but not senseless
just a poem-of-the-day process


every sense says the minute difference
between this morning and this approaching midnight,
an opportunity to grow up, stand straighter, uprighter,
write down my failures one more time,
cause that is the sterling hallmark impressed upon
thyself, ourselves,
that is genuine maturity,
the courageous wisdom to start all over again

the clock has transgressed,
moving past
the 12:00am digits,
which for cause
makes me giddy,
it’s permission to write a new one,
of course,
maturely thinking I still got one within,
a newbie, an aged day-old brand new baby,
a poem,
of course

god bless, I’m all grown n’ growled up,
with wisdom to know I don’t got nada,
but own the immature youthful courage of maturity,
to keep on trying, endlessly,
being your obedient-servant

p.s. this is kind of love poem of thanksgivings,
a love poem with no misgivings,
a thank you for the fragments of sharing -
hold so dear,
the best reason to mature,
the best reason to change,
the best reason to write
right now, here comes the mojo
my newest oldest friend,
reminding for the last and first time

that I’m all growed,
using the bigliest words I’ve known
to say baby, hey baby,
good night good morning
write us a poem,
a thank you note,
from one who blessedly forgets his name,
day in and year out

For that guy,
you, that ancient kid,
That poet-in-retrograde

so rewrite the title, a refresh,
are you immature enough to write?


~for the crew~
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