~for lovejunkie~

"a watermark is a faint design made in some paper
during manufacture, which is visible when held
against the light and typically identifies the maker"

<•>

But you knew that...

in each, and *every poem,
intentional stains faint revealed

Here,
a 2:03am watermark,
a time stamping of time, place,
a self-notification of "you were here,"
hid under the writing wrist,
or in a favorite verse,
(invisibly interspersed, blinking a winking,)
the very now of this poems
incanting, decanting formation,
by the neo natal baby warmers,
heating filaments of glowing incandescence

Perhaps this one, to be completed, come the sabbath,
when the eastern suns rising glow
over the North Fork must, demands it,
de jure, by natural law,
provoke and parole my soul
unto confession,
ordering a performance review of my
yellowed journalism revelations,
by the halo's fresh sunlight,
revealing all the watermarks
of the scrivener

These words, these toyed crumbs,
these human droppings, what is remaindered,
post ablutions, pre-morning prayers
the washing away of the mid-of-night
cappuccino-colored night frights

To new day light,
hold up my skin to any and all effervescent sources,
even the electronic red light, low resolution room dots,
all to see if still yet,
the coursing river run red beneath the
blue veined body's arterial roadmap,
exposing the rents, the cracks,
where, yes, Rebecca,
"the light gets in,"
fresh tracks, new watermarks

This then,
best viewing time of the
impermeable, impermanent, perpetual moving
below and above watermarked inscriptions,
eclipsing, barely just visible
above the eye lined brow,
etchings upon the forehead,
like my Cousin Cain,
standing out outstandingly,
imprimis:

ex libris (from the library of)
the eyes now reading these verses

One of you a-muse-ds,
gave me this title,
one of you used by me,
you gave me the inspiration,
you undid me into this doing
of my undoing

Connecting the unworthy audience,
that's me,
to the masters of my poor souls survival,
that's you, all,
into admitting, rinsing, repeating,
for have I not once before
affirmed
my scores, my marks,
way back in '13

The heretofore
of all my flaws,
you call them scars,
I call them
my prima facie
needled watermarks,
my poems

When once I wrote:

I am both,
and nothing but,
addict and dealer,
a ****** poet...
a ****** poet ******

<•>
8/17/17 1:49am ~ 9/4/17 5:56am
Manhattan Isle ~ North Fork L.I.

<•>

She is more
than what meets the eye,

She is a pending rainbow
that's hiding behind the clouds
in the sky.

She is a warm pocket
in a cold, deep ocean,

She is a virtual art form,
She is poetry in motion.

She is thunder and lightning
in a perfect blue horizon,

She is a delicate wildflower
growing in a plush green field,
one that is mesmerising.

She is an unexpected smile
on a lonely day,

She is instant relief
when things aren't going
your way.

She is a suprising hint of sweetness
when you are expecting
something sour,

She is a timeless friend,
She is an immortal flower.

She is more
than what meets the eye,

She is a breath of fresh mountain air, causing one to exhale a relieving sigh.

She is full of substance,
empathy, wisdom and kindness,

She contains infinite layers
of universes beneath her skin,
all of which are unrecognisable
to the naked eyes that suffer from "metaphorical" blindness.

By Lady R.F. (C)2017

There’s a feeling one gets
oftentimes evoked when people wear clothes too tight for their skin
or hotels by the ocean that have pools
and you wonder if the pool gets jealous
does its’ hands get clammy
does its’ mouth quiver with wondering
why it tastes so much like bleach
and if it feels as exposed as a schoolboy’s battered knees after Sunday mass  
and the feeling is reiterated once more
this cramp of the foot, this skipped heartbeat you become so fixated on
As you watch the old man on the crowded subway
pick at his scabs, the ones he got when he was 23 or 24
he can’t quite remember anymore but it’s hard to remember
such fine details when your clothes smell like ***** and your
children don’t visit anymore
so now he’ll sit on anything that moves as long as it propels him forward
as long as he doesn’t have to see the wrinkles
in between the birthday cakes and the heart medicine that
he’s supposed to take but what’s a chemical to a heart
and what’s a heart to an electrical socket someone with
a medical degree keeps poking at  
so this feeling starts getting a name, starts calling cabs and giving them fake addresses
starts moving in and calling itself mister Al on week days and Sister Wendy on the rest
and now the soap stops cleaning and your hands becoming red with scrubbing
some internal message you were supposed to detonate as soon
As you graduated college but the degree was burned in a fire
and all the things you were taught were sold at half price in local yard sales
and so you stop eating dessert for dinner and stop living and
start recollecting, start rewinding the past, time traveling back to a
time when the sun would hit your eyes as you walked crooked streets
the pavement cracking like frost of a glacier in mid September under your feet
and as your voice gets low you smell the scent of lilac flowers in a basket
carried by a woman in threads of agave and cotton, colorful shawls draped
Across her bare arms, wearing rosaries in both her hands chanting words
that you could almost know but you don’t, asking if you’ll buy the flowers
made by the tears of god, crafted by the arthritic hands of mother Mary and
Don’t you just love the virginal white of martyrdom
but there are stones being thrown across the street by rude boys in t-shirts
long enough to be dresses, jeweled numbers on their backs like football players
or prison inmates and the distinction is not as clear
as they ricochet off the tough brown skin of the woman
you begin seeing embers of scarlet and it’s beautiful in the way
the slaughter of a thousand roses by the hands of scissors is beautiful
but the taste of disgust is not far behind,
and you wish the lilacs were a shield of ivory armor
And you wish the boys were boys and not men
there’s a feeling one gets
and I’m afraid you’ll always feel the feeling
like the peel of a peach