Al is dead.
Saturday early ringtones
a warning signal,
an unexpected call,
harbinger of no good at all
Al has passed,
felled in the lobby
of a movie theater,
by sudden heart attack
did we want to come, he asked,
but I demurred
on our behalf,
having been out
every night this week
so now I have to think about that...
shoulda woulda coulda
but didn't
she sobs on my neck.
he was a good friend
to my woman,
for many years,
years of loss and discomfort
she pauses her weeping,
to punch me in the arm,
as is her wont,
warning me to lose that weight,
or else she'll **** me
more likely
says I,
to die
from repeated blows
to the right arm,
than from
my accumulated excesses,
thinking all the while,
I'm a **** good liar
so now she laughs and sobs
intermittently which is why
someone invented the word
blubbering
tears of diminishment,
a lessening in the world,
part of me expunged twice,
now that Al is gone,
in part predicted,
in part foretold
you didn't know Al?
Oh yes you did!
"Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me."
4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=With+each+passing+poem
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=With+each+passing+poemWith each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.
Al,
You ask me when the words come:
With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,
Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.
Al, you ask me from where do the words come:
Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,
The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.
The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.
The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.
The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here, poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
_________________________________
4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012
Greenport Harbor, N.Y.