~for Lori,
they await you~
<>
be:
of two minds, a peculiarly human
distressing and wonderful
characteristic s~trait,

straightforward and regular,
as hu-man was intended,
or
be:
truly crackling delighting
twisty like a river bend,
with a flood plain,
defying nature illogically,
here today,
and new direction on-the-morrow,

the creativity of time
making its own best laid plans
that either wash over you,
or wash you away

what you may not be aware,
as I too, was overly innocent,
that the sidewalk cracks are mini-seas,
full of overheard words, true tales,
a depository of the stories,
of tithes of titles
beckoning, becoming fables,
left by millions of
endless passer-byes
and passer~overs,
a repository of human insights
held inside them cracks,
under cover of
thin brown line
of ***** grime, soil and ****
& history

for this ugly surficial,
environmentally rocky but semi~
solid environ, is perfection personified to
retain. restore all the power memories & glories
of those who tread upon them
in flip flops and snow boots,
spilling the detritus that is all of us,
thus,

a gold mine of poems for  asking,
a vein of jewels for simple taking,
no secret word, no library card, just a
few taps of the shoe’s soul, will kick up
the dust of disorderly unused words,
to be easily inhaled, or cab~hailed, and then
by gum, yous for the making

so walk with me, eyes open, nostrils wide,
ears keen, tongue open to lick up the dust,
impress them upon you skin,
do so!
so they be
not forgot,
nor slip away to a new street line,
and be lost again until someone else
comes along to use
what was rightfully yours
for a moment of seconds

bring your sheaf of blank memory sheets,
scribble madly for the volumes are supersized, stupendous, and you
will never lack,
wander for hope,
nor
wonder too long
for the whereabouts of that next poem,
for lives-it, beneath you,
awaiting and aging,
pry it out by by fingernails
if too well hid,
but trust an old fool,
thee best me-kind there be,

the grimy grinning grungy pallor
is the best camouflage extant,
the dust is gold, a miner’s delight,
speckles of glassine letters
sapphired and rubied,
all yours, when you fall to your knees,
and finally witness, finally see
wide eyed
a new flood plain
of satisfied tears pooling,
*****, hard earned,
falling, forming
from your own
flood plane

billions of imperceptible incisions on the skin of my fingers
from the wires environing my tired skull
from the papers which taper into scribbled drivel

hold it tighter, clench the wire,
picture ichor pouring downward
clutch my senses, make pretenses
dig in my nails, impale my failings

what’s the point?
what’s the point
what’s the point what’s the point
what’s the point the point the point
the point is digging in to my fingertips
a temptress in an abyss, and i odysseuss
the wire is a siren who sings of ichor and gore
and my brain contains only wax
and my heart is tied to the mast

you owe me
and yourself

to repost e v e r y poem
that gobsmacks, renders you prostate,
that brings forth the whimsical smile
and/or a guffaw and a  laugh-out-loud,
but especially those that:

invoke/provoke/ evoke an involuntary s i g h,

that make you wince in recognition
(and breaks you)

but most of all those that make you utter
all of the above
and
make you think

****!  how  I  wish  I
had written that…


which is why I repost (costless)and bring forward (costly) so many
for the pleasure and pain you provide…

nml