soiled.
here there everywhere.
regular like.
verb and noun,
he, both.
soiled, soiled.
verb, noun.

*****.
a stupid~sounding word.
say ***** *****
***** three times fast.

what is a sound of *****?
intimate.

what is the color of *****?
every color that leaves you,
or even begins you,
soiled, sullied, tainted.
sweaty.

the intimate man did not intimate.

his stains were visible.
no need for polite,
needless the charade,
of legitimizing intimacy,
there for all to see.

they were no longer
intimate.
he did not know why,
after awhile,
he didn't care.

pretended intimacy,
which was a ***** thing,
a stainless steel cutlery
kind of *****.
a reflection visible only to the
eye of the beholder.

cutlery was never clean,
soiled, after but one use,
think.
in the mouth, with the hands.

such intimacy,
that, they still shared.
an easy pretense.

terror.
terror is intimate
and *****.

lived in terror.
not constant which implies periodic spaces.
no breaks.
the terror soiled him,
you did not need even be intimate with me.

sweaty,
see, smell it.
taste it,
even better!

though the terror was deeply intimate,
in the skin embedded,
I told ya,
easy visible.
easy to avoid the intimacy of
terror.

clean, silky clean intimates,
changed regular,
changed nothing.

intimacy was a Cain mark.
his private, public.
his public, privy.

more?
more.

shame.
shame is intimate.

there are so many kinds too.
the shame of soiled.
the shame of disrespect,
the shame behind closed doors.
the shame of public humiliation.
the shame, the stink, of failure.
the shame we share in ways
we wish not speak of.
the shame of bad grammar,
shame leaves you soiled, *****.
terrified.

shame on you for having read so far.

but you can boast
you knew me when,
you knew me
intimately,
bad and well.

you knew
that you did not know
anything about me,
even though,
we had been
at least
this one time,
intimate.

who is soiled now?

see http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=My+proofs

~~~~~~~~~~
Robert C Howard   Jul 23 2014

"I love this (the poem above). I was riveted to the page (screen) from the first line to the last. It reads like an existentialist credo. I couldn't help wondering if New York makes one an existentialist. Where else in the world can you live so alone in such a huge crowd"*
~~~~~~~~~~
For Robert
(Does NYC makes one an existentialist)

we live alone,
anywhere,
more and more,
not despite,
but because of the ease
that the total expanse
of the universe via
internet connectivity
today enables us to have an 
unrealized, unactualized,
but feels like an
NYC Billy Joel-undeniably-real
"nodding acquaintance"

this contradictory duality,
two parallel continuums of existence,
the flesh and the pixelated,
alone and together,
I have crossed over
in ways prior unimaginable

exist upon a single line
not just connecting
the real to the imagined
but conducting one to the other,
one existence, indistinguishable
border lines indistinct,
artifices superimposed by others

perhaps
NYC was model precursor
for our internet presumed-to-be-alive
model for the world today,
where I know not
my apartment neighbor's name,
yet carry his second child
in my arms,
when the fire alarm
summons us all to flee
to street safety...
and still only
"know" his child's first name,
and the father,
as apt. #16D

an act of existentialism?

so many tears and poems
have I shed
for one who has
lost living treasures,
impossible for me
now to meet and witness them

nonetheless,
heard the testimony,
of disembodied voices,
read the pain
upon the pages so real,
that pixels from screen
rise up to stab my
overwhelmed tear ducts,
voiding the warranty of my tablet

only I can see
the realized proofs,
wet upon the screen/page
crossing over the
humanity divide
that invisible runs
wirelessly between us
and our "devices"

this, an act of existentialism?

Yes, the universe,
unfathomable.
I cannot confirm you exist,
even as I pinch my self..
just to be sure of me,
further I testify,
no machine wrote
this vain attempt
to spoof~proof me human

flee towards good faith,
deny never, my responsibility,
greater than this body
to act, more than exist,
never to remain silent,
the best reason to write
is to reason out loud
your choices

if I struggle to ascertain,
what are the correct choices,
never certain,
but always questioning,

this, an action of existentialism?

none of this satisfies,
is there a human voice
that belongs to you,
and one that belongs to me
above and beyond these
alpha symbols you read,
is there an existence,
sparking, elemental,
a proof-positive Nat,
could conduct himself to
where you are?

think now that someday,
after you have finished
conducting
beauty and art,
extricating sound from
metal and wood,
via the
Belleville Philharmonic Orchestra,
a man will join at its completion
the long line of well wishers,
but your hand,
he will not shake

instead, he just might

"place gentle a finger  
on your lips across, and upon his,
if electrons you sense and taste,
and yours they embrace,
as naturally as if
they were waiting
just for you,
you can almost be sure,
don't ask his name, unnecessary,
for he will face you
with these words:

Thank you, Thank you!
you are my proof.."*

I exist and you now know me by my the
taste of my lips,
just as real as the taste of
your poetry, your music,
upon mine

~
touch~teach her eyelashes
with my index finger,
her toes ask why
they must, no choice,
curl,
my heart answers,
one, one, one

~~

The truths that sway
within my hands,
my body follows,
am music borne,
we each of us
sway differently,
because my hand traces,
my beloved's waist,
soon enough,
never soon enough,
we are
two, two, two

~~~

no no not religious,
but miracles observed
quite regular

two becomes one,
emerald melded,
a yellow blonde, how extraordinary,
his blue eyes, lately
gray flecked,
blue and yellow
combined make
emerald melded,
thus two becomes one,
one becomes
a recombinant color,
and new is now
three, three, three

three that rhymes
not with me,
or her,
but the three that rhymes
with me and thee
which makes
we,*
three, three, three, thee
for life

I am I am
just average,
just
just

if the world
was but average,
average
just

then the median
would be the message ,
the high and the low,
the uncommon just,
the common denominator

this circular world then,
just a plane
with no human stupid thickness,
neither halted or divided,
no above or below,
all of us
upon it
exactly the at the sane level,
possessing only
the wit of
width and depth
the promise of
of being just
just

just what a wonderful world this would be
11-1-14

still Sunday autumnal,
hymnal seasonal dark
at 700 am

the grand kids
going apple picking,
under parental supervision...

so the day looms small
with largely nothing,
nothing scheduled
according to Siri,
Goddess iPad
who loves all
in the same colorless voice
equally

poet quiet plays
with the pink plastic wristband,
his workplace awarded him
as a signature that
he was a
green donor
in a cause
that should not
even be anymore
a causal giving or taking,
but a once-upon-a-time,
just another busted,
another eradicated evil

rearranging the pillows
most quiet like,
the woman sleep slips,
exhausted from
prior eve's fierce exertion,
heroine worshipping
a fellow dancer artist extraordinaire
bidding her adieu
after three decades,
to standing adoration justified...

the yellow/whiteplaybill, ticket stubs,
just this once,
just this one,
will be preserved,
a bracelet
of achievement honorific terrific

(if his truth be revealed
this very last performance of 30 years
of creative perfection,
made this flat footed man
weep as well,
leading his mind
directly to composition)

thusly,
set the setting and the
variant,
nay,
the deviant lyrics
coming fast,
sleep sliding
from intangibles of
a waking mind
to pink resurrection,
as intangible electronic impulses
herein shared...

his recollecting,
deviant lyrics,
for they deviate
from the most tiring truth
that life is mostly drudge,
many defeats, few victories,
but they come with patience
and ****, hard work,
and a rainbow primal color
some call luck

so begins the deviant...

If pink is for breast cancer, what then...

*are the hues and tints of the
multiple myeloma invaders that
destroyed the soft marrow
of a poet's fathers bones,
a man so kind,
that all children who knew him,
honored him
walking slow behind his hearse,
so deserving of a longer life,
a far better, better end,
can you not see the tear grooves
his absence has gifted me as
his pink flesh colored-bracelet

what then,
are the shades,
or just the
color unique
of the slow dementia
that consumed
a woman, happenstance...his mother...
writer, art lover,
a verbal expressor,
a most in/appropriate disease,
robbing her of the
greatest human right
to articulate,
so I wear this poem
as her her gifted headband,
an inheritance
upon the poet's
pink proud forehead,
worn evermore

do I get a pin turned
ceremonially, right side up,
having made it this far?
will they take it away,
when I quit claim
this existence,
or if the poetry ceases...

and he wonders
when is the deviant course
the exact right one,
what color,
what instrument, what jewel
should he chose
for just opening his eyes,
on this,
his 23,378th day of existence

unable to sort
identify the days,
sign each one
with the color apropos,
how to mark rightly what matters,
how to signal that life tenuous,
is worth recording,
and giving quiet thanks
for the few colors and memories
and words,
the instrumental
symbols
that lyrically
variegate us each,
and let recall
our unique
deviations