Explosions & gunshots
(Simulated)
says an urgent text
from Notify NYC
on my cell,
well recv'd

reported to be
in Central Park,
my heart now skipping beats,
not comprehending the detensing
the declensing cleansing of...
                                                   s i m u l a t i o n

thinking only
my park, my park,
my country, my country,
a ****** battlefield!

a second glance, it's just
a heads up to keep my
head down,
from my bud, my boy,
Free *****
having a bit of fun
with us Ameddicans

Shakespeare in the Park presents:
Troilus and Cressida
which contains the use of smoke, haze,
cigarettes,
explosions, loud sounds,
blank gunshots & strobe effects.

cigarettes? cigarettes?  ***!

there is no smoking in the park,
not even for poets and
Playrights of renown,
no exceptions made
in this hard-nosed town

and that ladies and gents
is how
one distinguishes a
genuine New Yorkah

neither smoke nor haze,
explosions and gunshots,
an apple-cheeked citizenry faze
these hardy city folk,
from their pursuit of
the golden yolk,
the reward of the
dog-eat-dog yoke,
worn in the pursuit of
Life, Happiness & Liberte

don't even thinking about
smoking in our park,
or near my face,
then the loud noises
may be more than merely

stimulating

than blankly,

s i m u l a t i n g....

perhaps if you have time,
take a moment to read the
predecessor poem in the notes below first,
in order to better understand this one


<>

the love poetry curfew so lately announced
misshapen, growing without respite, by hate extensions distended,
poet's sanity uncomprehending, for yet another! sabbath desecration,
debating internally, how long should this cessation be extended,
for the pockmarking of earth's face with fresh bloodshed,
continues unashamedly, swiftly apace, these unholy days of dread,
all haggard his mind, hazard his eyes, harden his heart
no muse could sway

but shocking himself,
poet's mirror image stares and dares
with a finger-pointing,
his own specter's absurd challenge of

"and yet, now more than ever "

when children are killed like bowling pins,
there can be no satisfaction in revenge
cannot expiate evil deeds with avenge
measure for measure add-on sins,

and yet,

poet thinks quietly, repeatedly, self-surprisingly,

and yet,
love poetry, now more than ever

asking confusedly, almost ashamedly, out loudly, yet secretly,
how can this be, for there will be again, more painful awakenings,
is it the end of days, of greeting sunrise, with a love for love poetry?
with madness come and confusion everywhere rampant,
'tis a doubtful thought, the carnage having wrought
an insoluble dissolution and can love poetry be any solution?

in poet's Adirondack safe place where life tributes were
birthed, bred and trials borne, a right writ place for unmasking,
a private soul in equal parts of joy and shame,
love and pain, loss and gain,
here the weighing scales bore equal measures
of old bereft, and life uplifting visions of,
what will come, what will be, the unforeseen,
the hopeful yet of

"and yet"

a dotted line of whitecaps  beckons the poet to tread upon,
the glassine bay's waters that lay before him, go, walk on water,
a path to point where and whence the quaking waves
have gathered, calmly begging, Oh poet!
provide  assurance, explanation, comprehension,
querying him as if all sanity, has flightly, unsightly, fled
from the home shores of human sailors, gently asking poet,

"your fellow walking earth-beasts have all sensibility killed,
these times so human terrible, we waters, cannot understand"

poet's rebellious soul all so confused, asking and answering the
waters in his head, the waters that address his eyes,
seeking wisdom words from a place where logic
has been whittled and willed away,

and yet,

love poetry, now more than ever

now is the time when a love poem beyond merely necessary,
poet's eyes cast downward in shame, his thinking, hesitant and wary,
time for prayer, not madness distraction of a love poetry commentary

the waters dissatisfied at his confusion,
part as if by Moses's staff, majesticly powerful rise up,
confronting poet with the sweetest tasking
as if they were the downtrodden and the hurting, asking...

"we storm, drown and take, for such is nature's angry periodic way,
something beyond our control no matter what we say,
to another's dictate and momentum, we must bow and obey,
but you human, have choice, and we have none -
choose love poetry and let it comfort like no other"

and the poet sighed and wrote

this poem

this poem of love,
realized and conjectured,
with inserted verses of

"and yet,"

for though the poet possessed no well of well words
more than these few saddened and impoverished,
wearied, hard scrabbled ones

and yet,

gasping and grasping a potent notion, a portent of what if,
of a world with no love poetry,
a planet that could not ever-overcome hate, dooming itself,
for love poetry and all its cousins and associates,
the only method to confiscate
these grill blackened marking silent barbell weights
so let this be ,
this is a love poem,
and now,
this is the time,
to let

"and yet"

vindicate...


<>
6:20am
Saturday July 16, 2016
and yet