an incredible incite (the ruthless volatility of words)

~for L.B.~

the only place of solitaire solitude in the city accompanies me
like a faithful country dog that doesn’t know better to be afraid,
of moving cars, sleepless night terrors and unscripted “dreams”

where image and words say come “follow me” with ruthlessness and no cloying come hither looks and
see and take and recall with perfect midnight blue sky clarity for

the incredible incite of credible insight

surfacing unexpectedly in a intemperate pool of slushy snow,
that will be an ice storm of painful confrontations with naked
inner truths standing outside in sunny sub zero playground

there is great risk.  volatility gone wild. when the speed
governor is removed and you live at 100 mph on local streets,
when the merest slight of an accidental incidental touch
transforms into an incite incident and hell is the threat
that you will not die today and your own words will ruthless
pull from the nerve places where sensible and sensual cannot
coexist and this write this script is a poetical insight inside, an
incredible incite and what your spilling is spaghetti sauce blood
when you left your brain on broil, instead of the faking daily of
slow simmering ineffectual intellectual words that just don’t
cut the crap. your addiction complete, you cannot live without
the incredible incite, the ruthless volatility of words,
otherwise why rough write what you see
in the blind
beyond the blind


1/6/18 5:03am

one more for the great lakes that divide and unite her

all on that day:

1. will be a treaty writ tween me and
the cosmos,
they permit me worship them,
even to join them as another
meaningless gleaming,
if i cease to write -
having used
every word
in my kindness kitbag possess -
twice

2. my trials will be certified as ended,
for the grifting/gifting
ability of a man to
give and dream, to fool himself,
man's obligatory gift, gone
the will to believe in
anticipation

3. a full on peace,
no mere armistice pretense
till the no more next one is the norm
for to the sun, submission,
uttering
a confession
already writ

A generation goes, and a generation comes,
but the earth remains forever.

The sun rises, and the sun goes down,
and hastens to the place where it rises.

The wind blows to the south
and goes around to the north;
around and around goes the wind,
and on its circuits the wind returns.

All streams run to the sea,
but the sea is not full;
to the place where the streams flow,
there they flow again.

All things are full of weariness;
a man cannot utter it;
the eye is not satisfied with seeing,
nor the ear filled with hearing.

What has been is what will be,
and what has been done is what will be done,
and there is nothing new under the sun.

Is there a thing of which it is said,
“See, this is new”?
It has been already
in the ages before us.

There is no remembrance of former things,
nor will there be any remembrance
of later things yet to be among those who come after.*

Ecclesiastes  1:4-11

a pale pink vin rosé,
just a hint of a blushing pastel,
Domaine Ott, a French emigre,
an early afternoon chilled thriller,
the summer drink of the choix,
for us, symbol of summer

so cold
stippled beads of moisture
form on the outside,
your thumbprint
indents this exterior landscape,
marking territory as if you were
a first time explorer,
leaving behind your personal flag
to make sure everybody knows,
you were here first...

this of course,
but the icing on the cake
in the domain of the moment,
when perfect is the rule,
and the existence of life's objections,
all overruled

just us, the guests gone,
watching a living seascape channel
providing a endless parade of entertaining
sails, kayaker, kite paddlers on the wings of colored silk
and then peace,
peace of nothing, a summer silent drink
that warms the essence

the sun still high just enough,
cumulus interference refracts its rays,
but to insure the perfection of this
domain of the moment,
the breeze pretends it's human,
caressing you everywhere, even there...

you do not deny these blessings,
gratitude is great and never forgotten,
for you believe this can happen again,
a view, a voyage, a resting place in
the domain of the moment...

when it's time to formal say to each other
"it's time to build my life around you,"
we don't kiss, shake-in-agreement hands,
dare get the lawyers involved,
or even announce it ASAP
on social media

nah

we pull out our respective cellphones,
IPhones (her) and Blackberry (him),
embrace a new life by
coordinating our
schedules,
demonstrating electronically,
we plan on sticking around...

now seven years on,
they each complain
when the other
fails to send the other a
meeting marker

love's shape and form
the same from human's day one,
but everything can benefit
with a technological
refreshing
up"date."

What?

well don't be shocked,
it's genetic coded,
drilling for dimples

my parents did it
to me,
down the food chain,
for a millennium,
Baby Boomers, Millennials,
Gen X, Gen Y, Gen Z
it will be done forever,
auto-naturally

place the pointer finger
gently upon each cheek,
commence so soft
digging, twisting for
the oil of human smiles,
the reward, astonishing!

a shocking discovery
made this morn!

you can do it too
"going up the stairs,"
to Grandmas, Nana's,
if you catch them,
and with extra care spent,
soft so soft when
they are
just waking up,
when their inner kid
is sleepy showing

drill a dimple,
drill, baby, drill,
if your baby/is
six or sixty,
at any age,
kissing an
unexpected smile,
most worthwhile!

gimp me you tired imagery,
yearning for retirement
I will store them,
servants well used
now used up,
so in the sweet time of now,
you discover
the new that
needs yet
to be writ...

"tears that fall like raindrops,"
will get their very own pasture
to moisten green, their extended service,
remarkable, but their contract, unrenewed

"scars on wrists"
won't be missed
and a thousand others

fresh faced, lovely to trace,
new sounds with fingers upon my lips,
pleasured agonies of scribe's script,
purr the poems that make us free
but freedom needs birthing anew

as you write it,
pass this test
is it hauntingly familiar,
then let it rest...

we read the paper together in bed
side by side,
electronically,
nary a smudge of newsprint
on our fingers or sheets,
nothing to stain that wet spot
we created with the
realized physicality
of our embrace

Oh those kids and
the cute things they will
say,
someday,
when they'll learn
to talk like
me,
when luckily,
they'll be
allgrowedup
just like me

inventiving words
just like me,
phrases like the one above
I just wrote

when I was informed
by the house chef,
what was yet to come

my eagerly anticipated
promised land
Sunday dinner of
meatballs and spaghetti,
with my special sauce,
Heinz Ketchup

yay!


I sure hope they grow up faster
so we can be
rolling on the floor
inventiving words
like
Sweetballs and Maaghetti

.

(Sippy cups are for toddlers, designed to let them sip but a little sip at a time, and when it falls, the disaster is lessened.)

totally by accident is this dedicated to TL Sipple, whose introspection offers comfort to more than many.

~~~~~~~~~
who among us has not begun the
journey's poetic, by first examining the
mirror that reflects organs internal,
flipping the reversible glass over,
for all you exposed,
it's the curse, the birthing natural,
of the first poem

all your life, streams bustling, streams drying, drought dying,
leaves windy flying up, but final poisoned by gravity,
come to rest and crunched under your footfalls,
but of this did you write, scrivened or scribed?
no

our first child is of our *****, where real borning does occur.

the rest too, but now, and soon thereafter,
put aside the me, and write of he and she,
the first love, always the second child,
for this the nature of the soul and ermine robe,
you elected, when you first self-selected
I am a poet, therefore I hit send,

and the diecast, is the first of many hot rods
piercing, invading, calling out to you,
poet,
"set me free, set me free"

then when walking in September,
the leaves un-glistening, cracking and *****
like an old person who cannot care for them self

then you lift your pen, point to the sky or to the earth,
no matter which, for both are loco parents in loco,
and the truest hardest journey begins,
looking outside in, with eyes colored by
global truths

then and only then the real journey begins,
a differing agony to be learned,
to see as others see,
to write as others have before you and me,
and in doing so, this testing travail,
will earn you, could earn you, a time grade of
pass/fail

you are the only judge in this show,
the only contestant,
what grade will you assign yourself,
what standards will you set,
until you ask,
who are the poets time idolizes?

american idol, throw away your sippy cup, and drink from the river, from the sea, drink deep, until sated,
then begin your foolishness
readied, all over again
poet to please invisible gods,
that *all can see

when Noah told god,
He, was gonna save the world,
from his **** flood
(the sorry storybook, in fact, got it wrong),
god mystified, Noah well versified
how he was agonna do it,
the man with the plan
how to salve the world


two by two,
Noah replied, and that's not lied,
see below, see below,
two poems,
sorta side by side,
but not

                        

read down, across, whichever

One                 Two
           starts two,                   is multiplication,
one X two                    equals two
one boy                     one girl,
or girl                       whatever,
needs you,                       one boy
get a room,                     in an arc.
everybody just get a room
            no god,                           universal remote
one tongue,                    inside you,
misinformation,              miscue negation,
miscommunication,       no care about divides,  
                         miscegenation,                           the house rules,                    
black asian even,           white, red and blue.
got wolves,                     deer, making hay
got The Eagles,              with The Beatles
sleeping with the,          gone feral, loving
zebras,                           the lambs,
bunk mates,                  making the cutest babies.
everybody's singing,    we can work it out  
even the cats,               the dogs,
lovers of the K-nine,     loving them feline sea lions,
and now everybody loves the snakes for their
long tongues, physical abilities and the resulting
****** prowess.


enough of this two by two ****, were a bad divinity idea
to begin with.  Everybody get a room, learn to fit,
whatever parts you got, just stick 'em in.

The Hunans I had to segregate, cause they be another type.

but whoopee if the white boys can't get enough black love,
the asians explaining the karma sutra and the Eskimos are curling their toes,
yada yada how come when it comes to ***, everbody loves the other side.
When all were aboard, Noah got a beer, and said I sure hope there is some football on tv, cause everybody loves football.
If anybody sees a zebra striped pigeon, give me a holla!

What the fk is wrong with this site?
you writings,
extraordinary!

hint:
Write of moon and June and broken hearts, cutting, scars, cloying clouds, moons and suns, momma's and poppas,  throw in a couple of I love youse,
and I assure you fame will be 10000 reads long and weak,
but don't ever look in the mirror,
you might not like the ***** you see,
and that will be the end of our curiously lovely new
"Relationship"

for you I will stick around here.

Three time this year,
tragedy my addiction,
will meet up with proffered poor Lear
and his fate, product of vile offspring,
for when he speaks to me,
he be the reminder, of the pain
tenderly tendered by one's own children

“And worse I may be yet: the worst is not
So long as we can say 'This is the worst.”

But where is my truest
brother king,
Henry V, the five,
his eloquence of brotherhood I hear once a day

"From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be rememberèd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile
This day shall gentle his condition"

Let me die this way,
companioned and brother championed,
let me not go down into my grave,
grey haired and betrayed by my own *****

audience of one


alone on a deserted isle
rhymes written,
sonnets sung,
arias performed,
the theater, the opera madhouse full,
readers to followers to auto-push button heart adoration magi,
darling of the critics,
"His voice unique in our times"

he  disdainfully,
look upon me, them,
do they not know:

*vanity, all is vanity

shred, dash, drop, pinch, soupçon, jot, iota, whit,
atom, smattering, scintilla, hint, suggestion, tinge,

a modicum of good works,
my endeavor, to serve and deliver,
man's bounty of good words
from my kitbag,
fresh, hot, n' crusty
just like me....

Hello Poetry!