“many who are first will be last, and the last first.” Mark 10:29

the mixed drink of finance terminology
my stock and trade, or,
used to be anyway, when I was gainfully employed,
intersects with a place I don’t habitually frequent,
seeing as I am an Old Testament kinda guy

dollars to doughnuts,
this errant thought makes me smile,
the devil and me (a/k/a the devil in me)
have a warm milk with KAHLÚA,
in the dead of night, across the kitchen table,
doing repartee and bad poetree
and biblical textual emendation
on the verse in question

having been present, the devil likes it just the way it is,
but the old nitpicking me always thinking,
a little editing makes the ‘milk’ go down easier,
suggests a reversal of emphasis:

the last shall be first,
for many who are first, will be last

less threatening and the point better made

lead with your right, taught my boxing master,
and the last shall be first is
very right

you see, many call me,
the lender of last resort
which is true enough,
but my preference is best
when addressed as

lender of the first resort

twenteesventh.
you write of dismembered leaves,
enhaloed lust(***)
pains too sweet because they’re youthfully incomplete,
using incontrovertible idiocies like
dry rain droplets shining like sunlight,
edible goodbye cheerios,
edible didactics, teaching “frosted flakys”
poetic methadone methodology,
poems hats with rhyming lyrics  
that taste like that burnt eyelids colored
a blood stained mustard yellow, (yum),
beyond burger veggie based satyrs,
the happy gladness of sadness,
reversible rivers flowing heavenwards,
***** *******, you want an
infernal cataclysm...

really?

dechambered hearts, ventricular mysteries,
brains wearing wooly sport jacket helmets
and other Olsonian beauties,
like I write with succinct passion,
me, who gets eaten alive by buggers saying
“too long,” “too long,” “needed a mid-poem napt”

non-lexical non-commonsensical ecumenical hysterical
chemical verbal reactionaries
and then you wonder why

PEOPLE ******* HATE POETRY?

jes kiddin’ a leetle

this is a depth bomb cutting,
a midnight message for me,
a Zola accusatory,
“You make me think about death and doorways and sleep”

no mere paper cut incision,
bandaid and triple bacterial,
a forehead kiss
and an-on-your-way

nope serious business

death and doorways and sleep
and all that is in between,
nightly rehanging the me-moon,
on that curved tip

the onerous tasks of child raising,
you, the perp, the perpetual kid,
the holy version victim trinitized
too?

hanging your self right on that shining orbital,
leads to unquestionable answer processions
ahead of the unanswerable, they ask,
what’s behind the screen door of

death and doorways and sleep

life is hard,
but without questions,
it is unquestionably
harder

find the doorways.

this explains so little
and so more much.

reminder: make doorways - open them

11:10pm 4-10-19 ~ 10:31am 4-16-19

~for AH~

Tomorrow makes its way into the history
of my heart – always a mystery to me
it is full of people, music, feeling, and strain
a morsel of ache and moments of drain
it has taken me
walked and run
from rising to setting sun
from shame to grace
from a lower to a higher place.

This old heart has filled me with tears
of sadness, joy, faith and fears
awe and anger, glorious heights
lowly dark and bruising disgust
love full of passion, pain, and trust.

Touched by victories over incredible odds
moved from darkness to cirrus gods
from squalls and brawls and angry shouting
snatched me from moments of demons and doubting.

Heart to beating heart in warm embraces
football in sandlots and youthful races
fearful greetings and tearful goodbyes
falling in love with her big brown eyes
heart to heart in evenings of sharing
from being apart to coupling and caring.

And so tomorrow I and my heart
go again for another new start
in the hands of healers
and angels from afar
whatever comes from this
if all is well or it goes amiss
I fear not whatever the course
for I have been - and will be - in the hands of the Source.