Warning! This poem is too long for certain elderly gentlemen.

A blue haze morn, pleasant in the transition
from the ides of sensual summer to the
broken, busted curled dead leaves that now
decorate the half & half scorched, mottled lawns,
that soon enough will fall to full-on browning!

All this my eyes see when first I wake, only
the calm morn waters unchanged, thank god,
for the mind is fermented, the brain full on,
three, count ‘em, three born baby poems, all
simultaneous being birthed, triplets from one
****** working overtime, yet, only paid the hourly wage!

The mind interweaves the three, and yet subdivides,
only I, the landlord of the brain, failingly and flailing
struggle to keep track of these wild tenants, each:
a curvature, a tangent, a sibling and a stranger to
each other, sharing  a common single parentage!

Poem #1

Poem #1, a bright child, yet, poorest in vocabulary, more humming
than recites, but below its tuneful melody one just perceives, a refrain
born in the refracted sun rays that first opened our  eyes to this day, in
great gratitude, a morning prayer, a mourning poem, bidding adieu to the great  nighttime where the conception and inception inseminated within the ****** of the brain, and welcoming the warmth of day that cracks our body’s outer egg shell with praises of hallelujah that this one word poem gives so easy, in glory!

Poem #2

The toes wriggle, the eyes rapid-blink, the mouth yawns revealing
a still sleeping tongue, the stomach rumbles a basso tune reminding
everyone that their continuous sustenance comes from it alone, no
matter what those other body part snobs claim! An Uproar ensues
(bien sûr!), everyone roused, slumber a thing of the past, a cacophony
of disharmonious noises, no Greek chorus this, purely 100% American,
each party convinced of its self-worth, its own vitality, a ball park of
loutish fans, hawking vendors, an amalgamation of colorations, a
tapestry of humanity skin colors, though in a single voice upon this all
agree and shout “**** the Umpire!”

Then the bladder whispers “uh,hey people,” and all grow silent knowing
who’s the boss, and the man, stumbles from bed, wondering silently what
the heck that huuge racket was all about and how come no one else heard it?

Poem #3

A subcommittee of the senses convene a meeting and on the agenda, in
no particular order are the following, items of varying importance, but
needing speedy resolution:

The always very touchy skin asks: what shall we wear
today, it is warm outside and overly cold inside, should
we go short or long, stay in our overnight dressage, or
get a fresh accoutrements (clean Tee and sweatpants)
just to celebrate having made successful passage to day?

The aural receptors (who always insist on being addressed
in the plural), state that can wait! first let’s us determine what
music we shall receive, that must match the nature outside
and the nature within?  A Joshua Bell violin concerto, or some
retro greatest hits from the 60s, 70s and 80s?  Let’s vote..

The Gallic nasal passages (Les Passages, as they snobbishly prefer) sniff
in derisive decision, non! to yesterday’s clothes, a shower and a shampoo
dear skin, a nasal necessity, let’s try to remember to use deodorant today
please, and no more feral cereal and milk, something more fragrant s’il vous plait!

The Buds, as the tasting cells preferred to be called, said indeed,
some fresh cafe au lait in a proper bowl, to accompany les croissants frais, une baguette au beurre, and do not forget the red crisscross jar of Bonne Maman (Orange Marmalade/Confiture d'Orange)

The Eyes, waited and listened, and then proclaimed, all well and good,
but realize that after all this, we are the instructor, the instrument panel
without which you cannot operate in concert, let us see what we can see,
in the closet, in the kitchen, read the playlists, prepare the necessaries
for bathing, check the thermometers and then we will decide!

Then, the Mighty Brain, said “folks, we’ve been busy all night and tho
first light has already penetrated, we are going back to bed, as we are exhausted by all this noise herein encapsulated!

هر دو بی فرزند هستیم (متفاوت)/we are both childless, differently
——————————————————————————


let us not ask each other or god

the why, just how life worked out

and maybe by a choice unconfessed

~

yet we both lie.

~

you possess thousands of offspring,

tend to their every need, breast feed

them water, special nutrients, stroking

their leaves, worry about their viruses,

you, dying just, a little, when, one rooted

looks up and says, “I am dying mother,

thank you for your love.”


~

my ***** produced two men,

each now, differentially,

lost, lost to me, and daily

privately, in word and wet,

weep my losses, for what

is a man who had children,

but goes down into his grave

gray haired, with none in

attendance to refill the soil

that his grave grayed body

requires to

hide his wasted,

childless

life.

I close my eyes hoping for dark but I only see grey;
some remnants of night's adieus,
distant sounds of day's footsteps
too early for the mighty sun,
too late for lovely moon
so the sky lingers reluctantly above me,
doubting ever doubting the arrival of light

But what is left of grey but its greyness
stretching infinitely over a vast void;
ever fading but only to younger grey
ever darkening never to a hue but grey.
no birth, no death, just a labyrinth  
caged somewhere in between the mess.

They say I can make whatever I want
of the universe because it's mine
but I hardly see the point in taking the trouble.
Still, if I could mould the stars into shapes
I'd make them to Jasmines
for what are they but shy kids that lay out their wings
in the devouring nights only to curl away
with the arrival of day.

I once saw a cluster of sparks singing in a nightly alley
they held their hands and danced about a blushing flame

what more horrible but the echoes of demons
laughing in depths of dark streets as they
celebrate their evils and bury their fangs
on the cooked bodies they stole by the setting sun
Ribs like bars of a prison holding the excited heart in place
collarbones so sharp they could rip open the flesh,
skin hard as leather, eyes placid filled with smoke
their shrill laughter that gnaws your sleep away,
ebbing and flowing side by side with the dark

I once saw a bunch of Jasmines walk behind a lively sun
Carried upon their withered backs the sacks of cement and bricks
On journey to building a house they'd never call home.

What more lovely than the sound of petals breaking,
dew dripping down their tips only to be snatched away by sun
what more beautiful than the sight of cracked lips,
concave cheeks, tentative hands and scared feet
the desperation of the tongue that takes you to puddles
the moment they hear the cracking of chains
a hunger so strong it makes the teeth shudder
hollowness of nights that pulls you closer to one more thievery
just one chunk of meat to quieten the stomach

Grey choking in white, grey chuckling in dark
grey chains, grey in the chains; grey sky, grey in the sky;
grey eyes, grey in the eyes; grey ballads, grey in the ballads.

That's what happens when you hang your jasmines to dry
under a sun that merely starves for ounces of hope

But what of hope?

They said the universe is mine but if I could squeeze
the life out of the sun, what would I achieve but
the flowers that incinerated decades ago--
the ashes of broken bones, vapours of clotted blood;
the nothingness of smiles, and the dryness of tears;
some sprinkle of love or hate, some gallons of lust;
carcasses of souls, some flesh engraved with wounds

what would I get but the corpses of light that the sun ****** out
the universe they claim belongs to me;
I hear my people screaming out, I see sun sending out its love,
the universe they claim belongs to me turning to cinders.

They say there's day after night but some only see grey
They shiver at sounds of demons joking,
then smirk at screams of stars blazing
but some only stand by the impassive sky watching grey
they fight battles upon battles with evil
then rest by the hanging bodies of the good
but some only stay by the left out winds, staring at grey
They scrape away the dark, paint it white
then cover it up with layers and layers of coal
but some merely sit by the songbirds listening to grey

But what is grey but the reminder of all the petals we ever plucked
and all we ever will in hopes the next that bloom are full of colour
What is grey but a mess of bodies of demons and the heroes
carpeting the deserted battle field that once fluttered with the winds

I open my eyes and the day is finally out
but you can hardly say.

wish i knew you
way back then
but again then
you wouldn’t have
glanced at me once,
let alone twice

but them ole aphorisms
have their uses,
useful when dreaming
in colorful surrealisms

better later,
than not at all,
my sad eyed lady
of the highlands,
better for having
met you,
than not
at all...