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Aug 19 · 364
lender of last resort
“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
Jul 20 · 532
I, too, swallow.


each groan
each longing
each nightmare

the semantic fluid
my teeth, my face,
no erasure endures,
tracks of my tears,
skin etched everlasting,
beyond camouflaging.

the weights owned,
that the scale
does not register,
stones of stones,
add to a total
that has no
agreeable total
but is a totalitarian oppression
of all day tongue depressions

oh god,
mercy from the weights
I have impressioned and digested
of own free will,
to misbalance my posture,
crook’d, my soul ever reciped,

stains collected,
each stain
see my markings internal,
you have never seen
until you have seen me
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

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

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~

“La natura è piena d infinite ragioni che nò furò mai in isperiètia”
Leonardo da Vinci


that the very next millisecond blink
will be, reveal a, theater curtain rising,
a play of your composition,
a painting of your composure,
a newly cresting reason,
infinite in number,
infinitesimal aggrandizing majesty in granular shapes,
a shock so grand you say out loud willingly,

therefore, I am

the first word
of the next page or poem you turn to,
will change your No. 1 reason for living,
to your knees dropped trembling,
comprehending the renaissance of his
isperiètia (experience)

there are infinite books and infinity words,
do the probability calculation of inspiration
and confess
every sun rising, every rainbow unexpected,
every moonlight solstice,
every glance freely stolen taken,
is nature,
your nature, revealed,

these are your unveilings,
revealing the fullness of you,
the likeness of discovery
how what we see in our uncommonality
is our communion


This year marks the quincentennial of the death of Leonardo da Vinci, the Italian Renaissance master who died in May 1519.
4:24pm March 21, 2019

This year marks the quincentennial of the death of Leonardo da Vinci, the Italian Renaissance master who died in May 1519.  


Leonardo da Vinci
The Fidelity of Transmissions

”Cells, the units of life that compose our bodies, are able to make copies of themselves to help us grow, fight disease and recover from injuries. Cells have built-in mechanisms that maintain
  the fidelity of transmission  
of genetic information from one generation to the next, and to control cell division in a timely manner, allowing our bodies to build or rebuild various tissues.”

when the poetry cri de cœur grows unbearable ,
sound mystery-science calms his tumbling transcendency

alas, here too, his ears sit up straight when stumbling on a invitation to
“come write,” for hid within the science jargon, oft rests a snipers shot

redirecting the didactic mind back to the
everyman’s land where-poetry cells split,,
commanding him to delve into, visit new brain wrenching vistas
“the fidelity of transmission”
at its macro level, for science is micro-poetry,^
n’est-ce pas

when you love another
the transmission is a slow pour,
or a radical jarring,
the fidelity extremely extraordinarily variable

the loveliest unpredictable

the sip sip of eyelid kissing adoration,
the irrational irrigation of the no-space-between,
when the television remote disappears in the couch crack,
the screen, complete static, perfect complement, to a rigorous experiment of

the loveliest unpredictable

we manually conjoin fluids in her mouth’s petri dish,
stain the slide for observation,
in full Imax color observe the cells busting and doesy-do’ing over to
a new partner, where bonds of fidelity attach a partnership clause to

the loveliest unpredictable

when a child emerges, the first words are
find that remote, just kidding, first comes a comestible demand,
mother’s milk 98 degree heated,
feed me a white solution to any unanswered cell’s questions, what a

loving predictive predicate

scribble this, ****** that, change a diaper,
while debating whose baby’s assemblage resembles,
overjoyed at the experimental outcome,
proofs of the fidelity of transmission,
the outcome notated, but science demands no bias confirmation,
another test required of tissue rebuilding

the loveliest unpredictable


for is He not laureate greatest poet of all,
developer of the scientific architecture,
inventor of varietal sunsets, moonscapes,
individualized singularity of snowflakes,
love making, gravity and the preprogrammed death
of your own cells,
etcetera etcetera etcetera
all just poetry in motion in fluidity,
ah, fidelity fidelity
Sat., March 9, 2019
"Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!"
                                                          ­Polonius (Hamlet)
read these words in a past, as a punk teenager,
back in the mid-you-wouldn't-believe-it-flintztone-age
returned to them, nowadays
when I am seven by ten decades squared, older not wiser

three people told me
what a lucky man I am today,

Even before the noon hour dare arrive,
a shocking delivered by an electrocardio telegram,
thus instigating a product recall of Shakespeare’s blessing season,
drawn from a stale teenage memory storage fast depleting

"This above all: to thine ownself be true"
which denies the false escape
of being false to any human

ingesting this thrice lucky man observation
into the internal inward-facing telescoping observatory,
where I map the true course of the
well held in the constellations of my life,
never forgetting that this holistic ecosystem that is my
mind~body must evaluate the truth of this claim

its veracity will differ when assayed by
the big toe of my left foot from whence the poetry comes,
as well as those other interfering guys,
body, mind, heart and soul,
then re-evaluated by the internecine warring of those whiny parts,
the tongue, the hands, the eyes saying me, me,
that perforce means a dynamic constant changing
of every thing

in other words,
thine own truths are fluidity ever changing,
the mapping of your blessings,
best done in pencil with room
for expansion, reversal, and misdirection

have I lost you dear reader?

My Left Foot squeals,
fools, you just hammered
three more nails in the coffin of his depression,
where woes and toes know the inevitable repetition of the troubles he has already deemed, and now foreseen are yet,
ladies in waiting to take him to the tower

My Mind says
in obvious aspects people, you are 100% correct,
but the Inquistors are not fooled, patient in their queries;
My Body simply asks, err, does that make me look fat?
My Souls defers with a yada yada, not my problem, deal with it...

The facts tranverse and reverse,
Ah, the truths of my blessings
As much confusing and last defusing

The little drummer boy marches me in reverse retreat,
while shouting out in time a marching refrain:

Luck can be stored, used then, never more,
Its algorithm, a lifetime calculation,
Woe is me, thrice, deemed lucky,
But the map of my blessing reveals my positioning,
At the map-edge I stand, the last border be just ahead,
Seasons, maps, blessings must stop to journey,
What others see upon me outward, outdated,
All maps, all blessings are black-line bounded,
So too, am I, bounded, confused and confounded

The algorithm computes my nine lives are now radium depleted,
The shell, the shell no longer can be fired,
Even the half life has evaporated, used,
Though it looks fit, the luck has eroded, the feet now touching
My map edged in black, its legend, of use, never more

November 2017
Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame!
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
And you are stay’d for.
There; my blessing with thee!

And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means ******.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch’d, unfledged comrade.
Beware Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in,
Bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man,
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

This above all: to thine ownself be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!
Left Foot Poet Aug 2018
pale dead moon

them the words heard, cloud covered, make the few streaks visible
look like mocking smiles saying see we got your numbers,  
play pale and dead you’re sure to win and add an over/under
and a trifecta guaranteed

everyone is willing to take and give you thanks
with a nice tap on the head which buys them
a grimace smile of 2 seconds recognition and
further confirms the crumbling internals
and unless you walk away,
into solitude and recall from
high school language class

répète après moi "c'est la vie,” repeat after me, that’s life

no, now,
pale dead moon,
that’s life
Left Foot Poet Jul 2018
this man of constant tomorrows,
hopeful Mondays, bad Fridays,
a man of constant sorrows,
pictures and poems from a life
celebrating constant recalibration,

never allowed to forget that the
years of lucky run out like the string from packages saved,
when come the years with
no more packages arriving
Left Foot Poet Jun 2018
a thousand brilliant lies
(Hafez, Iran 1320-1389);      (L.F.P., USA 20~21st century)

- Hafez -                                 - Left Foot Poet-

“I have a                                  if only, in my meager posses,
thousand brilliant lies,          but one lie when easy asked
For the question:                    the simplest damning of,
How are you?                          are you generally happy?

I have a                                    what is god you ask,
thousand brilliant lies.          no lies required,
For the question:                    many answers upon my face visible,
What is God?                          unsure if any worthy of believing

If you think that the               8 centuries separate us, yet
Truth can be known,              you lie; we poets - you, I, all believe

From words                             in the divinity of words

If you think that the                a thousand brilliant sparkles
Sun and the Ocean,                 when Sun loves the Ocean,
Can pass through that            each one a poem passing,
tiny opening Called                my mouth, my wide eyes,
the mouth,                                uttering a Cohen's hallelujah

O someone should                 So we gleam, mirthing in glorious
start laughing!                         and gleeful delight at ourselves
Someone should start             for your brilliant happy lies easily
wildly Laughing Now!"       
­                            unravel into a thousand laughs
May 2018 · 1.2k
sleep poses
Left Foot Poet May 2018
human revelations in our sleep poses

she sleeps with both arms back, murmuring,
  flung over her hearing head,
as if she is surrendering


me slip away for a few, only to find  
her left hand ****** by her arm crook'd,
fit to her temple, as if to bear the weighty weight
of a heavy head plein des thoughts, dream-mares, tales and talks,
too dense to contemplate
without assistance,
armed support to hold on, hold up,
fighting/ accepting as a unwanted outcomes
or retrying old misdeeds
(no, no, oops, that’s me)

she swift motions/crisscrosses her arms into an X,
a human parts tiara atop, on blond tresses, that fully messes
any remaining daytime efforts and her nighttime wild dancing^

no one reveals me,
none inform on me what positions
my containership adapts, adopts when my woke-guards
are dismissed/released and
lay unprepared to disguise my innermosts exposures

ow, early am resting comfortable with a six poem-pack of
slept hours on my tool belt,
so far this weekend one shot fired before the day officially
is belle rung and these poses thoughts
are upon what my eyes alight

can’t decide if knowing how I dance in the bed at night,
reflationary, deflationary, worth fact facing,
for this is no secret

my sleep hours are colored,
admixture of moving pictures,
punctuated with
stills of past and future,
the poses
of how to greet, were greeted,
withstood upheld ran from wept, murdered,
faced up, faced down, go unrecorded
and the
poems residuals
and the
poem prophesying-

fearful confessions for acts
committed and foretold

Decision: I don’t want to know
7/20/18 7:08am

^(tango-ing with both, familiar and the unexpected men
who are she-allowed to lead for few minutes,
her cover up pose
expertly rigidly flexible, but her head thrown back to say
this is how far you will be allotted, allowed to dance/take me)
Apr 2018 · 18.7k
"man the tomatoes?"
Left Foot Poet Apr 2018
man (?)
the tomatoes?  

patty m.,
a grievous error thy commissioned

tomatoes are the quintessential feminine fruit
red juicy, round, curvy, sweet
with a flavor at once the same,
yet never again always different, diffident,
asized, and blonde or red, never contrived

without it,
would pizza be pizza?
without it,
would **** ***** love,
be merely a good salad

or a poem

ever be the same?

“me love tomatoes”
cookie monster
Left Foot Poet Apr 2018
(seep yourself to leak away)

all reveals are feints;
I take you right
but I am moving left,
always left,
then left again

when I turn the faucet of me on,
brown, rusty pipe water comes out,
never turning clear,
even if the flow
went on for a millennium

someone traveller passerby
reads my excellent explicit illicit words,
with kind sweetness
observes a valid conclusion:
Poems take.a lot out of you


not take, give
they are the slow seepage
of my overburdening
which is
yes, yes, I know, all relative,
but perspective is a
sometime summer thing,
and all the springtime streets
filled with filthy frozen slush

having  come from some rusty water leakage,
never turning clear
no matter how long the street runs away
from you

so you take yourself to give away,
seeping and leaking

ah words;

so useful and so inadequate
crushed petals from the Tree of Life

you ask me If I have read my brother,
the prophet-poet Jeremiah?

The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure.
Who can understand it?

When your words came, I ate them;
they were my joy and my heart's delight

Then the Lord reached out his hand unto my mouth and said,
"I have put my words in your mouth."

these are those words
written months ago
Mar 2018 · 979
do we believe in ghosts?
Left Foot Poet Mar 2018
at 11pm in nyc
one sees what
you need to c
what you don’t want to b
what’s c-ing you
all the aleph bets
are ghosting words in your
brown i’s and clear fingernails

then when and why
you are under the
dining room table
cause you don’t want to be
a real person
it’s so oh much easier to be
in the under, the table dark thunder,
so when until you need to be a visibility,
until then a ghost is a fine impossibility

do we believe in ghosts?
girl, you crack me up
W ooooohoooo W you who?

the witching wishing h our
Left Foot Poet Mar 2018
in this crazed business of flighty gods and flitty humans,
this trove of love need,
this two way street for persons blind in one eye
thus they can see you,
the one who loves them
only when they squint real hard,

well it is a far better thing

to be next them,
to be seen and be seeing
than have the
ceiling be your horizon,
a pillow oscar-acting as a long lost love,
cold sheets and space heaters each losing the battle,
for when the moment occurs that

loving usurps loneliness
even for a moment’s moment,

it is a far better thing you do
than you have ever done before

Left Foot Poet Mar 2018
cellphone to heart, mobile to immobile, electric dead to living

you know that sleep and I are but passing acquaintances,
when it drops in, to heavy my lids, it is through a cracked window slivered, just enough for a Pan boy to grab me and away me to Almost Neverland

when the alarms sound that it’s sleepy time,
(quite like that quiet verse)
no time to delist the “those pre-shluffy to do things,”
cell drop upon my chest, like an open mic,
then the raging observatory tapestry begins!

the cell lies directly above my ventricular chamber,
and communication is live, the brain cutoff switch, well, cutoff

all manner of imps, devils, rejected poems, angels and
Greek gods and some Indian as well, stand in line for to make
free calls via a beating human message call center, utilizing my friends and family verizon plan to register complaints,
close out unfinished biz, or just contact, friends, family or other
mischievous imps or even you, in other time zone worlds

though my brain may not interfere, like the CIA, it records all
conversations and give me a list of new poem titles, notions, stories glories and wrenching heartbreaking heartbreak,
requiring “fleshing out” when I awake from my three fingers
of scotch, glass eye tears drops made me drunk,

damning this transmigration chorus of voices that offer up a treasure of divine humankind’s hopes and travails,
and the occasional call on the divine’s 1-800 confession line,
hear it all, my chewing out by one particular god of mine who does not suffer my criticisms well of his ungodly actions, nope not sweetly and

when else would he dare contact me, except when no edgewise
words of mine can appear to contradict his mealy mouth excuses

did you musty misty mistake  my poems  as the product of
the miracle water wages of my imaginary inspiration,
no, not, from the replaying of your desperate exclamations,
the cancerous shrieks of loss and prickly investiture of the aesthetics of soft whispers and solitary foot treads,
that is where my insanity is bred, and tumbling s-words, sworn

don’t consider it eavesdropping as there is no signed rental agreement, consider this unfair warning, if you should secret use my cellular line, your everything is now ******,
your genetic material is materialistic mine and my poems yours,
this bittersweet sentiment is a measure of our bloods commingling,
your tears and impish silliness, are shiny hidden within mine

somehow I feel compelled to state this unique statistic:

I love you

4:47pm on 3/11

who writes poems like this?
silly old boys with gray hair, standing on one left leg.  but you knew that, right?
Feb 2018 · 1.0k
The Commentators
Left Foot Poet Feb 2018
commissioned by and for those
who constant comment on my
            poems, my indenture

handy with verbal weapons,
cut down a few trees for my necessities,
duels or dams, written Odyssey long and Tombstone OK quick,
who was it said, I lay down verse cause it’s my daddy’s curse?

why it was me and thus the free and easy flowing from the obligatory urges, cannot be disobeyed or disturbed, ignored,
this one, inherent, so fast comes the flow steady, unbending,
the six easy pieces come up half heads and three tails

it is just dictation from the *mental musing committee
and  as far as they’re concerned, they’re the tator and I’m the tot, the
dic who just has to get it down like I knowed it complete
before they decided to speak it

ain’t deprecating and ain’t saying that a thousand or more poe’s ain’t time used well, but this one has a pale, almost Elizabethan white powdery dusted pallor, caused it spilled out in 10 minutes
with no time to get tanned or tamed

to the skilled individuated commentators
who Tennessee volunteer their skill, sight, their time, unbidden to savvy and to savage say what they see beneath the surface,
a place I’d prefer not to visit or even, just hang,
lest I find out what the heck I actually meant!

hats off to the reactors and the actors
who write their own lines
pithy and for pity sake,
hot and cold, youthful and old,
who speak without long considered pauses
and so often write in two lines the summary
of hours labor and the product of decades,
of the good and bad, the thirty one flavors in my mind stored

hats off to the gallant and the uncredited uncrowned,
who are the validators and the gladiators who enter the arena with but a short sword and yet subjugate the army of
the many verses and see close up and offer freely their
heart warming frostings over my écritures

you gladden an old man’s heart,
by the hearth, and egg him on
asking without asking for but one mort~more,
with the unintentional inspired commissions
that their comments instigate

you lay and slay me down repeatedly
and I ‘m held harmless
but not wordless for so oft have I exclaimed:

anything you say can and will be used by me
in the court of poetry**

the next to the bottom line is this:

those who comment commend condemn are the extenders
and should claim legit the greater credit

2/20/18 2:00 ~ 2:10am.

writ in a single seating without hesitation and consideration
the sojourn a quick ten minutes and with thanks and bowed head to all that commentate on my given words, a hearty god bless and accept my pitiful thumbs up for annotating isn’t a skill in my possession or my permitting; thank god for emoji's and icons and
Left Foot Poet Feb 2018
the disagreement palpable
gotta seriously disagree
the reversal is the course proper
*** backwards you are, right back at ya
forward forward, never confuse what’s past infused
never go back to old, it’s a dead weight carrying
the past is now a pretense, what we saw, believed and wrote
shuck that mao shirt, those cowboy boots, older vista visions,
the capsule you saw gone immediately to forward the blessing
get some slim jeans, fancy sneakers, a new way of seeing seeking

then the music muse interferes interfaces!

There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking.

Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it really makes me wonder.

And it's whispered that soon, if we all call the tune,
Then the piper will lead us to reason.
And a new day will dawn for those who stand long,
And the forests will echo with laughter.

If there's a bustle in your hedgerow, don't be alarmed now,
It's just a spring clean for the May queen.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run
There's still time to change the road you're on.
And it makes me wonder.

“Your head is humming and it won't go, in case you don't know,
The piper's calling you to join him,
Dear,  can you hear the wind blow, and did you know
Your stairway lies on the whispering wind?”

Feb 2018 · 341
what does the W stand for?
Left Foot Poet Feb 2018
what does the W stand for

my 2:00am friend?

left feet touching and yet I am clueless, unsure in what language I should compile the possibilities and

reread my poem and shotgun taken aback

you make my urgency feel so trifling

and I read your are back but you are more gone for,
love’s  misfortune has you, graced,
like a hole in the barbed wire fence,
had bled you dry and let the seeds for
the next planting go astray;
this is comprehended for my fences
are so busted in so many places that
all the animals escaped only to return
at feeding time, their curiosity of the outside world

and W has limited infinite answers

for there are no names that begin with W
for farmers in our native tongues

suspect if you are reading this it must be after 2:00,
indeed it’s 4:07am, and the puzzlement is face flushing,
annoying and curiously intriguing...

and i remain,
“sincerely” yours

L.F. Poet

p.s. thanks for reading my stuff
Left Foot Poet Feb 2018
I used to live alone before I knew you

of the mundane tragedies endlessly writ
repeat rinse repeat
how awfully awful
is the complaining without cessation
of busted everything;

recall the the doctor’s office sign
"no cure for the broken heart here"

so when I hear a Buckley sing
the words of the Cohen, High Priest of Songs,
I, a broken hallelujah,
smile with recognition
  though the true cure is
yet  still forever being researched

patience is a patient within me,
for my muses and their endless,
poking aching whispers of write, write, write, right,
they are the company I keep,
they are the company that sweeps me up
I, a broken hallelujah

they are not the desired flesh, true,
that affirms confirms and denies me
denying my needy frailties
but for now,
mine company to keep,
so when we do meet and
you greet me with a
tell me about your previous lovers
as you humanly must

will recite my poems from
from before I knew you
Jan 2018 · 2.0k
When I Sit Down to Write
Left Foot Poet Jan 2018
inspired by a conversation with Maira Kalman

******* a name, adopt a persona, let my fingers do the talking,
place the instrumental sharp point tip upon the blankety blank paper,
maestro baton raised, coordinating,
the first sound, the vocal chords trembling,  
the first thought, the ultrasound image, entrance of a first violin,
coalescing into, into the initializing single primary phonation,
the stinging geometry of chance at last,
throwing  down the gauntlet, glove slapping, and the
tendons tense, the mouth opens, release and indentation,
a letter's curvature, a black and white downward stroking,
a sign is televised, revealed and released

a one way only sign

time bends knee, gravity suspended, terror morphs to
expelling rapid firefights of imagery needy for spacing,
even pauses mid-word  leave just this:

where is the in in

are you the in in
or the jailor at the gate?

you swear never again

until committing once more,

a sentence commutation, by committing a first sentence,

and the greater toll taken and paid for,

and the in in in-nate,
questions your sanity



9/17/17 10:55pm
Left Foot Poet Jan 2018
composition is a criminal sentencing,
a full-time sensitizing,
a never ending true~rue seeing,
recalling,  every photograph my eyes did see,
by word.

I am a career criminal.  I know.
nov. 29,2017
Jan 2018 · 1.8k
2am Friends
Left Foot Poet Jan 2018
2am Friends

winter has set the boundage, bars of chill, escape-urge killers,
self-imprisoned by our ruthless timidity, that both comforts yet,
worse violates our truthful, unwanted inadmissible-neediness by
purging the touches and the knowing kindage, this then,
this preface, your reminding of-as-of-yet untouched,
half-invitational, half-regret, half-cursed, whole red need for
2am friends
to fill the void that poems can n’ere fill

spoken while standing on one left foot.
Left Foot Poet Nov 2017
surprise surprise I read between the lines,
gobbling up the bread crumbs youse guys leave in;
yours and hers in the edible empty spaces and
hints and clues from other lines from other places

grew up in a family of storytellers, historians and book writers:
we did not play Scrabble in my house; was too contentious,
and besides, someone excelled in literary obscura and
Ancient Poets,
which made it most unfaira

instead we read the dictionary for fun and
broke into the unlocked local library at night,
were called The Borrowers in our little town,
I think affectionately

The FBI employed my momma,
the Original Literary Profiler,
cause she could see the signature of the same writer,
no matter how many names or disguises he tried,
in everything they had written

  the skill was transferred genetically,
which is visible in all my escapades poetically:
I live here under many names so superciliously,
but I never have yet, fooled myself^
I did read a first chapter of my sister's book published in a newspaper many years ago; thinking it was a well written review,   when I discovered the true author's identity, my family teased me mercilessly
11-29-17 13:18 est

^ sometimes I read an oldie and think not bad, which  makes laugh when I say out loud,  
did I write that?
Left Foot Poet Nov 2017
The Allusionists (Mary Winslow and Jeff Steir)

these two allusionists  **(not illusionists!)

composition is a criminal sentencing, a full-time sensitizing,
a never ending t/rue seeing, recalling, photography by word.

I am a career criminal.  I know.

these two retranslate by digging into word wells and
well hid storage closets under stairs so that we,
the not-in-attendance may envision their sightings with
two hands clutching, comprehending almost better than
the one who is actually there.  

for our version, the one they provide is,
coffee with cream,
scotch with a  beer chaser, tea with honey,
all to be, sipped slow, so
the hot frost on my the chest, infiltrating nostrils,
Vaporub-spreads slow and easy, brainward.  

the allusionists.

the habitual employers of this
specific filter,
(word weavers, I call them behind their backs),
weaving is not in my eternally planned skill set.  

I do so admire their tapestries
that guilt alone demands tribute and obeisance
and this poor imitation.  

I do so admire their tapestries.
November 25, 2017. 11:07 AM.
Nov 2017 · 2.5k
Left Foot Poet Nov 2017
for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars

fluids in, fluids out  

wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together,
it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd  the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere,

so what if it's spat-past midnight,
isn't this one of those soul-criticality's,
staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive  

make sense to you?
the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out,  
doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of
yeah yeah yeah,
my professional courtesy answer to their  dire warnings repetitious  

tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream,
a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson,
and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid  
is strong transformed into words

water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again

water is words, words are water,  
the difference huge, the difference minuscule,
both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids,
all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh,
staying-hydrated is primate

place a new cold bottle in readiness for my
3 o'clock feeding
11/14/17 12:04am
Left Foot Poet Oct 2017
the sighs in our chest that emanate from a different kind of
breast cancer*

wrote these words prior,
then, certainly uncertain of the exactitude of their meaning,
clearly unclear of their useable intention,
yet the too real wrathful sensations
that inspired their caesarian creation,
the sigh's very own exhalations,
floatations devices for the interned-no-longer emotions,
escapees via the crevasses of chest ribs splitting open,
return to glory thanking me for freedom given

let posterior eloquence suffice, let brevity guide
my self's interior diagramming,
lengthy explications and deep analytics, I leave to you,
the astonished medical examiner and the horrified mortician

chest ripped, my hand reinserted, the blighted scourges,
the abscessed cancers, the obsessive relentless cankers,
asking shamelessly why have I returned to the crime scene

the sighs are air-borne, ready for air plucking,
all cloud seeded, deeded for poets to seize and commence,
to plant and invent, a mountain top trickle to a mighty
river of poems to be recovered and discovered,
unrehearsed and unleashed

but you and I have unwished, unfinished business,
as of yet unwritten, one last poem to honor our
mutually assured destruction,
for this day will be
rewritten differently
this one, a simple script, a written pyramid,
built by an Israelite, who by command, perforce
mustn't but does write prophecies
that may or may not come to being,
poem pyramids,
surely none will not survive Darius's desert sandstorms
ravaging kisses of time's forgetting
Left Foot Poet Sep 2017
BG: On High, (He/She)  ranting about a new alphabet!

YOU wrote, He/She read...

down looking to make some trouble,
what he likes to do on weekends,
heard about your poem,
trying to create a new alphabet,
and got mightily ******
(at you)

we have an open IM,
and live crosstown
from each other,
and he/she is kinda shy,
(from gender confusion,)
asked me to relay this to you,
Madame BG Star:

you, who writes a new poem
on the hour, got a *** of nerve,
dissatisfied with the limits
of your tools, should not overly complain!

you got gifted, and use up your allotment
of alpha rearrangements and never get billed,
should be more considerate,
and just
write more.

and then he said something else,
because he always gets the last

you have an affinity for the letter L
it would appear, so here is your punishment,
for the rest of the week
write like a madwoman

but no words that employ this lala sound!

how do you like that my little lollipop ******?

having scored some five and dime bags,
(cannabis legal not, up above)
went home to run the world in his
usual state
of (dis)grace

don't b-ame the messenger,
cause he said over his shoulder as departing
on his fiery chariot,
that applies to you too
u troublemaking

_Eft Foot Poet
Left Foot Poet Sep 2017
"my day will be different today"

she declares, when she sees herself hidden in
in a passing spending and breaking broken
drive-by scribbled-pretend, urgent poem,
stumbled upon by a heavenly calculated accident

gladdened, saddened. now dressed to the nines,
that piece of me, wherever it be, the parade ground,
where the words and letters assemble,
where the firemen train,
adding logs, love, accursed ego,
to the hearth,
steady on burning, to practice putting out the
ohms and uh-uh's
of electrical resistance that
your response, a shiny knife of a self-reflecting observation
has...** ** **
sparkling stabbing mirror

this one, a simple script, a written pyramid,
built by an Israelite, who by command, perforce
mustn't but does write prophecies
that may or may not come to being,
poem pyramids,
surely none will not survive Darius's desert sandstorms
ravaging kisses of time's forgetting

but your simple complementation
fits inside quite nicely, for its simplicity,
because it is a
provocation stabbing piercing  a self-questioning, of
why to write I need pen paper and ink,
and don't forget those stupid teardrops in the clear vial

the Zola j'accuse
of every poet, even the gone-ones,
looking down
at highest bar in poetry!

did I really do that?

even for a brief moment,
a nanosecond,
me words
modify the entire continental shelf
that another writer occupies,
change its axis, the rate of spin,
the angle of another's
solitary human's day


all i did was read (all) her poetry, imaging imaginng
a life so foreign, putting me inside of thee, and
let my stubs, the remains of worn fingers do the rest

so I guess it could be true
what you wrote,

but about me

"my day will be different today"

and why I practice this
wonderfully ridiculous
cause the pay is so
**** good

I came across your poem by chance. Could it be you have read my poems too? Honored to be in this exchange. My day will be different today.
Sep 2017 · 1.0k
trust in the shape of a key
Left Foot Poet Sep 2017
trust in the shape of a key,
good god how corny is that?

satisfactorily nonsensical, a Pharisee phrase,
so offal illogical,
it borders on the poetically reprehensible

who has time to state this stuff,
pretend it is worthy of something respectful,
work it into a Nobel Prize awarded script,
nominated for "really bad ****?"

an ordinary hardware key, brass gleamy,
and the squealing grinding noise
heard while a blank progenitor is reimagined,
so so annoyingly ludicrous in this century
of plastic replicators but the noise,
comfortably familiar as a sound of
things being made

run thumb test over the cuts,
as if your thumb should know
what order the points and bevels,
the toothy gap spaces should be,
the correct disorderly order of the teeth

there are very few locks on a farm;
indeed the front door key
has not
been seen
in many a year

what's that you ask?
ok ok - I get it - in harvest time
it is early to bed and earlier to rise,
conclude this mystery key,
red winter wheat needs laying down,
stop your word seeds germinating

there may be few locks on a farm,
everything rusts so quickly anyway,

but stop to comprehend just how many locks
the human body employs  -
at least 613,
maybe many more,
and only one master
for them all

a shiny gleamy thing,
its cuts and grooves seem to
spell a word

go figure

1:05am in the city
yes, for the Canadian Iranian
Sep 2017 · 1.7k
Left Foot Poet Sep 2017
spend /broke

I am here.  I could spend all my days reading your wires.  I could spend all my nights writhing writing responsa psalms.  
perhaps I do, for after all, I am here  
{~for Mara, Denel, Liz B.; Patty~}

I string fences too, bury birds, insects, living sons, tho just out in the back of my ex-mansion brain. want to write simple, effectively, like you guys, and want to live simple ample effectively. cant cursed, cursed canticle Kant cant.  so the day commences   2000 plus emails chirping read me and I've just arrived, but I do not, bury them in a mass grave with an effective 'delete all,'  not even thinking what might be missed, missed

what happens when u run out of fence, land, good silences, and spending becomes broken? spending, breaking, chicken, egg, simple, too many words, to read, to write, so which will come first?

Liz B.Fledgling

Traci Brimhall
I scare away rabbits stripping the strawberries
in the garden, ripened ovaries reddening
their mouths. You take down the hanging basket
and show it to our son—a nest, secret as a heart,
throbbing between flowers. Look, but don’t touch,
you instruct our son who has already begun
to reach for the black globes of a new bird’s eyes,
wanting to touch the world. To know it.
Disappointed, you say: Common house finch,
as if even banal miracles aren’t still pink
and blind and heaving with life. When the cat
your ex-wife gave you died, I was grateful.
I’d never seen a man grieve like that
for an animal. I held you like a victory,
embarrassed and relieved that this was how
you loved. To the bone of you. To the meat.
And we want the stricken pleasure of intimacy,
so we risk it. We do. Every day we take down
the basket and prove it to our son. Just look
at its rawness, its tenderness, it’s almost flying.
Left Foot Poet Sep 2017
The muse inquires,
knowing that a question such as this is
cannon fodder, an off-the-shoulder-blouse tease,
just a hint of cleavage, a whiff of parfume,
something to make poet sneeze,
ejecting an answering essay
without a clue where to go, but,
now the fifth gear engaged,
compulsion full,
immédiatement, en ce moment, laisser's aller!
and he knows exactly what to say

what if poet possessed a special character,
to define the sadness that reflects that
summer has had its memory card wiped,
and even though today,
will be a Saturday of
jeans shorts, a halter top, sort of day,
the chill of dreaded winter is not coming,
already present and accounted for,
enchanté, déjanté,
has already encased his heart in ice so thick,
that even if poet drank a Joni case
of his fav summer quaff,
un provence rose,
his seasonal loss cannot be overcome,
the summer man~king is dead

all that in but a single character, a precise capture,
a labor and  time saving device, but
a character with no character
for the labor would be love lost

yet you swear by your succinct emojis,
their immaculate efficient composition,
and I would not trade one accidental,
just-slipped-out I love you
even for ten thousand disheartening heart symbols

would you prefer
instead of:
I love you so much it is
driving me batshit crazy!

I'm stuck with my troop of twenty six
and their multiple endless quilted rearrangements

call me old and out of fashion,
to your question,
this poem is my ask and answered at 5:13am
In Autumn

Mark Irwin
When within ourselves in autumn we feel the autumn
I become very still, a kind of singing, and try to move
like all things green, in one direction, when within ourselves
the autumn moves, thickening like honey, that light we smear
on faces and hands, then touch the far within one another,
something like autumn, and I think when those who knew
the dead, when they fall asleep, then what, then what in autumn
when I always feel I’m writing in red pencil on a piece
of paper growing in thickness the way a pumpkin does,
traveling at fantastic speed toward orange, toward rot, when
in autumn I remember that we are cold-smitten as I continue
smearing red on this precipice, this ledge of paper over which
I lean, trying to touch those I love, their bodies rusting
as I keep writing, sketching their red hands, faces lusting for green.
Left Foot Poet Sep 2017
"Shelter From The Storm"

Bob Dylan

'Twas in another lifetime one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue, the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness a creature void of form
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

And if I pass this way again you can rest assured
I'll always do my best for her on that I give my word
In a world of steel-eyed death and men who are fighting to be warm
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Not a word was spoke between us there was little risk involved
Everything up to that point had been left unresolved
Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

I was burned out from exhaustion buried in the hail
Poisoned in the bushes and blown out on the trail
Hunted like a crocodile ravaged in the corn
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Suddenly I turned around and she was standing there
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair
She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Now there's a wall between us something there's been lost
I took too much for granted, I got my signals crossed
Just to think that it all began on an uneventful morn
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Well the deputy walks on hard nails and the preacher rides a mount
But nothing really matters much it's doom alone that counts
And the one-eyed undertaker he blows a futile horn
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

I've heard newborn babies wailing like a mourning dove
And old men with broken teeth stranded without love
Do I understand your question man, is it hopeless and forlorn?
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

In a little hilltop village they gambled for my clothes
I bargained for salvation and she gave me a lethal dose
I offered up my innocence, I got repaid with scorn
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."

Well I'm living in a foreign country but I'm bound to cross the line
Beauty walks a razor's edge someday I'll make it mine
If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born
"Come in," she said,
"I'll give you shelter from the storm."
in our thots, as we shelter-in-our-place Fla. refugees
Left Foot Poet Aug 2017
for I work by day, but live by night*

not an axiom, a formula, for success and wealth,
not a suggestion, not seeking a reaction,
it is a plain as night
still don't recommend it as a way of life

but if the shoe/life fits
wear it,
even as no sleeps. speeds up your arrival
at the Grand Central Terminal

in black eyed circles, endless pointless future worrying,
in bad poems writ after midnight after midnight
when the quiet
keeps you company - a friend that asks for nothing

(but an occasional mention in one of the poems born
in the delivery room of the dark)

but through the nighttime writing escapades
I am more than renewed,
a born again human
with a covenant, armed to the teeth,
drinking his dis-owned fluids and juices,,
spilling out as staccato words,
splitting his infinitudes

if you had foreseen this as my future fate,
a lonely human up all night,
with the night and words making his
holy triumvirate, I may have thought
there are worse ways to prepare
for the silence that comes after
the no more arrives
and we depart

Left Foot Poet Aug 2017
~For Eleanor~

believe in fate or luck,
never won no lottery,
even the next word of
every poem word, product of hard earned
stolen lust affairs

me desiring,
of acquiring
the infamy
of saying it & making you believe it,
all new (ha!)
while reusing worn-out words,
stolen from unknown predecessors,
lovers and prophets

but then, read you,
a-believing now that only princesses
may have the magic powers to do,
to sense, the incongruence,
of the most ordinary lives,
the ways we-hide-in-our-underbellies,
the faces of our elven selves,
that we are desperate to see anew,
without the blemishing scars of experience
writing it morning fresh from dream filled sleep

so my sinner summer sun dying requests
you to be reminded:
even a prince, only has just so many
golden opportunities,
so quit stalling,
shoot out your next from your
handgun mind

yup, no luck, good fate, for me
held in abeyance for
the next first date, maybe

as I write  
Katy Perry
is ear-worming in my head,
ignite the light!

do you see us
awaiting in the shadows
for the definition of your words?


^divergent communication:
pattern in which the sender gives conflicting messages on verbal and nonverbal levels and the listener does not know which message to accept.

Left Foot Poet Aug 2017
the server (waiter) raps
praise upon the sushi,
its integrity,
the harmonic
of its construct,
the curated singularity of
each rice grain

the innate elegance of
the thin sliced,
nearly translucent,
au naturel, organic,
ginger root

the skin smooth paste of
green wasabi,
grown naturally
along stream beds in
mountain river valleys in Japan

genuinely puzzled,
when he,
the old erstwhile poet
unabashedly weeps before all

no hero he,
just an overcome one,
his tears flavoring his food

mourning the
celebrated abuse
of his verbal children,
those natured nurtured babes
the stuff,
the words of his definition

each weird word,
loved for their cultured,
unique quality of their history
grown in languages's
perpetual petri dish

asked if something was a matter,
answered yes,

"this plated performance,
such an extravagant essay
on the beauteous wonder
of life's bounty,
left me wordless"

and she, burst out loud in laughter
Left Foot Poet Aug 2017

the freight of fright (one by one)

you don't see them often
out east,
the coupled cars of trains,
so long, one single train, touching,
two borders of one middle-of-the-country-state,

that said,
rode those couplers once or twice,
even now, sitting free fared on uncut lengths of rebar,
quiet humming on my knees, Clapton's Layla,
heading to a city that claims need for another skyscraper

but the freight train I ride and rode a million passenger miles,
so many miles, I ride now gold free for life,
that of course,
a curse,
an ironic joke
on me

the freight of fright,
of waking up tired,
after just having falling asleep
worthy of only short story nightmares,
alligator eaten dreams,
running from and to
the silver bullet band's lullaby;

"running against the wind,
a young man,
running against the wind"

this train, all mind mine,
don't carry no commodities,
no cars or washing machines,
its load is men, mostly me,
carrying grades of fright,
adding on and up a few more rail cars,
in strange cities,
different chemical formulas
but all prime fright, fear,
of waking up, still breathing

guess I can quit here,
no excuse making time to make a tome,
fright comes in small measures,
coupled together, this train,
this tracked, cracked dry riverbed
of a train,
and it goes on bye,
one by one

could be Monday, maybe, or Tuesday, too.
Left Foot Poet Jun 2017
one would think these old owls might have learned
a hoot of wisdom, and shut off the bright lights,
concisely concession con-seceded to the simple *******
of the union of the night and moon, its sleep crowning ownership
of these particular hours

let me not false claim that I speak for all the grandfathers,
nor raise myself as a caesar among them,
for there are too many shrieking claimants of all knowing,
know-nothings these troubling days

no longer do we revere or agree upon
the certainty of any incontrovertible self-evident,
truths and beauty we from early ancestors inherited,
fore-seeing the risky possibilities of a freedom-less future,
a melting planet without enough air or water to be shared
for our fast contentedly, asleep babies

no, no, I speak only for myself, and those few million of grandfathers who message each other in the wee hours about silly trivial concerns that keep them awake and writing foolish poems
3:08am nml
Left Foot Poet Jun 2017
my father moved through dooms of love
E. E. Cummings, 1894 - 1962

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if (so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who, his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly (over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father’s dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no ******* wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is

proudly and (by octobering flame
beckoned) as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he’d laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men **** which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine, passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit, all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why men breathe—
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all
Jun 2017 · 1.4k
I, #2
Left Foot Poet Jun 2017
I, (Love Thy Neighbor As Thyself)

how I would, honor this with ecstasy joy effervescent,
the simplest of methodologies, if only I,
reasoned how one safely permits  
to love myself, if only I,
knew how to love an

to self love well,
not a university course,
no simple answers like thirst, yet how I thirst,
hunger, burst, curse for this peculiar wisdom, please,
instinct me to navigate murderous shoals of take but give

who teaches this to the children?

I, parents, teachers, not ****** or pastors or
TV the great substitute for all of the above,
myself is not a selfie, no glorying got in I,
I, burdensome, never comprehended,
love thy neighbor better, love actually, no mere pretense,
if well executed, perhaps is when the trapeze line is at last

cleanly indistinguishable,

your I, my I,
both wicks will be joined, brighter lit for it,
one flame, one godlike burning, fusing,
with neither consumed, wax fusing,
but teaching easy loving
to explode the


9:24am EST
airborne over the Western US of A
see I, published May 31
May 2017 · 840
Left Foot Poet May 2017
a stranger never to be seen,
a million miles from the scene,
smile and weep,
loving the shallow for its deep,
finding amazement in the complexity
that only humans have
the capacity to commit,
all of us captains of the capital we store,
in the small hallmarks of every day living,
and in an overdue, catchup e-transmission,
a well wish comes true

a poem born,
a kindness to myself,
the best gift of and to,
those who are both,
friends and strangers

who remind us that hope too,
is a

3/30/17 8:58
Left Foot Poet May 2017
for Karlotti

And a flower on the borders of winter.
an unseasoned sign that the singular erupting bud
will lend the lens to see, give the courage to accept
the greatest joy of man will ever be

there will be seasons that the singular erupting bud,
be the bitterest truth nail gunned into your temple,
the perversity of a mockery, an uncrossable boundary
a flowering sign of skull & bones meant to teach acceptance
the greatest curse of man will be
the changing seasons

La mayor maldición del hombre,
Las estaciones cambiantes
Left Foot Poet Apr 2017
“I can calculate the movement of stars, but not the madness of men.”   Sir Isaac Newton**

I can, but only of my own,
the orbits of the stars
within my envisioned mind,
this anti-expanding universe
this black hole of anti-matter
collapsing inward, the gravitational pull calculable
where I, madman creator,
am the sole witness mine self-destruction

I summon fate, luck, random numbers to the dock,
but all pleadingly state it wasn't me,
"I was somewhere else, had to be,
you cannot see my mathematical probability,
ergo i am definitionally
not capable of being guilty-
my orbit of madness
non transferable to you-mans"

who then can I blame?

for-seen poems every where,
upon on every face lay dime store words of bad novellas,
awake to work in dread,
return from it more deadened
and the piety pointy poetry pills
refusing to cooperate,
and the madness equation
has too many answers viable

what shall I title this poem?
Apr 2017 · 436
be well
Left Foot Poet Apr 2017
nobody knows
the troubles
you've seen

nobody knows them all,
maybe some here/there,
scattered pebbles, strung together in a too tight choker,
as if two hands grasping your  gasping neck,
as if you needed a reminder
of your own hands in slow mo,
cutting off of the oxygen supply,
to merest trickle,
the insufficient
be well

no one knows the precision past,  decision nature
of thine owned Sisyphus boulder,
the one you alone shoulder

so you grin~grimace inside,
when they sincere, but casually bell,
un-beknowning, un-thinking
wishing you one mo' time,
an extra seasonal

be well
ah, well intentioned,
but you're getting older,
tireder from the loader,
each time it's tossed your way,
falling to the pitted bowls bottom
all these
be well wishes

it's like a glass of water trying to
fill a well mostly dry,
quench a bonfire of exhaustion,
that only grows stronger,
feeding on its own inexhaustible supply
of good wishes innocently poisoning

I have
two* sons.

I hope they

be well
Left Foot Poet Mar 2017


what she says when she doesn't want to say what she's thinking,
denying me her angered feelings.  

by all your judgmental metrics
the title alone
is a poem,


the original

so many stanzas on this,
ramp up my manly ragings -
all begging to say
"I have been released"

but I daren't unleash the hormonal

so, borrow her word
that says nothing while saying anything,
e v e r y t h i n g
you don't want to hear.  

Left Foot Poet Mar 2017
her morning pleasure occasionally actually exercised,
a substituted delight for gym-going work with Lulu exercised,
no man can, will ever, understand

the nature/nurture debate over,
in my mind resolved, nature, hands up and hands down

RR's^  query, is god dead,
no longer rumbles around in my head cause when he speaks,
I can't get a word in edgewise

what i did in the sixties, lost to time in memoriam,
especially some really bad poetry

but this gender differentiation
a matter that Aristotle dutifully, so wisely, philosophically avoided

there is no Socratic method rationality in what is just crazy insanely meiosis,
there is no comprehension of the essence of  elemental genetic division,
like the NY Mets,
ya just gotta believe, or just accept

but from the other side of the bed
comes a surly, dry rejoinder, a gelled spike

thanks to modern science,
why don't you come over to the
right side, maybe then,
you'll understand the true meaning
of pleasure

transgend your self,
show your willingness per the bible,
to be god's new and improved version of a human being

a pretty little, light A-line,
with a summer floral pattern,
a size 12, (20? ***)
will wear with great
human pride,
come June

another Sixties thing.  but his daughter was my first summer love
Mar 2017 · 1.2k
my soul to keep
Left Foot Poet Mar 2017
"my soul to keep"

this prayer
elegant, simple complexity,
comes me haunting,
every evening,
this notion,
a faint ghosting,
repeatedly reappearing
and nightly leaving,
from between my crumpled, sweaty bedsheets,
departing with a demanding unsatisfied, incessant,
coated with a diabolical, unfeigned challenge  -

write of me,
relentlessly commanding,
right me

no notions,
come realized,
no poem body, resolved solutions,
are easy offered up

your inner voices,
fettered and deterred,
begging you,
this one,
defer, defer,
for better days,
for better poets,
who require
no assembly instructions
cannot improve upon it

my distress, sensed;
the lady of  the house,
over the shoulder peering,
sees the moody poem title that
has self-selected to core this poet's core,
for endless torture,
raining down ruinous lamentation

she, ever softly spoken

"good man,
your soul,
your poems -
both mine to take
mine to keep

this title,
this poetic obligation
fulfillingly, fittingly,
my responsibility

mine to write
mine to keep
mine to right
mine to mine
for its
bejeweled contemplations

render easily unto me
what I have Caesarean seized,
pried lovingly and forcibly
from thee within

though seemingly rightfully thine,
title has passed,
legally, tenderly,
into your lover's arms

banish poet thine troubled assembled,
ensemble senses,
this particular poem's journey
and the soul that bears it,
released and relieved,
for now,
mine to take,
mine to keep,
thy soul,
in mine to dwell,
mine to complete"

Nowe I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take
Mar 2017 · 3.0k
no better blade than she
Left Foot Poet Mar 2017
She, my cutter,
my body, her cutting,
with tongue and finger nail,
any handy human implement,
she sculpts me to
her eye's configuring delight

she, grabs my wrist,
and my face
by her hands embraced,
unblemished once
now becomes scarred tissued,
no guise, no lies, no bearded mask,
no disguise -
all forsaken
hidden hardened skin,
speckled red/white translucent,
she kisses with adoration her
heart designed
objet d'art

no better blade than she,
with every cut,
transformed, she becomes
my devotee,
I, her escapee,
I am her, she is me,
inseparable, my every command,
she obeys*
for our love cuts both ways
Left Foot Poet Aug 2016
"Be the harpooner of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders into crinkly eye-lined smilers."


writ many years past, just another dusted off phrasing,
composed from life's lecture notes, collected by eyes tired
from the hazing,
eyes wearied by the addict-strong,
incessant observational needing,
of celebrating the loopy,
they who make this planet
capable of laughing at itself,
a helping habit for mutual survival...

should you spot a man ungainly wrought,
weighted down by a harpoon cross
cursed  'pon his Cain-marked back,
you need not move to the other side,
'tis only a make-believe poet,
with his recording device,
seizing your rhapsodies to rhyme,
his collected artifacts, your crinkly smiles,
his meat, his metier, his chosen career,
a comfort caresser of your illusions into
a shapely sculpture of words for you to keep,
a token of your now examined worth,
a celebration for the keeping...
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers,
these tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.

Each a troop,
in the army of orphans,
bloodied, purple hearted,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.

All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to the rabbled boors,
the imagination suppressors!


cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.


Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.

With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
taste his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
becoming one who was, yet still is,
because of you,
because of poetry.
Left Foot Poet Aug 2016
none more than I,
surprised and wary,
that my all-my-life
urbanized body,
be so unnaturally well attuned
to a slight degree
temperature modification

proud city dweller,
born and bred,
urban dust,
the sandblast used
to erode and etch-a-sketch
my body's skin pores hollows,
by definition, pride and myth,
a tough skin necessified
to survive where
plants cannot

the chill of fall,
and the follow up of
it's 'whiteout' afterwards,
faintly dimly but
remarkably present,
unmistakably different
from the chilling moisture
forming on the ice bucketed bottle
of dinner's colden, golden,
waiting white Sancerre

the lowest, coldest single note
any viola can exhale,
hear coming from Itzhak Perlman's
so close, Shelter Island retreat,
a foghorn warning
clearly felt, smelling its deep fried heard mournful warning,
tonal hum, swelling from the outside in,
not despite, but to pointedly spite
the surrounding humidity condensation of August
on the air cooled window panes

the very same humidity
that makes humans
curse the blessing of sweating,
registering slews of
no-one-cares complaints to
no-ones-listening people,
about the drying out everywhere
wet dampness of the end of the
simmering season

a sliver, a musk,
a prophet's portent,
so subtly well entrenched,
secretly by nature sent,
a realtime single line of code,
message that winter is indeed coming,
but not to the Seven Kingdoms,
but to the Czar's literary summer palace

the sole prosecution witness,
to winter's germination
as the evening cools,
testifying about the acorn droppings
felt beneath flip flops,
like hurtful peas
beneath a princess's ten deep mattresses,
reminders of too soon time to be mourned
as gone, gone, gone
the summer,
the peak of the foliage, the zenith, the crest
of this old and very peculiar man

but one?

how can this be,
one **** degree
of Fahrenheit
leads directly to
sniffles and endless

one **** degree,
separates the operatic arias,
the shower sing-a-long songs of his summer soul's
contented tented revival,
which now, in these sultry days of  August,
he sings, so swell,
practiced with an artistic style of
summer lazy's 'doing nothing'
so, so well

soon to suffer the mysteries of
the longest day
of wintery night,
where silent snow falling,
beautifies but makes the man
put down his pen and
reread his summer poetry

we fine and dine
dressed in summer attire,
sock-less, coolest linen with cotton blended,
only ******, good natured,
political discussions allowed,
some daring souls,
bare their left shoulders,
more tan skin out than in,
while others defend
the natural human right
of man to wear in tandem,
white socks and ugly cargo shorts

all the fabrics, all the friends,
crinkling wrinkling upon the tannins
of sweet brown sugar of caramelized skin

some wearing bright pastels
clean new white T's,
so eye brightening-whiting-delighting,
that they are legally required,
and illegal to wear anytime else,
except for this one abbreviated quarter
of the best days of his life

smell the snow,
hearing  the boots and parkas,
making tramping noises upon snow cleared paths
swimming unhappily across
slushy street corners, almost mountain pass impassable
all these molecules, wafting in the coolness
of the August shore breezes ,
fedex'd  up from the polar south winds
of wintertime Argentina

all of these hints,
present and accounted for
in the atmosphere,
but of them,
do not speak
not out loudly anyway

to be lost beneath,
under the munching noises of summer corn
summer fruits, tongue exploding,
clinking of happy glasses,
toasts of "what a great summer eve!"
the wisdom of silence loudly asserts

for who am I to
rob us the deceit,
the human natural conceit,
that the future is the identity of our
permanent press present

that the unpracticed pleasures
of lapping up breezes,
the genteel salted aroma of
heated sweated forehead beads and sea water,
the cocktail odors of barbecue sauce,
fishing boat's diesel, Campari,
root beer floats,
strawberry shortcake's speaking of its peaking,
little children laughing with carousel joy at
running unshod and free upon bunnies and frogs,
all words and thoughts somehow miracle rhyming with...

soon to end in the
disenchantment of reruns on
a flickering black and white tv night,
once again, no longer obsolete,
unlike the man

the eyes glisten from held back tears,
all come to give me hugs, thinking
the old man, in his white apron is
joyous simply happy or simply,
grill smoke got in his eyes

but that one **** degree...
8-7-16     7:21am

The Cold Heaven
W. B. Yeats

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,
And thereupon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season



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