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

for Harlon Rivers

the river potion,
the river portent,
the river potent

it is all of these and not one

he is bank sided,
observing the false idols,
the image mirrored
in the glass of the river

transfigured molecularly
he becomes something ferried frothily, forcefully

as if a twig
or a small thing of human manufacture,
an object tossed up airborne-repeatedly

his poetry:
the clash of particles at the many junctions
of objects and water, eddies and the currents,
ceaselessly circumnavigating,  
searching revisionary pathways

directed,
but randomized,
prisoner of the flows,
servant to the wind's directives and the
earths magnetic indivisible undulating waves

thinking,
this life,
its unsteady gait, 
the irreverent wavering of drunkenness
resultant from potent potions,
portents of inopportune position

in him,
my own histories, 
my poetic recordings
also become
water borne,
watermarked,
replayed back for me,
for erasure, censure, closure
and rededication

this River
is a tapestry,
a torn map,
drawn on broken shards
of slivered water,
living with all the others

but we,
are the untitled,
we,
are the un-entitled,
and he is the
Rivers

<•>

We are members of a poetic society
A unique learning class
We may or not be good at other things
But mentally we kick ***

We value all our words
Cherish our thoughts not heard
We are on the road to self discovery
Choose only words that we feel tell our story

We see the world differently than most
The world makes us.... then breaks us
So we write for survival and to give hope

Some say our heads are in the clouds
It is safer there in our own creative playground
We are miles up and never want to come down

No use for conformity
We escape the constraints of uniformity
We break out from the box ~ find new ground
*And Seize the day ~ Unbound

Where it all started...

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2018179/only-a-*******-man-could-love-a-*******-poodle/

<•>
The Obvious Fact: Dogs Have Souls

******* poodle, of prior fame, suggests

"surely this ditty will trend before one reads to the very end"
1. as everyone loves dogs
2. especially smart poodles
3. who writes soulful poems

really, here we are talking and you are gazing into my brown eyes adoringly,
and
you humans
still debate if there is a
god?"

and then dog yawned,
a gigundo doggy yawn,
which is a supernatural,
miraculous biblical thing to behold

<•>
for no reason other than gravity
man says,
sometimes my earbuds fall out of my ears,
without provocation, of their own accord,
to remind that though they're in,
the music isn't in,
and neither
am I anywhere real, concrete,
existential,
to be found

which prompts a furious philosophical poodle to man discourse,
as to my exact whereabouts

badass poodle quotes Joan Baez (Diamonds and Rust):

"My poetry was lousy you said,"
and to verify my geo-physical locus,
and his opinion of the human's written hocus pocus
poetry,
gentle farts and adds, low growling,

"there your are!"

how I love that
centered, down to earth,
in my bed, in my heart
dog

<•>


"Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action."

Goldfinger

a favorite phrase from a movie of one's youth.
that rises to the surface, when *******-u-know-who
reads my weak human mind and yes,
farts twice more, adding poetically:

"the best things in life always
come in threes,
her, me, and you"

"glad to be included," I replied,
to which he licked his
privates publicly,
adding lowly,  

"every smart poodle need a leashed human,
as if any self-respecting poodl could or would
type their own poems,
who's
the *** now!"

and we got up, got the leash
(for human to carry)
put our earbuds in,
went for a sunrise
sniff-walk-and-compose
on the beach

the two *******
arguing
which Pandora station to turn on,
two only love poets, both thinking of their shared
her
finally, compromising, in tail wagging agreement on,

The Righteous Brothers
<•>

p.s. lol, only a ******* man could love a ******* poodle.  
~
8:33am
8/11/17