Of you, I am certain


can it snow if the skies are cloudless blue?

will I kiss tomorrow the person sitting bus opposite,
who now gifts me love at first sight?

can my children’s children love me more for who I am,
and not just for who I am?

knowing does true love have an uncertain beginning and a certain end?

would I recognize peace of mind if I ever so blessed, had it in my possess?

if the sun never returned, is happiness possible?

can a broken heart mend itself without new love?

Of all these, I am uncertain. Of you, I am certain!

will this scrip of letters be beloved or overlooked and forgotten?

will the day come sooner when self-rising,
my eyes will be pleased at no new scar ‘discovery.’
my ears hear no snap crackle or pop, and
my blood, pre-warmed, by a lover’s attentions,
to happy coffee cooling and a poem-done at my feet?

will my flaws be healed, scars laser erased, my muddled past,
fall obedient to a blue skies, a white full moon embrace, yours?

will today be the day, two feet identical, left and right banished,
ten new colors invented and rainbow added, and sad illegal?

will I awake somewhere over the rainbow one day,
dreams coming true, troubles melted, way up high?

*Of all these, I am uncertain. Of you, I am certain!

In a midwinter night’s dream
  i found myself lost again,   
  or was it even this year ?
  It may even go back farther
  than yesterdays out of reach,  
  older than an ancient pyramid stone
 
Before the rebirth of past life deposits,
  unborn orphaned motherless sediment,
  flotsam of the ages adrift,
  unknown for more than a thousand years

... waiting for so long to see beyond the bounds

High atop a slippery edge-cliff
  i clung  ―            
Searching for a deeper understanding
  of who i am;

Roosting like a starving bird of prey
  with a broken wing
  born alone ... holding on
  With a fear in his eyes
that only i could comprehend
  
  Staring way down deep in the pith,       
into an internal pitch black abyss,
  just begging to see beyond ―
  Mindful it's so hard looking
  into the eye of a storm

Intimately parsing the recurrent source
  of reigning pain
Where the perpetual fog of isolation dwells;
an inversion,     preventing dispersion
  of the nimbus  cold  and  dark

In the darkness, there bides a suffocating
  emptiness,  
  A swelling silence what loudly knells,
  leeching through a perennial ache

An abating voice within hollers unheard,
  invisible as a bitter cold wind howling
  relentlessly through the hollow pang;
  Echoing the subsiding say
(squeezed out) ... of an orphaned soul
  deep beneath the light

Awakening to realize  ―  once i was alive
  and
i could feel me holding on to you



//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

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

1/1/18

at the point of entry (explicit)

it does not strike me strange
at the point of entry
when the heightened senses and the dark subconscious merge

when the lust and the sweat intersect
with ego desire and self is everlasting everything
that the ***** words secretion is sticky on my tongue

when I pant poems born in rawness and tears
on this the last day of the year
and eyes closed see visions extraordinaire
and the Maker whispers in both ears see!

it is the see of what is me,
it is the point of entry and departure,
one and the same,
conception an immaculate mess,
the emptying and the fulfilling, when unkempt promises
are born free flowing and semi-truths transform into
actualities unforeseen and my child cells of new poems
are injected, stored, awaiting the birthright
and the death of publication,
my moment of privileged perfection passes
and frowns and smiles are
one and the same, silken thread wove open and shut

the precision precious circumcising of flesh and soul departing

the utter collapse from within, the drowning in the amniotic,
rebirthing rebutting my denying that I have no more to give

I believe I belong to you for it is what the desire firing cylinders
say repeatedly in the union of the up and the down cycle:

come, come inside me,
I am the pleasure
you are the treasure
in one cup measured
conjoined container
when the point of entry is the point of departure
and with eyes closed from satisfaction and prayer
I see everything all at the same time, uttering:

I am undone utterly and the difference between
the end and the beginning can be seen only
at the millisecond long seven decade coming
point of entry

12/31/17 5:38am dawn dying and new day mourning

“My poems are often wiser than me, lean into a more keen universe of understanding.” Joy Harjo

<•>

instant recognition moment, Joy, your words,
(despite the kitchen cooking clanging chatter next door),
spilling into the quiet space of my thanksgiving brain

my wiser poems are insights inscribed inside,
exposed and released all in their own good time,
they, always blogging, leaning out to escape,
asking the Governor for clemency, early release

poems that are my self-defensive explicit explanations,
excuses, convoluted ratinocations, prosecutorial accusations, leveled by my disbelieving, revealing, sworn to silence
not-to-be-trusted-confessor-me against the indefensible

nobody likes a wise guy,  
but out they come, under the covers, dem poems  
of nighttime darkness, spilling beans and silent screams,
asking you if we remember that time when we...

yes, we.

but writ in the first person personal,
in words summoned from his own ****** deep darkness?

better in plain english when sharing shadings of universal,
and you leaning in on me from within,
presence of pressure, a plaintive palliative wailing,
ejecting an ******* of joy

when “please release us” is honored with our
collective wisdom

<•>
11/24/17
9:07am