you haven’t written me a love poem in so long


around midnight,
two too together,
climb in to bed,
covers tucked,
up to their chins,
happy old souls
settling in 4 the evening...

suddenly followed,
by a furious
sixty seconds of
running and rubbing,
semi-serious sinning,
hands up ‘n down
any part, nearest, handy,
public or private, dandy,
maybe even a minute moaning,
a simple reassurance,
a kind of insurance,
covering bases,
first, second and third,
yeah, he/she to me, attracted...

exhausted, contorted,
exalted, these two fossils,
rising like a holy ghosts,
from the dust bin of
a jointed storied history,
begin to race, who will,
be first to sleep-snoring...

yet

one of them thinking
in those waning moments,

you haven’t written me
a love poem in so long,

the other, thinking happily,

ha! finally learned to keep
poems, short and simple

and both of them
kaput, lights out darkened,
until coffee arrives by
seven thirty morn light,
handmade, by hand delivered...

Clueless, Restless, but then the Moon Speaks!


can you see clouds at night, askes the moon,
my train, my assemblage of word worshippers,
who ask me by the thousand for clearer answers,
“one if by day, two if by night” is my evere’d reply,
bereft of confidences, steps unsteadied, full of distemper,
shaky uncertain, so answer all, once more, but only with
difficulty am I understood, for the simplicity so so great!

the moon comes to you nightly, never! never are you ignored,
your lost alone words always well heard, we are two together,
we are all two, if by night, my lune bright, ours, your answer!

Together Nightly, Are We Not Poets of the Way?

what is the what, this simplicity, the great difference?


                                                ­  ~~<>~~
he reads certain words,^ then

the poet uncovered, stumbles upon, a rhythmic bearing, provoked,
his own bearing now  lost in contemplation, exits the cottage, wandering on the always wet grass, observed by animal menagerie,
espy him watchfully, a human directionless wanderer wondering, asking himself the meaning of it all, knowing answers reserved not him

we celebrate subtlety, process the minutiae of extracting an exactitude of  the precious précis of each momentary why, only when he honest confesses his ineptitude, can he truly begin to pluck words from the airy atmosphere to assemble them in format that mines the great difference in everything, the differential veins

the creatures, unshy, wish to contribute, suggesting editions, subtractions, this turn, this twist, this nuance, always clarifying, valuing utility beauteous, making the meaning perfectly clear in ways that make you gasp at words, their powerful, to define, then refine, then just plain be, be fine, finding, exploiting, drawing freehand the lines of distinction exacting
this great differences
                                                  ~­~<>~~
^
“and next to nothing is everything, all worth knowing,
you, write my poetry, as I write of you with breathless
ease and comfort, for the thoughts of all men in all
ages and lands, are original to where our eyes espy
each other, where our lips kiss to cross, cross to kiss,
what is the what, this simplicity, the great differences?”

One day no one will look at you anymore
Those hopeful, surreptitious  glances at the coffee shop
That brave young man's naive attempts to get your attention, little knowing that he's biting off more than he can chew
You won't feel their eyes watching you as you walk across the room
They won't offer to help with your bags or step aside for you at the escalator or staircase (if not for the sake of chivalry then at least so they can watch you climb the stairs)
They won't try to dance with you in the club
And no one will applaud as you leave, in pure appreciation of having watched you dance without an agenda
Some day you will need an agenda
You'll need a reason at all times
They will no longer entertain you just because
You'll be asked to justify your existence and to earn the privilege of their company
And you will shrink into yourself
You will retire from their blind gaze
Their unseeing eyes
They will not notice you
They will not care
It. will. hurt.
More than now
More than the overload of attention
Because one thing worse than too much attention whether positive or negative or just plain curiosity -
Is being ignored
And even worse - being invisible
Being aware that you take up more space than they think you deserve
And trying to shrink to fit into the social recycle bin that is reserved for 'unattractive', 'ordinary', and 'childless' women over forty
Just waiting it out until you find a cause or some miracle..worthy of becoming your legacy
A final shot at being remembered..

<>

“Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much?
Have you reckon’d the earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?”


Song of Myself (1892 version) by Walt Whitman

                                                      ­      §§§

A night of reckoning, calculations repeated-checked, sums divided,
did I use too many, or not enough, words to be understood, verbiage eloquent,
did daytime reveal my poetic meanings, or double-occlude it’s essence?

I have reckon’d Manhattan Isle, circumnavigated its riverbed boundaries, a younger me, by kayak rounded it, from the Spuyten Duyvil Creek to the Battery, 14,500 acres give or take, a lifeatime to complete a dead reckoning, an unfinished full configuring.

but haven’t reckon’d that Earth and I will be entwined/entombed in each other’s arms, until such time, one of us or both, will be reduced to cosmic dust, our pride, our poems, will be equally unimportant and irrelevant, I reckon.

in retrospective rear view perspective, come to understand that we spend every moment of our lives, reckoning, determine the odds of which fork we will take, laugh out loud, for each moment, a poem  is titled, the resultant, a poem - who needs a muse, you’ve got choices!

So, yes, Walt, the questing  answers you’ve requested:
Aye, yes, yup, but no to pride, for pride and poetry in one sentence is
a death sentence at multiple levels, pride, poetry, ego, suicide,...sins,
so better no proud for it is the entree, the invitation to fall-fail...
                                                   ­      §§§§§


12:03AM  Frieday
May 15th
my deadline missed,
but what is three minutes,
but empty pride...
Manhattan Island

what the difference if the ***** coffee cups
in the sink get washed now or later or never,
the stains of each imbibing are added, wearing
is a tearing down, cumulative, so refer back to
your calculus practiced on a shooting range,
the long distance to target is an accumulation
of a thousand points, wind, light, eyesight,
combinatory

many short runs if you wish to hit the bullseye
repeatedly in the long run

life is best when you sum up each day for the accurate totality

he melancholy muses, his hand upon his chest.

a thousand miles
                                        she replies, a thousand eyes winking lying
a thousand quiverings
                                        she denies, a thousand quaverings
a thousands hairs
                                        she sighs, everyone of a different color
a thousand songs
                                        she cries, not any but not the one
a thousand sensations
                                        she implies, by silence, not the same, sensual
a thousand touches,
                                        she asks, slyly, is it your tongue your finger?
a thousand dies,
                                        she contradicts, all mine, not yours, or ours!

<>
and then she speaks, in Italian, a language so musical, it’s melancholy  at its very essence.

I’m no longer of surety possessing,        
Non ** più la garanzia di possedere,
is it my finger or my tongue, is it              
è il mio dito o la mia lingua, vero?
that my finger became my tongue,        
il mio dito è diventato la mia lingu,
all senses at attention, blurred,              
tutti i sensi all'attenzione, sfocato,

the love song enactment, touch
                                (recitazione della canzone d'amore, tocco)