Aye Aye
(Poetry is the Adhesive of Our Lives)
6:33 am
for Joe*
once again,
in a strange bed,
in a strange city,
left a cold snowed city climate
debtor-in-possession,
owner of a carryover question
of yours,
what was a
winter prior posing,
is now a plane plain ride over
have coming with me
awaking,
by a sun provoking,
the answer,
now strange composing
in a visually warm city where
beautiful tanned bodies
are mined in beach sand
and
this,
my answer,
it too,
mine,
it too
being mined,
subconsciously working, coming,
f o r m I n g
in my always busy,
overthinking,
daily nighttime shift of
repositioning from a
dark night ended reposing,
into a
sunny day answer deposing
t'is a tricky one,
when one poet asks another
straight out,
after the the fashion of the day,
of my poetry,
whattaya think,
whattaya know...
about
my very own
words,
this communal place,
HP,
an open bed,
where we lie down with strangers,
where we lay down our words,
wake up lovers,
or worse,
ignored,
wake up encouraged,
(can one make hallelujah a verb?)
or refuted,
disputed by
the either/or
ignorant silence of the masses,
of what's truly good,
or sunk
under reedy rushes of swamping
despair,
at the ignorant adulation of the
endless trite, puerile
not one
for shooting from the
hip,
on a subject so
delicate,
that my paused,
slow mo response,
to you,
of course,
misunderstood,
as a red badge of no courage,
a refusal to answer
in this demanding age of
virtual, instantaneous any and every
stray dog thought
multiple shades of a Miami sunrise,
burnt oranges and Van Gogh blues,
frosted strawberry internal pink toppings,
whitish cream cappuccino streaks,
makes one wonder about the
creative design team that brought us the
universe and this all over
sunrise,
all natural, organic visual breakfast
that comes to remind me that
your answer,
you...
for all of us,
in our lives
there is always poetry infused,
there for the seeing,
and
for some,
even
adhering to our
private places
for you, Joe,
there is always poetry,
in this work,
is the continuous process,
self-recreating,
and this sir,
aye, aye, sir,
this one writ,
hopefully a satisfactory answer,
perhaps...
one of resolution,
of adhesion,
silicon bonded
for such is the nature of
this particular Joe,
an inquiring soul,
a nurtured one,
another poetry-partial-birth
child of mine,
born on-line
so,
requiring special handling when
creating, crafting,
******* lines of my presumptuous presumptive
"expertise"
in all matters that
our emotional heart
is the make-up-the-rules-as-you-go
rulemaker
thus,
peril,
fraught, and
simplistic excessive
frugality of word/feelings,
dangerous and inappropriate...
I loke (love + like)^
your poetry fine
the slow revolution of the screws
of growth so readily apparent...
But,
always,
a but,
my demands upon you,
so great,
the expectations of expectations,
greater for you than I dare share,
only since your quest
is my bequest
so shockingly that you dare
directly request
herein,
asked and answer attempted,
yet the risks are I lighthouse beacon
angle too high,
becoming too troublesome,
an Excedrin headache
You don't see,
You don't comprehend,
the way I do,
how far you have come,
your train,
upon which
I am a windowed, winnowed,
passenger,
a pseudo parent
in Loco (crazed) HP Parentis
so it breaks my heaVy heart,
that I want burdensome you better,
so much better...
Oh Toolmaker!
from your
as of yet
swelling unrealized
r e a l
blood sweat and
tears
I want to be forced
by you
to shed my own
tears,
gasp, intake my own
bloodied breath,
sweat when reading yours...
hopelessly selfish,
wholly unsatisfied...
I want
your refreshed wit born in
Whitman
winters
tales of your Connecticut icy hot
Frost
should lay me low by new poems as good as
Lowell's
tease me, seek me
let me beg,
make me yours,
like Sara Teasdale's
"I Am Not
Yours"
I will you!
will you be,
recreate anew
William Carlos Williams
make me gnash my teeth
when you limerick like my first hero
Ogden Nash
moor my heart like
Marianne Moore
be a new American Master
of this awesome trade,
accepting of this modest tirade,
make new tools still invisible
that will become
more powerful than
any man's hand
can mechanical design...
most of all force me to
reside inside your adoms
locked in my soul's firmament,
until you have fashioned me
into
an obedient tool,
forcing me,
to weep my own
r e a l
blood sweat and
tears
that your words
backhoe excavate
from their hidden places
be mine own
GI Joe
poet~hero
hopefully,
this answers your question,
what I think
of your poetry voyage
to levels of heaven
you are yet
unacquainted
looking forward to an
aspiring spring,
a robust salute of
Aye, Aye,
for I have fixed the spot in the sky
with the adhesive will keep your star aloft
tween you
and the rest of us
plodders
but now be bounded to lift
us to
unbounded highs
on the wings of the highest
expectations*
of all of us who
admire your journey so...
will not e v e r be satisfied,
until
you exceed,
you succeed,
until
we are such
so sated, so satisfied...
that we see the music,
dance to the words,
in places where the silence
of listening
is the greyest gift
one can give...
^Loke - courtesy of Joel Frye
Of course, I just happened to hear Christine Ebersole sing this tonight...
It seems like happiness is just a thing called Joe
He's got a smile that makes the lilacs want to grow
He's got a way that makes the angels heave a sigh
When they know, little Joe's passin' by
Sometimes the cabin's gloomy and the table's bare
But then he'll kiss me and it's Christmas everywhere
Trouble's fly away and life is easy go
Does he love me good, that's all I need to know
Seems like happiness is just a thing called Joe
Sometimes the cabin's gloomy and the table's bare
But then he'll kiss me and it's Christmas everywhere
Trouble's fly away and life is easy go
Does he love me good, that's all I need to know
Seems like happiness is just a thing called Joe
Little Joe, my little Joe, little Joe