quite certain, she who hates to be late
was late to our first date,
five years ago,
today.

she still shudders,
over that,
and now,
for other things.
like my poems.

rainy night, hair tangled,
coming from dancing
Argentine tango
with one of its living masters,
no taxi, impoverished excuse.

of that first date,
poem writ, no repeat,
but if you had told me
five years on, we would
wake up, our hair, wires
entangled, yet again...

I would have reply,
wrong boy, unchained,
wringing out bitter herbs of having,
done my 30 years
in the big house
of a failed marriage,
I am a wine taster,
a player.

told her straight out,
sweet certainty is not my objective,
she laughed, replying,
right back at ya, me too,
"same place, same way,"
our pact, healing, sealing,
with a fist bump.

five years ago.
we were certain.
now, I answer her questions
before she asks them,
now, she forbids me from
buying her any more trinkets.
but I am almost  
quite certain
I didn't
hear her say that.

Quite Certain:

of so many things
that seemed important once,
by the wayside fallen.

that I will be writing
fabulous
incredible
virtual
extraordinary

little love poems,

to her, many years on,
even though
no new words I will own.

but quite certain,
will be still reminding her,
she came late to our first date,
and She will still and
always be falling in love with this poet.

Blue eyes, blonde hair, red lips, intense stare,
self doubt, dark soul, your eyes bore a hole,
hard kiss, quick ****, over fast, no luck,

leaving now, going home, so cold, so alone,
shiver shake earthquake, so unreal, so fake,
tears trickle down my face, so slow, quicken pace,
still there on the brink, another drug, another drink,
block you out, so numb, want to hide, want to run,

Far away, leave it all, the more i think, the more i fall,
Shut my mind, shut you out, feeling sick, full of doubt,
Too hard, you’re always there, look at you, try not to stare,
Fake smile, cold hello, nervous laugh, hard swallow,
little hope drains away, another moment, another day,

Time goes on, hope it heals, because I hate how it feels,
But for now, I crave your touch, I want you now, miss you so much.

She makes herself present when you need her most,
not to boast, but this tasty delight will treat you well as she continues to host.
She doesn’t give herself away too much,
****, if it was up to me I’d cop more than a touch;
A squeeze, a whole late night session, to indulge in her taste of imperfections,
Eat her up til I obtain a dental infection.
Not my intention, but her silhouette alone breeds thoughts of sin,
what I would give, to have her all to myself, wouldn’t know where to begin.
Undress her slowly as she teases me,
And repeatedly, she teaches me to treat her with care and show some decency.
But I can’t concentrate, she has my mind in a figure-four,
I'm a carnivore, but she exposes her flesh and I want more and more.
Its all been done before, but in this moment I’m in bliss,
I reminisce, as I write this, and continue to lick her residue off my lips.
She brings so much variety, all of them eyeing me,
Which will I give into as I inspect each of them quietly.

Sometimes she comes bittersweet, sometimes she’s a freak,
But most of the time she’s in a bad mood cuz I just wana beat, or rather eat.
Our relationship is never bland, she always keeps it fresh and new,
If it gets monotonous she won’t even hesitate to bring a friend or two.
She keeps my hands full, and that’s no easy achievement,
But she brings so much to the table its hard to not fiend it.
My favorite color on her, has to be green, not to be obscene,
But I’d tear her up as if though she was in a different team, knowwhatimean?
And after that delight there wouldn’t be much of her left,
Not to be greedy but Im not sharing until I know there’s more to come next.
If not, I’m vexed, I mean, I’m not addicted but I wouldn’t mind another round,
That’s not being spoiled I just want to know what other delights could be found.
Don’t be selfish and sadden me,
give me a taste so I can eat you up casually.
Oh miss candy, you’re just too fancy,
let me get a grip and I’ll put you on the walls like Bansky.

My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.

I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown.
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every prayer uttered, answered and unanswered,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
She ever possessed to the atmosphere,
For sharing, for recalling, for retelling,
One breath at a time.
~~~~~~~~~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.  

Critic, speaker, writer,  
her fiercest feat,                    
her leading role, creator.      
A near century of memories  
her legacy, memories that  
linger not, for incised,        
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being              
of her descendants.            

Her faith in Almighty,            
unflagging, for he did not    
forsake her in the time of      
her old age, when                  
her strength failed.

All my quizes are low.
Because they teach so slow
Concentrating on stuff they don't know
Deliberately causing massive Brain damage
Exploding heads. anomalys
Fighting assigments they give us we try to survive.
Guns blazin on oral reports.blamin'
HipHop for the youths unacceptabe behaviour
Intellectual overdose causing nerve paralysis
Joking around ain't gonna help
Killing time, wont justify the
Lack of discipline in the
Minds of the
New generation
Out of place in time & space all we can do is catch up with the
Pace....