for my Ian

~
Sunday morn in San Fran,
chest, a mish mash
of conflicting
poems

that someday will be written...

the titles I have,
but not yet, not now,
his flesh, unentitled,
to the measuring cup of words
to flesh them
into existence

tho solemn sworn,
hand upon the
bible of his beating chest,
oathed to the gods of his conceit,
these too shall be conceived,
pristine and parfait
avant someday,
when he as well,
be a work closer to
the rounding out of completion

poet's inner flesh is a mixology
of Pacific Ocean tide  pools,
amber *** colored,
sea green chlorophyll
of absinthe

contentment muddled with anguish,
the wonder of children's tender undemanded kisses,
topping the texture,
the latency of life

Oh!
those holy kisses,
wholly unsolicited,
head the list,
conquering freshly reheated
crescents of inextinguishable regrets,
the long listing of life's
never enough, never enough,
never enoughs

day yawns before me,
possibilities are fulsome and many,
what drives me now at
preservation band of forever of this instant of life,
is a dialogue recalled
origin born by the Frisco Bay,
but yesterday

tween my be-loving and be-living and
believing,
five year old rambunctious boy,
and his absentee,
would be,
East Coast version
of an itinerant, twice a year,
grandpa

a conversation
re the possibility of
running away from one's shadow

the bight boy brighter with brimming optimism
viewing the day, and as far as he can see,
all through a prism
"of all things are possible,"
certitude of unblemished youth,
which welcomed as a
body wash for cleansing
an old man's soul

the old man's lungs,
his interior thesaurus,
covered with
ne'er do well shadows,
of hard gained experience,
that are
among his very own uneraseable,,
great unwashed,
misbegotten, missed opportunities,
the impossible dreams unfulfilled

old man knows there is no targeted
radiation or chemotherapy,
can history rewrite,
that proof positive,
can conclude that running hard, running away,
from,
or even running back
to those shadows
that will perforce
travel and travail,
that can e're  prevail,
o'er man-inescapable need
to morose compose upon his
nettled, untitled,
foretold and foreseen,
own decomposition by
the weights of regret,
of those shadows
never to be
caught, erased

but he does not share this knowledge
with the boy*

~~~

two fourteen sixteen
7:53 am
Market Street, San Francisco

the tinkling kiss,
tween silver bell
and the windowed door,
at the ice cream store,
announces with the delight of
a tingling excite

a novitiate,
a well scrubbed innocente,
a suckering, youthful customer
has entered the store

all the ice cream poems stand up straight,
paying cold attention,
the little boy ones,
fix their crookedly crooked bow ties,
the little girl ones,
pat down their crinkly crinolines,
all best behavior-ed,
shivering cold from hot anticipation,
the idea, the conception
of becoming
the chosen one,
invited outside,
for delight,
the pleasure of melting into
sweet, sad loving death,
in the smiling mouth
of a young fan & reader

now, they all know the rules,
no calling out!

just stand in frozen attention,
glistening, shimmering,
displaying their true coloration,
hoping to be the selected election

but that rascally bad boy,
with salty language,
yes, the salty caramel one,
can, in his over-sized container,
no longer can contain himself,
screaming out
with  an aura of entitlement

"pick me, pick me,"
read me, eat me,
favor my flavor"

all thirty one flavors,
one for every day of the month,
start to shout,
like a raucous caucus
of politicians huffing and puffing,
wheezing and whining,
pretend crying
for the  favored blessing of your vote,

"pick me, pick me,"
read me, eat me,
favor my flavor"

there is even a
"flavor of the day,"
usually a newly minted green poet,
a chipped one,
seeking to find a permanent home
for its fresh faced tasty, word sensation,
but after thousands of plastic spoon samplings,
nonetheless melty-dies in the corner, alone and forgotten,
for fame is fleeting, and not always long term good eating

so many to choose, got the poetic ice cream blues,
sweet slow aching of loving infatuation for the iceiest of
tongued-licking caressing, the only way to be consumed
organically

"pick me, pick me,"
read me, eat me,
*favor my flavor"

T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers,
these tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.

Each a troop,
in the army of orphans,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.

All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to the rabbled boors,
the imagination suppressors!

World:

cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.

Poets!

Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.

With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
taste his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
becoming one who was, yet still is,
because of you,
because of poetry.

~
The Best or the Most?

individually, he whisks them away
to his favorite hidey hole,
under their parents dining room table,
the very same,
he did hid with
their father

clutching the first,
in a ritual now sacred in perpetuity,
pressed to his breast,
amidst the grande pitter-patter
of a grandpater's
imitation of a mad hatter,
the old man whispers in the first one's ear:

remember to keep our secret,
tell no one ever,
not even nana,
I love you best!

off they go

then isolating the second,
sweeping him up from behind,
poppy,
reverts again to his ancient hiding place,
amidst a gaggle of mutual giggles
where, neath the cool shade of the moon tablecloth,
he whispers to number two:

remember to keep our secret,
tell no one ever,
not even nana,
I love you most!

with perfect total no-recall,
not even five minutes later,
does the old man retain
the knowledge,
to whom did he say
which refrain,
to whom did he say what?

but he winks!

yes, he winks to himself,
secure in the knowing safety,
it matters not, not even an itty bitty
as long as
they remember,
and keep his secrets safe

~

The Great Switch Off

louder in its silence,
than a flicked light switch
in the midst of a  midnight-darkened house

more crackling than the slowest
of lasting gunshot resounding re-soundings,
of the ice pond white coverlet shredding itself apart,
by its own voluble volition

I hear the switch
switching off,
the giving-in, taking over,
the surrender negotiations
swift concluded with just those you know,
two words

let the anguish languish,
the discipline,
become someone else's disciple,
just let me be

well familiar this on-off moment,
well recalled from all prior nine lives,
exactly the where and the when was,
I gave up on trying,
but never needed the why

cause the why was inadmissible,
tampered evidence, dampened down,
tainted lies and justifies

tomorrow I'll restart, re-equip,
cause the catching up with lost sleep
a minimum week,
to require, to reacquaint,
with the on-demand, life props
for properly slacking off

the oldest loudest sound
you have and will ever make,
the crack of self-deception,
when your mind lies to yourself,
this latest, greatest switch off is only
temporary

~
Feburary Nineteenth, Two Thousand and Sixteen
5:49 am
nyc