the pleasured thrills of a
une liaison dangereuse
the mystery du triangle hypoténuse

two open, unended lines attached
to make a so interesting right (wrong) angle,
mais sans l'hypoténuse leur est pas de connectivité

indeed the hypotenuse hypothetical is crack for my brain
imagination steel furnace fired, molten are my fingers
as they trace the line you left for me on your body

to adore to cherish to lick to follow an arrow pointing
where?

to the heavenly pleasures that earth reside
in our differences substantial
which intrigue rather than
divide

opposites attract is true and not,
we could be
we could not be more unalike
that so excites for dreams only I can uncover
in the rounded shape  of thine wide eyes

a horrific inserts
she is only teasing me

but the need to dance on the brink
the fulfillment that origins in a need perpetual
is the one that satisfies because it cannot
be fully satisfied

if you know this need, then you are mine bonded

beyond is at where the hypotenuse connect our lines,*

"we'd be beyond human,  beyond poem, beyond horizon,
beyond stars and black holes and daisy-chains and metaphors
with  nothing to say to say to an end, because it goes on, my dear,   -- I'll see you at the brink...dance with me there"

Parkland: Oh My divine, We Wrestle Over What is Yours



and what is mine

it took days for the after- shock and awe to arrive;

the bizarre tempo reversal, myself, out of order,
is my shame, after the mind’s pretense ennui of “yet another,”
had to slow seep away beneath the
firewall cutting off the pain of my the true self
and the I, of ordinary

how else, to keep the madness away?
it’s disguised in a well tended secured lockbox
chamber labeled, I, all about me,
deep hid in the rear, not too near the true self,
must keep the unseeing functioning, functioning

but bus-ted poet is triggered and the weep welling
in the eyes commencing that makes writing on a cell
on a moving vehicle an annoying frosting
on what is an inconsolable hell

everyone stares unawares that the shock,
is without awe, and the only awe is in awful awful awful awful

we sit at the Friday eve sabbath table to begin our negotiation;
but there is no negotiating though the excuses and the divine’s stumbling, flailing failings are pre-prepared,
we know this battle too well and the outcome as well,
it is mine true self’s to win, have me not
words and stanzas and music suffice
to convict the lord of the hosts, adonai

take all your seventy names in vain to crush the vanity of
omnipotence for your godliness degrades and your instant access to where the good in me resides is cutoff;
under My Contacts
you have been

blocked

we shall meet as always on the Day of Atonement
but this year no repentance to be granted, the pardons shared
with my kind only, none left for the lonely gone-gods,
no longer seek yours for me, there are 17 extra to be given out*

the left foot and the falsehoods join in the denunciation,
though some suggest reprieve and only reproach
for isn’t atonement possible for even gods?  No. not,
for a god who got human kindness installed in all his devices
but then never opened the app

my name was
onlylovepoetry;
but for now, till the culling of the agonies is done,
till the hollows are refilled and the curses fully final expended,
till the sudden eye tearing ceases to render me torn, messed,
you may call me nothing but this:

onlyreproachpoetry

should you come calling
there will be no beseeching,
just the stoic bearing witness of my silence,
my finger-pointing judgement,
and my angels presence

“May the angel Michael be at my right,
and the angel Gabriel be at my left;
and in front of me the angel Uriel,
and behind me the angel Raphael...”
and above me seventeen new protectors
whose names my true self will now memorize,

for now they are mine

~<•>~

2/16/18 4:34pm  ~ 2/17/18  3:34am

honor: “you stumble where gods get lost”

honor,

still the tattoo being drawn on my senses,
unresolved and demanding
solution or surrender,
acknowledging, that I am not poet enough

tho y’all keep diverting me with poem commissions,
half started but will freezer keep until Jacob’s angel and I
have wrestled this honor notion to the ground for good,
which means once and forever

Patti’s words distinctly heard:
“you stumble where gods get lost”
and that’s what the poetry is for,
to word wrestle until the resolution revelation shines
and someone cries out uncle, father, son, are we not all
samed and shamed when we wrestle with honor

will you know honor when it presents itself?

a man keeps his word and another honors them both
with a monthly sum that says friendship is a promise kept

a father texts to a son in trouble “got your back” that elicits
a return verse of “I love you;”. that’s love, not honor cause someone remembers their immigrant father’s hell going slowly by and this poem and that memory revived, that’s honor

(******* tears on my phone screen, a ****** pain @6:53am
on sabbath morn; no body invited the interlopers;  not me anyway)

honor is not a parade or not the kind on my mind today: the honor that gets you medaled that’s all about brotherhood,
that’s a different kind of honor I understand but not what I’m
about right wright write now

looking for small acts, small doses, nearly invisible to the naked
eye, indeed, ya need a scrunched up squint to detect the honor that I need so desperately seek to theorem proof that,
even I got some

one of you wrote me, I am nothing.
one of you wrote me,
that they are all busted up on the boulevard of broken dreams.

trusting a stranger thru his crazier poems with depreciation and overwhelming sadnesses,
is that honor?

my rsvp (how could I not), is that honor?

honor sought in the small necessities which are more important than small kindnesses wrought from love: those come easy natural

necessary necessity, the word itself bleeds pressure on the soul; but i don’t mean paying your bills, burying your parents and such stuff;

honor is in the unnecessary:  where actions defeat uncertainty, honor is stepping up when no one calls out need

honor is the first step the hand extended and the concomitant
electric shock that traverses two hands in a shake that obviates
unnecessary words
like thank you

which why gods stumble, get lost, they only get praise conferred
but honor belongs only to us humans,
to give honor.
that’s power gods don’t got,
why they oft get lost

so thank you for staying with me this far,
you honor me by listening to an old man
seizing up when his mind asks him direct

did you live with honor,
and tho the summing up s’ain’t over,
(lol laughing, at the ain’t autocorrect),
at least now I know what to count,
what counts,
doing the unnecessary unasked
in small ways, a quieter doing good,
honor needs two and starts when you say hey
hey you...


*7:36am Saturnday  2+10+18
Shabbat Shekalim
writ without disguise

Before you collapsed
back to the blank face of Ys,
back onto damp sands,

just for an instant,
             I stopped. (in my desk chair)
and saw
your spires, heard your swollen bells
                           and smiled in the sun.

You rose in earnest,
sang to the horizon(!)
the casual and the causal.

the waves eddied around
you and suddenly,
as easily as you drew
from the seabed,

you let me know,

everything that matters
(one day)
collapses.

there’s a woman

in Minneapolis
where winters mind-bend, her face on my hands engraved,
she makes my fingers love her once more, saying I am the
real dream come see me when you can, I’ll give you summer
when the calendar says no, but you know I can

in Paris
a woman in the shape of a young girl,
her eyes wider than a grand boulevard,
who writes me in scattered verses I can’t comprehend
takes my hands in the metro on our way to
St. Germain-des-Pres, where she will make confession
she loves another, forgetting that was her first reveal
and why I now love her maintenant, plus complètement

in northern California
my golden raisin with smooth skin, six foot tall and gold hair
longer than Rapunzel, and don’t know what she wants from
this short older eastern man and when I ask she laugh kisses
saying because you are everything I am not, an acorn of real,
Vermont maple syrup for my green grapes and bring me scents
of genuine that your pores secrete

a married woman in Florida or was it Texas
who says come inside me, you are already there, make it real,
we will sail from the Gulf to the Keys in the escape pod
of our specters, our blunt physical connection,  
we’ll go ashore for barbecue when we need
a break from consuming each other and tire of tarpon

in London town
who impaled me with dreams of wet walks on the moors
I’ve never seen except in her poetry; she will warm me with porcelain tea and bitter pints from hide-away pubs, both drinks I despise but will love If she asks: will share chips and wine waiting for the tube or the boat to Greenwich, where we will ask time to suspend itself for a day or two so we can sing old Donovan tunes and be each other’s scarf against that ****** chill we know is coming

I am
their fantasy, their harsh escape to sweet caress for hours
they surrender to my desires for that’s what they’re wishing for,
in our peculiar language, no word for a sorrowful au revoir
or even,
will I ever see you again or even for
peculiar
for we are a physics mystery
a singlet and a multiplet simulation simultaneous,
spectral lines

to call them muses would be an abusal, they are lovers
of spun words I profess in devotionals made just for them,
and lovers for devouring and feasting and then fasting

until I dream once again come tomorrow’s sleep-writing
satisfaction

2/9/18 3:47am

how I honor you (notes from a conversation with Patti Smith)*

~for Cné~

<•>

honor,
honor on my mind
(ran into Patti Smith last night at the Standard Hotel
in the Meatpacking District)

told her honor, 
honor,
on my mind

she said that’s
why I like you
city poet

”you, are a free range thinker,”

when you get stuck on a bubble gum word
on the sole of your shoe,
you one sticky stuck poet,
can’t let be freed~released till you get the

curve of the word,
curve of the world,
you stumble where gods get lost.  
where the divisions of the subconscious thread together,
and you got to peel the onion all the way back, while
you cry

here is what I think about honor:

there is so much added glut
in this world,
honor the reader
never write a word that
wastes a minute of their time!”*

you wrote you have only poem in you wright,
and you writ it to right the world,
thrice, and over and over in disguises.
and sometimes, I hear, even with
spaghetti sauce