perfect summary, of pre-times, the ex-diurnal regularly raggedy,
lyric line, of lunar linear days, wave to it hi/bye crooked jaggedly

foretelling, of a first time, when world was self-imprisoned, wondering,   a sin of commission, an omission from a shut-up confession

guilty of laxity, no perspicacity, our fortune telling, loved our ignorance,
lazy greediness let sickness rule, everyone pointing no, not me, fooled

heroes dying in saving, rich in New Zealand hiding, while poets
march in punctilious timing, mourning lost freedom to be unafraid

all thinking, now disbelieving, we’ve lived so well so long,
but the fault-lines cracking showing all of us were emperors naked

from now on, we’ll live so long, not so well, suspecting each other,
the masks we will wear forevermore, dual purposed, protect and

hide our ashamed faces, gowned to disguise, finger pointing
not my fault, but the curve of life and death, proclaiming good bye:

so long so well, so long glass houses, so long, age of so swell, we too, sophisticates, above the fray, impervious innocence, so well we dead

gutless guiltless

<>
_________________
^ ”And I don't know a soul who's not been battered
I don't have a friend who feels at ease
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered
or driven to its knees
But it's all right, it's all right
We've lived so well so long
Still, when I think of the road
we're traveling on
I wonder what went wrong
I can't help it, I wonder what went wrong”


“American Tune” by Paul Simon

in these days of sheltering on the isle-of-isolactation,
a place amazingly located just ‘bout everywhere,
staying occupado is muy importanto

taught myself Latvian, can identify a thousand Avian,
can vacuum the house in ten minutes flat,
can count my steps mentally walking from the bed
to the kitchen and on the way back again, detour via the den

when I get really bored, sneak away to grab the laundry
from the dryer, I’m on fire, desirous of my sanity, fold them twice,
so they’ll be enough nice to meet her exacting standards,
going directly into her highest level, Type A,  storage drawers

but hit a snag, on certain articles of activewear, not to mention
you know, the unmentionables, which don’t present corners or angles
to lend novice folders directional cues, cannot even determine
which is inside out, or outside out, with too many bedeviling straps

too proud to ask for directions, after all I am a grown man,
checked youtube buddy, they had no clue, unless it was a tutorial
on how to remove them bodices from them body, which I will,
study later...but I winged it except for those couple of items

which I hid under her too many bed pillows!

~for yocum~
<>

the quality of commitment is not
restrained by quantity, nor by size,
impressed by nylon sheerest volume,
avoirdupois grams, Imperial weight,
steeled feathers, immeasurable, one ton
tips no true scale into red lined sincerity

the necessary respectful silences it requires,
the social nearness of geo-distancing,
all need prodigal acceptance,
like a long lost son, welcomed without questioning

we flawed, banded by many weaknesses, poorly confessed,
yet, no excuses tendered, to it, long ago surrendered,
but understand this, constancy is  not judged
by the frequency of our waves, but by the fervor of an

undertow of unwavering constancy

one that unceasingly rages, beneath superficial, steady waves,
and through the thickened, roughed old skin separating atmospheres,
I have grasped your heartened essence man,
found its depths, blessed it with words, you’ve never fathomed

surely you will growl at this, claiming obfuscation,
excuses not in your vocabulary, nor should it be,
though you require the steady reassurance of frequent brevity

so and yet, but and still,

I deny your claims, what you think, incorrect,
cause I know my heart, and well it kens what lays in thine,
what’s in yours is in mine, deep planted, a full nut grove flowering,
your complaints, mine as well, all part parceled, with grace accepted

for what is friendship but the path
through parted seas, joining two borders,
the best part of that is the landed connectivity,
leading to where we two ends,
meet in laughing two-gether
old fools, younger-then-than-now,
committed, grumpy men.

I’ll tell you. You can hear it on the map.

At the window, on the terraces,
clapping, yelling, cheering,
jiggling piggy banks, blowing toy horns,
banging pots and pans, even ringing
some gone-very-far-astray cowbells.

in their cars, honking horns,
at the dinner table, inside,
families with little kids cheering,
while supper super cools, no matter.

It is the moment of our everyday,
when we thank those whose who
risk their lives to save, so we may survive
to live to see our children’s children thrive.

the EMT’s, doctors, nurses, firemen,
the police, even the subway & bus drivers,
who take them to their jobs, and honor with
extra banging and unsilenced tears for

those who have passed in performance,
their unseen courage is marked on our eyes,
their extraordinary service to us is a forever
medaled upon our skin, in our lungs, it is
their air we breathe, freely...
our living keepsake of their duty.

4/14/2020
7:30pm

There are more poems inside me, but I intuit it is longer fair to impose on you by sharing more.  The deep seeded infection of my spirit waxes and wanes, and there is no antidote, and unlike the virus itself, there never will be, a future cure, an inexpensive replacement cost for the spirit spent, the time and futures spirited away.

Perhaps you recall I was one mile away from Ground Zero on September 11th.  Rarely do I walk there.

The coronavirus poetry inserts itself unaided, never asking permission, a like minded, but a contra-cousin to the coronavirus.

I live in New York City, the epicenter where now, close to 800 die daily.

Normally, about 25 bodies a week are interred on Hart island, mostly for people whose families can't afford a funeral, or who go unclaimed by relatives.  In recent days, though, burial operations have increased from one day a week to five days a week, with around 24 burials each day.^^

Each dies with no last words, no Kaddish recited, Last Rites, too late, no Ṣalāt al-Janāzah or Om Namo Narayanaya.  Each one, a numbered pine coffin, and each one will have at the very least, a poem of their own, so help me god.

Buried side by side in large trench, room plenty for new arrivals,
I hear the banging, protesting, resisting, this is not the way, I was promised, my ears left pounding!  Hillel, the great scholar in this dream, reminds that “the time is short, and the work is great.”          

He paraphrases, though, “the bodies many, the poems too few.”

There ain’t no anonymity in heaven, but I’ll reconfirm that with you later.

~for John Prine~

she’s eye closed, playing sleepy possum,
so I stealthy stroke her cheek, she, all smiling,
then I nose tickle my sweet-love, now frowning,
till I cease and desist, go back to stroking,
then I’m her good loving man once again

tune comes in my head from out of left field,
start to tap the beat, pic my guitar strings, roaming
all over her smooth features, now she’s all aroused,
cause she knows what I’m about and this strumming,  
why that ain’t allowed, so she knocks my fingers away

later, sneak into the kitchen, she’s fussin’ - could be,
cleaning, could be cooking, but soon she ain’t moving,
cause she’s just listening to the new tune first played
earlier that morn, on her features born, a love song,
calling that song “Playing with My Love’s Face”

now she’s grabbing the biggest knife I ever seen,
waving it to and too close to fro, in my direction general,
waving it like a baton, conducting my song, singing along,
making up her own lyrics, whole stanzas, now it’s her song,
****, if that ain’t “the way the world goes round”