i watch
a child racing his bike uphill
chasing a purple sunset
mercifully he will never catch it
unless i'm wrong of course
and he realizes meaning
and he comes to understandings
all on his own, before he is prepared to
bear witness to  his own sadness
his place in the world
awakening too quickly, too young
to the ineffable journey
before him

its already begun

”these thoughts, become yours, more than mine, for
in the taking is the additive chemical that enhances,
making the distance closed to only those closest, here I pause,
fearful, you hesitate, do not understand, that sunshine can
blind any man, sickness humble any body, we are un-alike despite
our commonality, more than different, for we are all riddled”

the words clearly clear,
thinnest writ for your gaze to penetrate.
do you yet understand?
we are all riddled.
the world presses upon our back.
we do not understand why.
riddled with the worst, bullet holes shot through and through,
some wounds old now, others anticipated and yet to arrive.

in this we have a stake, all humans can die in the same ways.
ah death, the theme that keeps coming back, endless reruns.
I am ruined, riddled with doubts, value and worth, how it is
humans exhibit the polar opposite, of qualities, features disparate.

are we not all riddled?
we are all riddled.

a truism, an overused, abused entrée to the first poem of the day,
they always are night-born, from a slow passage of dark to a light-triggering recording event, a 6 hr. poem period, gestation, incantation

and a sort of relief, temporary

many the miles voyeured, a mentaller feasting sated,
simple rhymes to covet, rephrasing the complexities of
our other lives, where our sub-selfs exclaim, out loud!
this is me unchained, this is me chained, this is...someone

besotted by the rottenness of honesty, once air-exposed,
eyes fixed, no away-turntable, all that well hidden spoilage
in dreams reverent, forsaken, my ashamed-ness, is willing
taken to the scaffold, and by daylight first, perceived, conceived

we may examine the half of me, nay, the all of me, open-face
secrets secreted in my nighttime travelogue, of crimes, revelations,
insects, drownings, strawberry moons, all the fraying edges of a
linen covering, my cadaver pouch of well used words

inscribed thus:

”human born from a sac, and to earth returned, in sackcloth

Vortices of liquid fire
Fill my soul with raw desire,
****** my need for time with you,
Abruptly, to cognoscente view.
Abruptly, as to pause the day
To take my shortened breath away.
How your vision, in my eye,
Consumes me... as this vaulting sky
Erupts in towered halls of flame...
To paint your lovely smile, again.

M.
5th June 2020

For Marshall Gebbie

in June, with sun dispatched to somewhere else,
a steaming mug, adds to the clouds of gloom but,
dissipates the summer chill, that seems colder than its
winter chill counterpart, since it is contraindicated,
here, where, it’s summer and everybody’s inside, hiding,
for all the irrational reasons, the news, reports so earnestly

you send me a poem of incautious beauty, of a moment re-warmed,
desire, recalled, rekindling a past so well remembered that it edges
me off that chill, and I wonder how timing is in always everything,
the rear view mirror concept somehow a predictive tool,
cause we never saw it all, but just right, plenty enough, and
when old men muse, the risk of self- ruse is always lurking about

remembering how it was, how we wanted it to be, how we’re
sure that we too were there, or at least near, almost certainly,
was it a thousand poems ago, or B.P, (before poetry), when
actions were louder, preferable to words, life, charging neurons,
by the billions, so we have those storages, celled memories,
so that the poems of then, come back so easily, framed in our memory,

in the glorious, stunning heated colorings of pleasure

June 5,
2:35pm
Shelter Island

A dream, then god‘s interspersing jealous pleading indecipherable.

The  combinatorial explosion makes us into god-like humans,

when we grasp that simplicity is the greatest complexity,

the surges, the mastering urges, the blending melding gradations,

gods dream of our holy bodies encompassing, its said ingredients.


fly child!

the horizon line approaching, it’s either a goal or boundary, or both,

where endings blending make us immortal for a few minutes,

when the good Holy Ghost says, “me and we, ain’t no difference,”

hot fever, leads to raging calm, euphoria transition to believing,

where the god inroads, visibly interfere in invisible dreams, pixies pixelating fine granular,

dreaming my skin,  kin to prayering, my knees touching clouds,

lying on mounds of red soil, my eyes sewn shut and yet,

I see all perfectly, for the dream of god, is what we are...

~

7:15am
Jan. 31, the year of 2020 visionary