a (the) woman’s body (pretty pleasing)

is my reciprocal

her waist is my happy place

her neck is my doorway

the rest is
best when she is mirror accessorizing,
preening, **** upon first rising,
tallying the gains and the losses

unaware of my watching,
never satisfied she, tho she is 98% unadmitting contented,
as she shifts her weight,
from knee to knee extended alternating
with slow delicacy

for the pleasure is trebled
for her imagine image reverberates
throughout the house

for ever(y) mirror is pre-positioned,
accidentally angled just so, lol,
her image transported from living room to dining alcove
all the way to the kitchen’s bleacher seats

she doesn’t know and asks why I’m grinning,
answer is
no confessionary, no telling I’m swelling and
sinning

eyes scheming-dreaming of her reciprocity

she smiles and says  
“good morning bad boy”

maybe she does know
but you won’t tell her,
we, you and me,
are pretty pleasing

she is 1/me
she is won over me

measure me by quantity,
mine you, deep my shaft of data,
I got plenty,
lots of ill-advising words,
to a thousand poems...

keep 'em short, boy,
satisfy the appetite
of the new age for
short and sweet,
make the metaphors
obvious

make sure
the span of spam
tween moving the heart
and the ticking clock
is
brevity
that is the soullessness
of popular attention

you maybe, nah,
you are an old fool,
getting into movies
practically for free,
an ancient mariner,
(a what?)
but nobody wants to
read the longings that are
still and wild flowing
into and from,
erupting
of every pore,
every one a door
to to a different destination

"Your poems are too **** long"

So I will write what you want to hear...

**** it....

too long? Ok!

Suk it...
but using grownup words,
try,


Succinct me!

3/28/2015

Repeat Every Year! No End Date


a birthday reminder created;
lapsing memory necessitates
a firm calendar entry;

a reminder, with a proffered choice
every year without end
is a stark choice

for the body messages rapidly
a modest daily deterioration;
that sunrises will cease,
while sunsets not;
the smell of everything
fresh is familiar and therefore
stale in its own way

the five senses announce:
lazy man what did you expect?
why, my just desserts, which
is my tears behind rueful laughter

nearer my god than thee

~for Steve and Marshall~


“And the drowsy old world’s growing gloomy and gray,
While the joys that are sweetest are passing away;
And the charms that inspire like the picture of dawn
Are but playthings of Time—they gleam and are gone,
    While the drowsy world dreams on.”
"The Drowsy World Dreams On" by Walter Everette Hawkins

 <|>

my personal time ladder, nearer to the top step,
hungrily devour the photographs of time’s daily sweets,
every natural picture evokes gasping, wonderful wonder,
acutely aware and wary that this confirms my duality,
rejecting and welcoming the nearer end of my personal poem

the poems of many-a-day stored securely in the ever expanding
internet, for memory is the most untrustworthy partner, and who? will retrieve, reinspect them, clapping to their bright shining, who in teary wake, be commanded by my no more heart beat-throbbing, an irony unflattering, as my disposition ranking first among the
forever stillest

some few gleam and gone; in the wee hours, when I enter
the confessional, both priest and penitent, my sins gleam
for but a moment and the priest sadly informs, there is no prayer or poem that will forgive your multitude of poor paths taken, of love ungiven, craven cowardice of safety’s paths taken when choice was offered

these poems are merely
the residue of a life poorly lived,
poorly given, seeking no mercy,
for if I cannot forgive myself,
why should you?



10-18-21
11:39AM