earbuds buzz,
indic of incoming friendly fire,
another love song,
hardly differing,
what’s the big deal?
uh oh, oh no,
only transformered into an ****** boy soon
to be out loud squealing

for that’s not the way a poet’s brain operates,
a surgical insertion of a poetic inquiry brings a repetitive inquisition's painful honesty
and a new commitment commission now inescapably upfront~facing

even for the
low priestly devotee of
only
love
poetry!

Has anyone ever said to you
I want to hold you forever?
Have you ever told anyone
I want to hold you forever?

oh my god!

the brain is racked, a fav torture of the self-
inquisitors, more awful than version physical,
my balance disturbed, my soul perturbed,
which the greater, my enabled loss or
my failure?

for a detailed search of history personnelle
(of course! it is a feminine noun)
registers no results, given or received,
the hurt of the how, can it be, OLP never
uttered this most greatest
declaration of love?

and then/there, by the River East, a most public place, old man is seen uncontrollably
weeping, a non-gendered English verb,
reported the New York Post
tabloid newspaper

small thanks, photo had my back bent,
my face remained hidden, but revealed agony
of the twisted prostrate figure leaning over
the railing as he rails like an exile
or a hostage

and there’s no answer forthcoming, no coverup, just an existential howling in
recognition that the opportunity has likely
disappeared, and the sky answers not
when begged


why me, why me, for the silence
is answer enough, never was I willing to
raise the gate protective, high enough to
stand before another, unclothed and
impurities revealed

surrender myself to accept or
give out or give in to
that most
wonderful risk

and the weeping
doesn’t cease,
it is doesn’t soothe
or ease,
for the division’s remainder
remains less than a
whole integer

how can I call myself,
only a love poet?

and I answer
my self
with a teary silence
of an unanswered
curse

circumstances changes the
man-you-al
neglects you,
negligence a criminal offense
against a young woman’s
every essenced senses,

neglect is regret coming
the unthinkable
that I guess is the
“not me joke”
neon sign
winking and buzzing
endless

by doctors orders(!):
stop being a macho idiot,

get thee to a
nail salon,
redo
updo
thyself
from toes
to fingertips
in a
remarkable stunner
of a
pink,
that says to
those glaring untruths
of unworthiness

I am beautiful
and
I
will be loved
if you only
think
pink

“What information pertains:
The thought that life could be better
Is woven indelibly
Into our hearts and our brains”
<>
Paul Simon “Train in the Distance”
<>
a songwriter inserts a precise scalpel cut
in the nether part of the brain
where we bury
things we-wish not to recall, but
that particular
poem-scrap-dagger/byte

must remain a permanent
guest on a cruise ship
going around the world that can
never return to your
hailing port

“indelibly”
that which we hope
that cannot be
removed or forgotten
or in a reverse
of a kinda curse,
this hope stabbing
is springing eternal

when I need to be bleak,
quiet on all fronts,
silence the voices
desirous to speak
in tones moving me
from down sided
up, to up and away

that **** thought
life could be better
“if f—king only…”

is a cut that never
ceases to bleed~leak,
can’t be curettage away,
never healed,
it’s indelible

it’s a saturday morning
bright and chilly
indelibly
incurable
stamped and stampeding
on my mind
that this arctic exploration,
is self-exploitation
and curse my
heart and brain that won’t
accept my explanation
nor my pleading pleas
wet knots of
begging to anyone in particular
to please
leave me alone
&
this is how the week
ends

October 2024