I hope you didn’t come here,
To be satisfied,
By pretty words so plain.

I do not entertain.
I share the experience,
No matter how profane.

Did you suffer?
Was it a burden?
Do you regret not seeking entertainment,
In prettier things?

Those who started at the beginning,
Why did you stay,
Until the end of this temporary gaze,
Into what persists for eternity?

Fate got what she wanted. She has all his attention.
The Wind got what he wanted. Oblivion remembers the beloved.
Alcyone and Ceyx got what they wanted. They’ve been reunited.


Everyone got what they wanted.

Does that make this a happy ending?


Or was it,

Too unsatisfying?


Were you hoping for someone to pay?

Were you hoping for a victory?


Did you,

Get what you wanted?


Could we say the journey was worth it,
For this fleeting glimpse into eternity,
Where the story does not please,
Where it repeats with little progress made,
Towards that resolution, indefinitely delayed?


Everyone got what they wanted.  

But no one is happy.

So tell me,

Is this still a happy ending?


Then what does it mean?
What did they expect?
They got what they can.

If that’s not enough,
Then shame on them,
For being such idealists.

Ungrateful brats.
I’m sure some would argue that.


This is the best they can have.
No resolution, no justice, no revenge.
Just a legacy filled with inaccuracy.

Together at last,
Free to do as they may,
But not as they please.

Is that the compromise?
To be free to choose,
When there is only,
One choice?


But they all,

Got what they wanted.


BUT NO, NOT LIKE THIS.


They got what they wanted.

But no one is happy.


So can we say,

This is a happy ending,

Or not?


It doesn't matter.
Just that it's over.

Except, it's not.
Only for us.


Not even for us,
Not when we return to reality,
And we all see,
It is us trapped in this cycle repeating.


Go and search for your own answers,
In what's real and what's not,
Through joy and through pain,
They are all the same.

Reflect and recall, who does the thinking.
Reflect and reclaim, who does the talking.


Stop gazing upon their story.

It will go on,

Like this,

Forever.



But you,
Are not forever.

Your gaze is needed elsewhere.

The living reality of a metaphor, almost every ounce in-taken,
Every nuance, every pronounce, measured, weighted and weighty,
Fluid or firmament, each encapsulated, prior to release, scaled,
Tabulated, ordered, noted, recorded, and ultimately judg-ed.
Totality of it all, the varied quantities of the ingested nutrients,
even the forecast of the future, if every day was a metaphor for
like today…

DO

I speak of the day's headlines?
Of the quantity and nutrition that passes through my lips?
Or
The surround sound of the surrounding sounds of this day,
the flocks of bandito geese who exist only to torment,
the landscape working crews, with their tools, like a 7::00an wake up buzzing about, for the entire street, going house to house, looking for itinerant grassy knolls of patches of bright green,
overnight sprung up and needy to be
guillotined,
laundry to do, rugs needy for clothesline screaming/beating or merely super fast vacuuming;
they, hawking their skills available for the old and infirm,
or the fatty catty cattle lazy, (somewhere in there is moi);
and the decibels of their machines, the rat-a-tat of their rapido, voluble speech that feeds me poetry by the ounce of their laughter, but more exactly of,

What do I speak, to what do I allude?

Why all and none, everything and specifically nothing,

for the metaphor is meta! (1)
It is life itself, from the quarter teaspoon
to the overflowing bath, it is life at its most incremental,
the moment
of flushing face,
the second
of ah ha! recollection, the,
long term trends
trending,
the flatline of my EKG,
the weighty pronouncement of my talking scale (you've been bad),

IT IS THE EVERYTHING
that is measurable, weighable, isolatable, defined; 
it is our existence of our each & every of action and inaction strung together like a necklace and a chain

We are metaphor, reality, is, the script,
which is the product of you.
scriptwriter…/

there is a delight unique
(which is mispronounced
by all, actually, u-nee-cue)
after thousands of poems
composed and disposed,
smack dab read, two- fab-you-lust-
fulfilling new(new (to HP), anyway)
poets who have left me
brighter but blue
with one option, two problems:

De doc he say, son you in a bad way,
wake to neon flashing ear to ear,
a l t e r n at i n g
smiles and grimaces,
face flashing
unceasingly
like a lonely
orange red Hotel sign
irritating the dark, all night long

two poets,
offering either hope or despair,
and I am bereft and bewildered,
by two new to me poet~scriveners,
with such distinctive and oppositioned
positional views of life expressed so well,
making my Pity #9, feeling prissy and yet prophetic,
as these two make want to cry/smile with every read
of theirs…and throw in the crying towel…wet with tears …
and the summer breezes, carries us leeward,
to the sheltering side of my island

READ THEM!
(see below)

I hibernate like a bear, but not from winter, from the world.

When I witnessed a rare fragility of the rain unbecoming—pouring its madness, tears following the wind that brings me to a place where I knew I witnessed an unfortunate crime, an absence of an absolute evil—cruel crime I would not be able to forget; the great tragedy of what was once.

It was all I saw.
It was all I felt.
It was all I knew.

The comfort and the gruesome thought of being a witness to it all—to the chaos, the fraudulent rage of the supposed love I knew; until I became a victim of it.

…and the absence of my answered prayer turned to basking in idiotic romantic fantasies I had built. All that interested me was the world I created inside this big rotten head of mine.

What an unfortunate time to be a witness in an unfortunate crime called: the absence of love.

While odd things create reality, dreams do come true, a bittersweet goodbye turns to a sweet return. All I know is once in a while, there comes an absence. How do I return the sparks back?

every time a poem completed,
its state of affairs, certified & feted,
the boys gather 'round, for serious
series of slaps on the back, and
drunken wisdom words,
"you'll never do another one, better, boyo!"
and the dread of correct
feels me up,
filling me up
with cream filling
whipped up
anxiety
of the now seizured defeated

as I grab a clean sheet from top of the stack,
and the retired muses overhear,
delightedly, whispering to each other
just loud enough to hear
me shaking tremble,
"and right they are,
and write they are!*"

and yet, ex-poet, still a fool…
9:42pm
Wed Aug 6
2025