The courage to encourage
(‘tis no accident the overlapping
of these two words)
<•>
tilling the fields of beautifully
and freshly seeded words,
gift wrapped in the essays
of the experimenting,
carefully and carelessly toe dipping
in the tooling of shapes and paintings sourced from a mere handful of
twenty six water colors,

in fresh water streaming waterfalls of:
knew
new eyes
new words
newly hewn
combinations

all
upon the early morn bluey sketch,
against a noisy background of a new day’s
first blushing

when the rested brain is so, so
receptive to newness,
itself a word of a
délicieuse lovely phonic
mouth treat

at 6:35an
on an ordinary Thursday

and now an
extraordinary Thursday,
when my inbox of old eyes
is delighted
and crinkly smiling
at the enduring uncovering
of
daring,
earning while yearning,
poets eager to give us freely
the first fruits of
their  hybrid creations

makes an old man
weep new tears,
to accompany
him till the end
of the day,

each tear a diatom of lace upon
an endless river of,
well,
the everything,

a knitting of letters
flaring up with a robust,
Hey!

I am here,
I am aborning

so glad to make your acquaintance
    


                     nml

~my poet friends and friendly poets~

(written in anger, then sorrow,
tinged with regret, but in the end one
has no choice but to forgive and forget)

<•>

the ghood poet knows no boundaries,
lays down tracks of a New England
pond of nirvana,
or across Siberian froze wastelands,
another
salves the wounds of dying soldiers,
and gives away comfort to the dying
with the freeing oxygen of
comforting words

the world of self,
that thing we know best,
thus encouraged by the textbooks,
well,
to have at it, plays whacamole
with your  owned flirtatious emotions,
none too imperious or low down or
garbage dump *****, that yet
cannot be validated by exploratory
over-the-line words pithy

even the florid, tiresome nickel & dime ing
rhyming scheming crutches,
we so oft employ,
yields up stuff that ain’t half bad,
periodically,
though, the blunt of words well crafted
needs
no such delimiting amusing playthings
or imprisoning
I-am-amoebic-pen-tata-meter

take you inspiration from here and there,
the proverbial deep dark of the mind’s recessed corridors of
corrupted consciousness,
or, the
contrail whiffs of the steaming steaming of the contradictions of a
newborn first day’s contrast of-
the wet dew on toes cooling,
while the simultaneous sun warms all
the cheeks,
heats the blood with
a thanks-god-I’m-alive
overwhelmingly overall tickling,

or
not.

write with the tools you have, but keep
them well sharpened, with
insight and revelation,
exploring the rain’s windowed
navigable rivulets,
the musical tempos
of waves and their multi-mystical variations,
and the readers will come like
pilgrims to your  holy land,
wearied and yet so delightedly hopeful,
with tingling contrasting dictions,
to capture and release,
by shattering any
stale notions of adulation
will bring your
audience of holy voyagers and voyeurs
to imbibe so deeply your creativity for the quenching, and the
amen gasp escaping tween
their lips is just a simple holy,
gentling thank you

discard the bad words as ornery and
distracting, veiled in pomposity and
highfaluting, self-saluting, arrogance of
those deeming themselves critical thinkers,
who thrive in the low mud flats of
self-pretension and the reassurance
of a mirror’s reassurance

write straight from the heart,
fill our eyes with the
complexity of the simple
and
grant us the write to share,
in your humanity

craft the work
and
the work
will repay
so stealthily
by secretly
crafting you




                                   nml

early morn (5:00am) scanning, scrolling,
unrehearsed searching and the question
appears in a “loves that got away” column,

(why do all these descriptors start eith S,
I think I know!)

and off on another self-effacing, investigative determination, a mental biopsy of another hopeless cause,
that results in poems too long

though the body and mind are rested,
with six hours of uninterrupted sleep,
and volumes of dreams,
the quest bags a burr in the bed,
(yes, rhymes with head)
but n o t h i n g pops in with a grin,
and a bell ring, stating presumptuously,
why that’s me
and the fault failure fear
in me
engorges

this  really distresses,
with & in a deep sense of awful,
how can I not recall this momentous
illustrative precious precision
proof of why life is worth living,
and worser still,
don’t I get to choose,
isn't this an interrogatory,
suitable for a pre-provided
Multiple Choice Answer?

a pause to collect myself from a
falling into a hole of nefarious negativity spiraling,
suddenly
recalling so many
kind and gentle touching brushes
of your comments re my poetry,
which provoked warm tears

^and one more tine,
poetry has saved
a life^

5:37am Saturday 2-15-25

to
elicit the secrets of my senses, never to miss the little miracles, my impoverished ones might not intuit or recognize, though
they, si, very alive, for all have left me
new words

to ***** my existence into high gear emotive,
this, their very motive and together we are
in

in each other’s motion perpetual
whirling whorls
of worldwidewords

a common enough expression,
lightly spoken, easily surrendered,
wishes become hopes or prayers,
depending on the gravity of urgency,
right, know that wishes are
gravity-resistance,
rising up to the atmosphere, where any
cruel, fate-focused, looking to be
amused, lousy lounging-around gods,
always cruising
for some real entertainment, might
snap
into action,
upending plans, ruining futures,
or tickling your fancy
with a run of fabulous luck,
by, due to, their fanciful footwork

in the near future:
I hope to live to serve tomorrow,
feel the
ingenuity of love’s aroma,
as fresh as a new morn born
fragrant croissant

in the near future :
I hope I hear
Rhaposdy in Blue
being played live
through an open window
and be joined by my fellow
sensualists in a spontaneous
street festival

in the near future:
I’m going to go on a slightly
oh so lightly
planned road trip,
domestic and international
to visit friends I have netted
in my butterfly catcher,
the human kind,
whose flowers of words I have
suckled the nectar thereof,
and thank them properly
with hugs, fresh fruit
and gifts that will
tickle their fancy
fanciful wordswork

and make it home,
a safe return
to those called family
and find them
happy healthy
and never complain ever again
about that
stupid grin
on my face
that just seems impossible to
erase

2/6/35 4:57pm

“and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.”
<•>

Let X
(mark the spot)
Let X
be what it seems
Let X
be the finale,
the answer it seems
to be,
not the necessary one
you wish it to be,
but what be

seemly

the sense of The End,
the final descent,
the last landing
(or perhaps the first takeoff)
let it be,
be a finale,

Let X
be the finale,

Let Be
the answer it seems to be

let be

Fri, J 10 l, 2025    12:20 NYC
walking for flowers
                ~~~~
the steely irony is not bittersweet,
nor is it
white horseradish Passover stinging,
yes, the slow perfunctory defunctory,
measurable in cc’s and centimeters,
drip drop drippings frittered away by
the brains self-destruction of
cycling and recycling,
yes, and dying,
that occurs
all **** day long,
daily between the sunrise and sunset

Yet, here, right here, poetry words
somehow
fall freely,
no hesitation,
from brain to page,
no coitus-interrupt-us,
as if I was composing,
am decomposing,
mine own psalm

no need for proofs,
it was lying in wait for
sweet release,
a trigger pulled
to assemble &
stand and deliver the freely
given, albeit stolen goods

but in the ordinary course of human living,
I, fumble, stumble,
anger from my gut rumbles
up in actual screams of frustration
as the individual word sought is sight unseen
in a forest of hedgerows purposed
to interrupt free flowing
verbal animation, invading excitations

cannot remember
ten digits of mine own
cellphone number,
but the address of
my residence from early childhood
trips off the tongue, lightly and fantastically
and uselessly

the name of what’s their names
is a rock star
be a solid stone, large pebble,
s t u c k in my gourd,
or the little strength needed
in your fingertips ,
to grasp the individual coffee beans
you just dropped,
scattered over two rooms,

strength that arrived snd went,
and the cells of your body parts,
ask you
what’s going on, going wrong?

making lists is inoperative,
for the whereabouts
of said list is curiously
gone to the devils on my back,
cut out to
the dead cells that were once a warty grey,
now a withering deadening and
deafening, deadening, defeated
black hole
(******* in data for destruction)

seven generations of accumulations
erode,
chip chirped & chipped away now so oft,
onto those ***** city sidewalks
they fall and to dust,
to down ground, by steps of
passer-overs who care not a
whit,
what's that word that
rhymes to
writ?

it is imprisoned on
Devil’s Island with
what’s-his-name

took out the fixings to
make an antipasto salad,
placed all upon the counter ,
but couldn’t
locate the fig goat cheese, and
no it was not on my nigh-table,  
nor hid in the fridge,

grrr, that fridge that I fully emptied,
twice,
for twas sitting on the counter,
snickering
the very first item removed,
and also
to be
the first forgot

high to low, and revere course,
having not
left the abode!?!,
where is my watch,
so hunt for the smart watch awaiting
my lovely wrist,
not to be found,
for it was well
hidden from searching eyes,
already on my wrist,
hiding upside down,
beneath my shirt cuff,,
announcing publicly it’s
smarter than its owner

admire a painting upon a wall,
but say nada to the world,
for the word mural
has evaporated, an
evaporated not no more
subjective Objective

intentionally
cut, rip off the pockets from every coat,
leaving in each but 
 one,
so I can be comforted
when wallet searching,
that endless patting repetitive
of pockets visible and hidden,
has now but a singular solution
thus,
may yield resultant missing object
sought and more quickly
found,
maybe

a thousand poem bits o’ honey
fully finished, or just a phrase,
needing a body, heart and head,
lie in a dank and dark
dungeoned file,
Former Memories

but the where when
and the critical tickle,
the why,
formation is still needed
for them to be despatched
to their fate,
unless it’s
“just because”
a better reasoning,
other than my
own guilty
diminishing capacity
“is no longer in service”

p.s let me save poor yocum
complaining this miss/ive
is too long,
for there!
I’ve done it for him

Dear Patty,

I have never met a child or a poem

born to live a free verse life,
willingly submit to patrician
powdered **** cheek horror at
the unconformity of escapading,
river rafting verbal tumulting,
never awoken needy to be yoked
by syllabic laws of brutalists,
jailed by autocratic diktats of meter,
or the iron confines of lines formatted,
imprisoned, once set free, they then opine-id
prithee prithee, prithee please sir
on
my license plating,
can I whine,
write free or die

bind me not by the rigid sharpies
of executed orders, or count the numbered
breaths tween my freedom riders,
escaping with grinning faces
shouting seen-u-around, and
don't forget to say
bye bye
to the tortuous
pretense of them
haiku hi hi hooliganisms,
and the amoebic
pentameter of a
speare chuckere
who was foolishly glad to trade
the kingdom of freedom
for a besaddled horse
led around by
the reign of ruthless rules

is this crystal-a-line clear
my dear?

genetic & embedded in both
the left and right brains and
heart muscles, pores and parts
that participate in the body’s
daily ritual colloquium regarding
the necessary amount of magic
needed, upkeep required,
to please the Lord, 
whose designers were
co~missioned,
tasked-to make a self healing
being, with a reasonable shelf
life but with built-in imperfections
and to struggle and to
honor  that idea that we born blind
and our goal is
learning to see,
envision
our better
version

the
correct redirection of
constant course corrections
using the
secret compass chord
playing on the harp of our
heart strings

<•>

903am
1/23/25
on a day of addition and sub traction

Disclaimer:
an unintended very long poem
from a very long walk,
hoping it might come
to rest within your
heart
but feel free to go your own,
another direction
<•>

“Another writer told me a few weeks ago of his New England Yankee mother,
who believed there are no problems
that aren’t made at least slightly better
by a long walk, and
none that are made worse.“
<•>

a moderate walker am I,
on the Promenade,
hard by the wide & narrow strait,
a tidal estuary, that divides our urban island
from its suburban Longer cousin,

this my path, most oft traversed,
a time spent usually creating,
reciprocating verses from a
copulating mind

every walking expedition is
an-in-transit composition,
an enchantment by a song
anointed, appointed and a
derivation
of a song about
going home

the last of my family
to be buried, l,
to be interred,
finally grounded,
in a park of cedar trees,
next to my immediates,
for can’t think of any other place
that might, would willingly,
not resist mightily, taking me in

it will thy will that they bury me
there if they can get permission
from the heavenly authorities,
but told the betting odds
are 3 to 1
against,
the Lords of song not so happily
with the quantity and the quality
of my unseeded spilled,
of my un-indeeded actions,
they were not entirely
rainbow colored,
some very berry blackened,
urgently misdelivered
with no justifiable delicacy
warranting memorizing or
further discussion

most likely will continue
to remain a pedestrian,
though unlikely I’ll have to
look both waysides before
crossing over

I’ll carry copies of  my scriptures,
psalms and even my one and only
flawless poem in hand,
wrote here so long ago,
s small proof that my theorems
were not
always entirely wrong,
but my replica action figurines,
were posed and struck,
were sufficient evidences
that my overall demeanor
of demeaned marks,
were negative numbered,
irony, they were unlettered
and ungraded,
mostly average, only worthy
of a place in the sadeyed lowlands

So walk I shall,
hoping they give me decent
walking & wailing shoes,
a warm suit,
a fedora or a watch cap,
cause it is more than chilly
down by the uninhabited riversides

this thinning vision is not
tinged with
any tingling regret,
nor sorrow,
what I did, what I wrote,
every word mine alone,
the way I lived,
walking solitaire is
something grown quite accustomed,
and a pretty fair pre~text of a
judgement coming
down

on the morrow,
will walk with no
measurements needed,
not speed, nor distance,
not counting crows or any other
unenumerated birds of a feather,
those on a wire or a river railing
spying observers watching,
who will go unnumbered,
as will all my
steps of no value

so this poem’s title absolute right,
no needs for solving
for absolutions,
was never ever sorry for
taking a walk,
and there are no more vocabulary
modifiers,
unneeded words left, like,

but nonetheless

only
just don’t know how
this river poem got
so long

~For Lila and the others~

there exists
a subset of us,
those who
for whatever reason
do not write,
but “just” repost
other’s work

Above see the word
Just
emboldened
for this selfless task
is justice inherent

For this act of bringing others
to our over constrained attention is an
action of justice,
or more profoundly
doing away with
injustice  of
our human limitations

We could spend days entire
pursuing the works of others,
but life and the extraordinary demands
of writing anew, when the spirit is upon us,
are oft unable to spot, isolate, and
highlight
capture
the best of the rest,
and bless those
who reorient our eyes
away from our own bounded rivulets,
to the tried and truly,  away from
habitual familial familiar good stuff,
but bring us revelations of gems,
caught within the mass maskings of missives that grows hourly, exponentially to
out attention,
to reorient
our attention,
to their filtered selections

Let us say in unison then
a blessing of gratitude
to The Reposters:
*Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the Universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, to give thanks to those who enable others, to reach us this season

Nov. 2024

“For the holy one dreams of a letter
Dreams of a letter's death
Oh bless thee continuous stutter
Of the word being made into flesh”

Leonard Cohen “ The Window”
<>
I, too,
dream of letters flying up to the skies,
from books and holy scrolls of wise men,
in hate,
burnt by
heathens, alliterate, haters all

and yet,
now more than ever
‘tis the season to remember the hatred,
and the inventiveness of the haters rancor

‘tis
truth,
no surprise shocking,
dreams of letters rising are older than one man’s interval of age, it is a tale handed down over generations, eons many,
that “multiple”is
descriptor inadequate and no surprise the
the holy one dreams of their receipt & their  
reconstitution and resurrection

I, too
to the window go,
no bonfires visible tonight,
in the city of my birth and abode,
light pollution is the sun’s inverse,
our ***** secrets sent higher, up~returned

and yet,
the letters clear visible
glowing embers crackling dressed in
shades of orange red blackened outline
and they mix and match re~forming wild
mismatching batches into songs and
lines of
perp<eternal wisdom that’s been condemned as dated

~Jan. 9, 2025~NYC
<•>
The words of Walt Whitman (1)



~~~~
The origin of all poems!

Oh what a sweeping promise
does Whitman, proffer,
you to entice, to succor.
ease out from within yourself,
that which is therein ready,,
to organize
what be the
fermenting stack of seeded cells of
fomenting
stacked
multiple
simultaneous
observations,
poetry lurking, thine owned senses,
a catalyst cataloging constantly
and you happily despair  to
capture, retain, s u s t a i n,
the pieces of a whole that
knowing only you possess,
that only you can
perfect as the combo
expression of
your
pre~owned assembly
as a solitary protagonist, witness,
and audience!

Understand the origins of the poem,
because it is original to you,
comprehension of this principle,
means that you will never be
starved for inspiration,
record the ordinary and the peculiar,
the off drink that when mixed,
shaken and stirred
that only you
can pour and better yet ,
s h a r e!

12:53am,  January 3,2025
New York City
<>
A Traveler notates these words to my attention, but only because I make myself
a convenient target, for truthfully,
it is addressed to one and all,
to the royalty of:

We,

who speake out loud, to all those who ***** these damp woods full of wet words, that spring up overnight, ripe for the plucking, there for the taking, an exacting where & when they did not even exist
the twenty four prior

These purloined overnight creatures are

white and  black

lettered truffles, like the pages on which we inscribe, the letters raw, exquisitely tasty, shaved, measured in grams, but only when shared with others, in the privacy of our open minds, after being spooned from within us with exquisite care upon the pages that decorate our lives, sprinkled
with great care and cunning…

but when consumed, our five senses rage with aromatic pleasured pain, for these letters, so tiny, so powerful, grow only when
combinatory, individual bitty granules,
but when leavened, they enhance, provoke!,
they sauce, the

flavors  of the ordinary

of our experiences,
creating the extraordinary
when interacting upon
our five robust senses

for without the spaces of delineation,
our jumbled words are but the
random jingle jangle of the sounds
of night winds, rustling a tune
pleasant but incomprehensible

Here I take your leave,
with the liberty taken
for speaking in all our names
to a Traveler
who so succinctly captures our work,
the glue of our interactive Us,
Our,
Collective of Individuality

most oft, the
wherever I write,
is duly noted,
it is a due,
due you,
and hopefully,
the why I scribe,
arrives ‘pon your eyes
with Steuben glass,
of diamond tooled curettage,
a clarifying visual of
beauty,

but always
with fair detailed precision
is the
when
denoted,
for it is the timing
of the mining the specificity,
of the exact momentous,
a precious decision
taken by you,
when to turn words
of a few seconds
of a heart’s unburdening,
with
an inescapable reminder,
of the
thereabouts & the whyabouts
the very verity of a serious
causality
that parented the
casualties
we call
our poems

join me then,
in the processional
of denoting the origins,
linkage contained therein
to the work we
c r e a t e

*•for in the recording of the reckoning•
•exactitude of the longitude•
•and l’atitude is the truest revelation•
•of yourself•

•~ A tidal strait is a strait connecting two oceans or seas through which a tidal current flows. Tidal currents are usually unidirectional but sometimes are bidirectional. The East River is a saltwater tidal estuary or strait in New York City. The waterway, which is not a river despite its name, connects Upper New York Bay on its south end to Long Island Sound on its north end. (Wikipedia)~•

The river by my dwelling is miscalled by all,
in verity, it is a tidal strait, a battling diversity of fresh and saltwater, with currents visible, bidirectional, clashing eddies underway, are
underwater arguments boiling up to the surface,

!a perfect metaphor for a New Year!
<•>

each year seems like a tumult survived,
the currents of joy and its many alternates,
seem to always clash, spot staining
and yet
the estuary of life flows on and on,
the two seas remain connected,
the salt and the fresh intermingling,
waters
surf~officially calm, stoic,
but appearances misleading

every year different
every year also similar,
substance may vary,
the surprises differing,
but we for-see troubled waters
neath the glassine superficial surficial,
and we hold hands,
knotted fingers until
we raise out arms heavenbound,
asking why,
but expecting no answer
for we
knowingly
live our lives in a
tidal strait

flipping channels,
odd conjunction of random itinerants,
mix and mismatched, blend and burr, and the
combination of irritants, annoyingly raucous
pester the barely warmed brain,
by informing me to solve for X,
combine and contrast,
throw all into the blender,
add Fage yogurt, and some chill
ice with interracial combo of
black, blue & red berries
and pour it on you head…

and a breakfast poem is served up…

the utter urgency for civility
rings alarm bells, for it is so threadbare a quality these days, and it is worn by so
very few, and I ponder,
how the quality of civility
could be so lost,
when I diagram said word,
see it
so clear

“Talk in everlasting words
And dedicate them all to me
And I will give you all my life
I'm here if you should call to me
You think that I don't even mean
A single word I say
It's only words and words are all I have
To take your heart away”

“Words” by the Bee Gees
<•>

words are orbs,
living in the airy space just
about above over my head

still plucking ‘em when the
spirits shake me awake,
speaking
“create, can’t wait,”
for if the instance slips by,
a
disparate disparaging displacement
though not fully lost,
the precise
conviction combination
precious precision decision
if not stepped upon with
a codifying immediacy urgency
can result in an
irreparably irreversible irresponsibly
l o s s,
feeling as if a piece of your
owned amazing
has been chipped off irretrievably,
flown away to a
never again
nether land

not lost on me that
the infinite symbol
∞
is sometimes called the
lazy eights

a minute momentous moment,
all it takes, for the loss of
infinity permanence of going
gone gone gone

read of a man,
in a creative place,
songwriter on a crowded California
Santa Monica highway,
with no place to pull off,
sings over again the tune birthing
with no intermission
repeating for hours the tune
and the lyrics
of a new (now famous) song,
proceeds
directly to the recording studio
to lay that track down

been there, done exactly that,
“while doing 85 mph on the
Long Island Expressway,”
(L.I..E. )
and those
everlasting words
live on today

inspired  by“Blame It on Kristofferson” written by Byron Hill and John Wilken,
released 2010
(lyrics below)
<•>
A young teen listens to the
folk/rock during the Sixties,
five few years later,
now all growed up and living, crazy,
on Bleecker Street, the very same,
where these songs were being sung live,
by the artists, songwriters & friends
on the streets’s bars ‘n cafes

And Judy sings a ballad, mysterious,
‘bout a Marianne and all the tea in China,
words written like it was a poem,
and the infection was silent transferred,
still ‘fected, even now, in days sooner to
be reporting to heaven’s door, this blessed
curse will be unrelenting coming along,
we blame it on
Leonard Cohen

Knew the words, learned the secret chords,
which was easy, a-direct line between us,
knew where he got them holy tunes, and the
words he stole stealthy from our prayerbook,
went to Montreal, visited his home,
it was no accident, just the hand of god,
but don't blame the divine mystery being,
nah~nope, half~century, later, this dope
still blames it on,
yeah that’s right, on
Leonard Cohen

And here we are, the two of us, probably
smiling, gesticulating and gesturing, who
in fact is truly responsible for our crazy gene,
that pursues us, to create,
to mate words with
music of the deep soul, and here me be,
I am,
grateful grasping for each latter day to birth a new creation,
going out smiley & feeling kindly and fulfilled, now more than ever, and
zero doubts that the person at fault, fully blaming it all on my Canadian soul brother,
Leonard Cohen

The average person knows between 20,000 and 30,000 words.
~ and for Senor CG~
<>

infinite then the multiplicity of combinations,
and yet we use so few,
and the comforting ones,
we repeat unconsciously
for they apparently applicable
to the boo/hoo/who in Who Me?

messing about in poetry,
an excuse to betray ourselves
to a greater audience with
hints and provenances,
secret’s subtle
could mean
trouble

I have revealed more than
I could believe ~
not the drabfactoids
but the insights

that flesh my self~sketches,
you could ask me anything,
my answer simple and
insane~same!

if you explicitly explain
there is no fun in that,
but the clues writ large,
answering questions you
didn’t know to ask

plenty to hide, some too
well disguised

but the hints are clear enough,
to make sure you’re
asking the correct ones
so,
sorry apology
Senor Carlo
the doorknob to my spotlight clearly
visible
in the portrait of my preposterous
multi~nefarious words

no great reveal
no screaming squeal
for you to decrypt

still requires an
inning of
excavation digging,
for it’s in the over thousands of
psalms and prayers
and a few layabout
poems
who/hoo,
too*
(wink)

~for Traveler & Jo-

they who read,
he who creates,
and supplies a marvelous word fresh born,
and we celebrate a new word’s
nativity:

+agreeance+

if only I could sing
or even write
with Niagara Falls force
of appreciation
what a miraculous joy,
this original pasta and sauce
of letters
that was never/always
meant to be
conjoined

+that nuanced combo+
of
agreement + happenstance
agreeably
connects my
heart and emotions
in my early morn
period of tallying
all the little steps
morning brings
to verify that
my breathing is good
my heart is open and exposed,
for
all the tears
I’ve already wept in but
a few moments already
in but a
few minutes reading
your new
poems and message
that are so
heart rendering

and I can smile
for the world and I
are in a state of
fulsome
agreeance!

~ for the grandson of an extraordinary man~
<>
the supply chain, which unless
you’re a logistics aficionado,
is  
alot of ve-hicles, planes,
trains, ocean going monster ships,
& shaking hands of humans, of a
Heinz variety of colors,
who give nary a moment to what
it is they are moving across a planet

all miraculous in the ordinary
schema, but when you slump
in the recliner, and think about
chains, and the reach extraordinary

you issue a curse of admiration and
lean back and think, with luck,
I’ll never have to move ever again,

and more moment’s preserved,
to serve and be served,
for all us deserving,

to let words and visions get
passed around, and the supply
chain unchains
the human soul for
the best thing us you~mans can truly
produce,
the art of new creation

4:07am

one more critique, too slowly realized,
no poet him,
unamong those who sea the world,
in metaphors and auroras,
in skeins and skins,
from brown Earth to Red planets,
worthy word weavers of
tapestries, imaginary life forms extant,
green skies, bluing floral gifts,

+that jes that ain’t me

nah,
more a working wordsmith,
telling stories in a workmanlike fashion,
medieval scribing, copying downloads of
what might mine eyes seen, believed,
recorded for all for
your accompanied precision tooled pleasuring

no pretensions left, the doc reports,
I’m a technically a heart failure, and
laugh~reply, that’s no surprise to me,
in matters of the heart,
luck ain’t been
overly kind,
(till recently)
and you can flunk that
test just so many times, before you no
longer get~set sir-prised, just reprised,
and that’s when you get clarity,
you “don’t think twice, its alright,”
plug those words in a nice combo
ain’t exacting poetry, but I don’t mind,
you can only do,
for what you got an affinity,
that’s not sinning if light/life is dimming,
and that’s got to be satirical, ironically, both entirely dissing and satisfying

anyhoo, it’s just about 646am,
coffee is made but not yet served,
the kitchen needs some fussing and tending,
bring in the paper,
dishwasher and dryer overnight whining,
pleading for closure finale
from their *** night time
**** wet escapades
THEN
organize them riffraff,
those upending draft detritus that
constitutes a working man’s load, and

a wordsmith,
lights the forge,
forges words,
foraging
in the unlikeliest
everywhere
to turn a phrase from a
dark brazen haze taken,
into a semi-polished stone blade
sculpted by,
heat and hammer and
always tears

maybe a miracle,
into useful shapes, and hope some
tourists stop by, thinking that if framed,
it might look good in their kitchen,
and give me 5 bucks even tho that
don’t keep one in smokes no more

yup, that’s about it,
says the wordsmithy,
no mystery ‘cept them
that one can let mmm,
egotistical notions fool
ya for far too long…
and that’s
entire your own fault…

l
and yet, always,
always and yet,

gave the best of me,
met my own standard,
and that!
is all any poet can say
when employing
only
two prime cooling colors,
black in white,
with the oddity of a
clashing but dashing
modicum elicited,
but not solicited,
pride and modesty