You ask me how I find the time,
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition

I see a toddler swaying, see him to disaster lurching,
Somehow avoided with last second seer-like swerving,
Ten times in a ten foot walk across a pool's patio,
My eyes code red at the incredible risk/reward ratio,
It is nature at it most incredible, miraculous ordinariness

A young girl of ten wears a pocketbook across her forearm,
In the style of an elderly woman, as she plays with Barbie,
Tho her body immature, her psyche, says note my
Iconology, her accoutrement, texts a message subtly,
I am preteen, I am near woman, treat me accordingly

Dueling iPads in bed is a poem in my head,
rhymes accurate of screen reflections of an
X factor that stimulates my cerebral cortex

Verbal ointment that I posses can't fix a flat tire,
yet sets me up for a personal review, a self awareness,
Gone mad, I am, and with finger, on a gas station floor,
In the grime, words are realized/written concretely,
what my heart speaks freely

Within each day, miracles present themselves,
Gauntlets thrown, note them well and be justified,
Visions, external to my physical self,
Yet product of internal chemical reactions
That blow through my veins, swirling,
Word leaves, on a November weekend,
Windswept from a thousand directions,

So you ask me how I find the time,
The question proper be amended,
How do the times find me,
How do I know them,
And why, do I share them

<>*

May 21, 2013

<>


(for patty m)

"always love hearing from you,
it's like a kiss in the wind"


we are intimate
though never ever close,
but faithful closer

familiar,
though our convivial roads
are uncrossed, except and accept
in the delicate pearl inlay
of our poesy path

our common way station,
where can we exchange private confidentialities
publicly, above and beyond,
the plain and ordinary everyday
intimacies

from the balcony of the sixteenth floor,
I can see the horizons holding
our shared land together.

the wind blows by,
from the Atlantic crossing,
continuing on its
westward ** way

wind comes inquiring as is its wont,
as a faithful and familiar evening-tide messenger,
desirous, needy for its wantings fufillment,
to be a deliverer of
deliverances and
all kind of tidings,
sent by the
in absentia

I post a poem

the letters scatter heavenward,
no worries,
the amorphous wind,
will Oz like
reassemble them
in holy order and
brush them
across your face,
tickle the lips and eyelashes,
still moist from
missing a man who was
intimate different,
in a lifetime way

and that kiss,
that postage paid,
the meager cost
the wind receives,
for a mission well accomplished,
is transferred to you and yours
to enable you to decode
this implausibly but-all-to
plausible,
devoted message

~~~
for Matt
~~~

"My suspect credibility upon the rockets of birds,
the soft parts of people,
the oceans’ inevitable, cyclical weeping, 
Who has time for poetry has more time than they deserve"

Breaking Spring by Matt Hart

~~~

your words warp me,
the woven texture of your composition,
Matt,
dumbfounding the sweeping, weeping, instant recognition in
the soft parts' of
Nat,
where credibility
long past being suspected,
simply arrested for statutory dark room
torrented questioning

deserve poetry deserve blessing deserve curse

You Jacob, wrestle with this angel witch curveball!
'tis better to give or receive
this poetry admonishment?

for who knows where the time goes,
when the fix is in,
the addiction itch,
commands and commends,

feed the poetry *****

write or die

one fix, one poem,
carousel leads to another,
yet,
with only time to live,
pay the bills
for renting the space you Earth occupy,
no time for illegal
compulsive word blending

the interrogator demands

deserve poetry deserve blessing deserve curse?

who is your supplier?
who is your time stealer?

by the ocean, weeping,
you plead innocence,
just ill drivel, needy for expulsion,
deserving of repulsion,
swear repeatedly,
never again, imbibe, scribe

but the ***** coos in my ear,
reaching beneath
the vulnerable soft tissued skin and cells:

write or die

I thieve your time,
'tis nothing you deserve,
I am Poetry,
just your mistress,
better served

deserve poetry
deserve blessing
deserve curse

~~~
June 25, 2016

written by the ocean, weeping

~

Keep It Simple Stupid ("Your Poems Are Too **** Long")

~ for Natty~

white sheet of foolscap,
imploring the fool's fingers,
natty. natty, just this once,
be the simpleton dunce,
spend but a modest pence,
cap the blowout verbiage well

pretend
being a short and sweet poet beat^,
leaving those blue line requests
more white than black,
emptier and thus,
more silently, fuller, and powerful,

build  each line from a few hard crafted,
forged-wrought-iron syllables,
say the more in the
unsaid unwritten

snap your fingers in clapping praise,^
kiss the words bye-bye slow and single,
hold back the overfilling raucous reprises,
those stanza'd motley muddled crew,
de-access all excesses,
a manly, word squad^^^,
no more,
the shaft to success
be a David slingshot of single pebbles

but herein have,
prior blessed and true confessed:

"for I know there is soul in brevity,
but that ain't exactly my finest quality"

this is a "not know how to,"
for when I plunder the sea deep of a
single and singular
first and foremost# kiss,
still forever kept,
and that cylindrical memory volume so full,
one must seek and speak,
many verbal Ceylonese herbal tea toasts,
for the drunken 'n blinder I become,
the greater the need,
the lesser to please,
commissioning the poet to sing of his
long odyssey home,
of even the briefest venture ventured,
a combo of triumph and escaped,
wrapped in a single word,
his every feathery eye retention plucked,
a bald bird to be fully consumed,
even the bones, committed to
paper memory...

what the heck,
you want a speck,
a "say hey kid"^^ haiku,
a shorty hearty 60 second sophomoric Campbell soupy blessing,
microwaveable, heated but not hot,
radiated but not cooked

woe is me,
cannot be denied,
why use a pithy when
for pity's sake,
thrice won't suffice?

the woman, the observer
punches me with a solitary and indelicate,
as her wont, as her want,
"just-this-once"
telling the blowhard to not spout

this prideful pain,
deep water drilled in the muscled fortress of my rocky biceps,
eliciting  an outsized
"ouch, that really hurt,"
and my spouting retort...

~

by this bruised blotch, this redsome refrain,
dulcet sung in black and blue, a sonnet's colored quatrain,
by your flesh's mark, thee I join, in places where no mark dare
reflect our secreted touch, witness-protected by our guardian eyes only...*

**** it.

no more morning glory

the cells want to refuse,
purported pseudo-deniers
of the man's compulsion

not yet six am,
the old house,
the summering congregation of birds,
correspond with each other,
their words unintelligible to the man-ear,
no doubt talking about the interlopers,
the come-and-go humans,
or perhaps,
just the lousy weather

the sunroom's lace curtains,
a patterned flower filtering viewer,
another impediment to what is out of sight,
for the fog surrounds but can't suppress,
the exterior & interior
combo of noises,
birds uttering their morning prayers,
accompanied by the sabbath choir of chorusing
groans from the untrodden, creaky floorboards,
complaining of aged back pains
from forty years
of desert wandering
and over use

they confirm the man is not alone,
and perhaps, even,
among the living

the bay's water's color,
a small hint now comes visible,
colored from the same paint can
as the surround-sound from which the
fog's discoloration was morning-drawn,
wider brush strokes cover this,
the man's small world

the brains complains, not again!

how many times will you compose,
drawing from the molecules of
this view,
no one cares,
but composition compulsion,
****** for what makes
the man breathe,
denies the deniers,
praying in the loudest thought voices,
to the principle that best defines
the moment,
(him?)

human, give thanks,
on this, the seventh day,
for the feast of life provided,
(even the reasoning atheists go respectful, humble silent)
as the man-poet acknowledges here the

One,

who remembers,

is faithful to,

fulfills the covenant and promise,

by making fresh daily,

the works of creation



Silver Beach,
Shelter Island
5:30am,
June 4th, 2016

(Return to Shelter Island)^^

~

"And even silence found a tongue,
To haunt me all the summer long;
The riddle nature could not prove
Was nothing else but secret love"^

   ~

the winter's quietude
slowly dissipates,
like a miser's reluctantanc to-part-even-with
unwanted, yet saved up tears,
now finally shed, 
tears easy ease on down to please,
morphing into spring rain  
creating a horn of plenty of
les amuse-bouches,
summer tastes,
hints of mint,
all to commence, orchestrate,
miniature, slews of budding teases
of what may yet come

t'is only summer peekings coming to refresh,
memorized friends, recalling a former full bosomed lover's
abundant bounty,
untying the quiescent, frozen tongue,
relieving it of its stale,
suffocating, whited, slushed crust,
issued a full pardon and
twenty bucks pocket money and
freedom
to see the
new full born poems,
without the interference
of grey baited, metallic bars,
poems, floating by, on summer breezes,
air borne for lovers

the same water vista,
under grayscale sky and
winter cloud cover,
is uncrackable and the
Hollow King of Words,
silently languishes, jailed alone,
wretched and deposed,
a wrecked winter's tale told,
an empty throne forlorn

no-way-out aperture extant,
no keyhole found to unlock,
all the songs
that to no avail,
the ineffectual poets impatiently
have prayed,
beseeching an unresponsive sky to rain forth
uniforms of pastel blues and whites

only summer sun-rays
seasonly ready now, fully ripened,
rays notably higher angled,
that can ***** and crack open
the skull and bones,
rejoice the soul's soil,
filling eyes with leafy canopy of green down,
while reheating the heart's chambers,
un-encoding the precise temperature formulae,
for the degree exacting,
where the words-wanting-for-extracting,
release and rouse themselves from a
deeper dreamless hibernating,
and even a last remaining,
napping, spring drowsiness

awaken to a symphony spoken
pitch perfect,
a woven rainbow color palate ensemble,
all full throated blooming

before and by my water view,
an old empty Adirondack throne has grown
one more winter-withered and wise and weary,
aging well,
if aging a well be,
and yet visibly poorly,
unable to speak,
bereft these so many months
of its human companion's conjoint, howling voice

chair asks him now plaintive,
not
where I've been,
knowing that any answer
immaterial

nor
does it inquire,
have I come to stay,
knowing any human answer
is always at best
an uncertain truth

only this it seeks ascertaining,
desiring a newly needed-seeded knowing

do I return
carrying with me,
a summer's secret love?

strong enough to make our single tongue
break the wet dog woeful silences,
to sing the praise of
those refreshed elements now blossoming surrounding,
that all come to enhance,
the secret purpose of the human

do I carry the tune
that will unlock,
at long last,
the somber silence,
that no winter's gale roar or
noisy, erratic spring chirping ,
however loud,
yet leaves nature, alone, clouded,
incapable of solving
the riddle of human nature,
that bring summers birthing to fruition

do I in my possess,
own the love,
that's strong enough to end
the silenced weeping
of the other season's mourning abscesses,
the absence of summer?

they say it is but the mechanical turning of
the hardware store's calendar, kitchen-walled hung,
that marks the man's semi-automatic returning,
yet the paper's crossed out, numerical dates,
cannot foretell,
if the necessary passion,
the requisite human love,
the provident kindling of summer's furnace
whose heat,
can provide life's
reasonings,
will arrive on timely so that

even silence will now have found the tongue
to haunt me all the summer long;
the riddle nature could not prove,
was nothing else, but secret love

eight years on,
she, airplane borne,
takeoff - a minute from,
texts a parting thot

"love you madly"

you can't recall ever
that prescient précis designation
on any earlier editions
of your other old lovers resumes

this tidbit of reckless abandon
moves fury fast,
direct to the top of the list

madly, manly madness,

when you man,
allow the crossover to occur,
when boundaries twixt honesty and
sensibility
are declared
voided laws

when the white cloth napkin of careful sanity  knocked, swept to the floor

maddening love rawest realized
conceded

in madness, completion is indivisible,
indivisible, completion is madness

manly madness

~~~*

this old man's tiddlywink, land-locked words,
runted, blunted instruments,
needy for release, the balm of salvation,
woods, neither silvered or exacting,
more a spit stain polish for a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon,
smoothed 'cept for the brute brunted bunting
of christ-crossing railroad tie lines,
all across his roughened terrain'd face,
a black and a white Degas
pen and ink etched illustration
of howling agitation.

the concrete moonscape
racked upon his soul and face,
mapped remembrances of variegated Judas kisses
each left in a pockmarked hidey place,
tired principles bent, bent from sacrificing oneself,
a rockstar burnt offering,
to any deity that promises illusions that time,
can be healed, all its cursed residues & sins sealed,
in locked antechambers, fully furnished rooms,
rentable for perpetuity if so desired,
but irony dictums diktat says you've locked yourself in,
in circular spaces where every angle stab-states:

yo, there are no unpainted corners for escape,
no day of atonement on your petite universe's calendar,
nor a host of worthy words that can e're suffice,
so howling makes perfect sense

inventory the wasted errors accumulated, accentuated,
uncovered by the howling of only "I'd known better,"
his accountants all jolly rip roar laugh,
when you beg them to ******~reduce jail time of
ancient leaden bulletpoints from the taxes future payable,
they profess there is no statue of limitation from any authority's press
for dues owed arising from your own imitations,
they mock me by howling in poe-ing unison,
"nevermore, nevermore...forevermore"

the contradiction of those criss#crossed fine lines,
each pointing in no direction, a trap of inaction,
fie, fie, on the double dealing hand you have dealt yourself
in the game of liar's poker, where all the face cards curse with smiles,
pretend portents portrait paintings of only rosy outcomes,
each a one way sign,  each pointing to a different,
magnetic compass course in a world
where all polarity confused, reversed,
so wayward, the only direction home

before Rembrandt's self-portrait @  Met Musée, he worships,
the painter's hipster jaunty hat pouty-pointy stating,
"what me worry,"
but the cracked crevices, whisper even louder,
"nothing left to lose,"
in the gallery, all stare, misunderstanding why,
why you weep profuse in perfect recognition at the
mirroring witness testifying, from whose pixels you cannot be protected,
each agitated paint pore shouts words of 
"j'accuse, j'accuse"
in a dulcet howling harmony

words lip locked, no exit, traffic jammed inside squirrelly cheeks,
scabs form, mortar and pestle a pus paste of
jumbled sounds and tongued blood,
a delicacy of swoosh and swish spit,
ugly kept behind prison bars of yellowed teeth,
a vile concoction of glorious bile of new combinations,
destined to die unuttered,
the howling all internal, becomes silence,
and yet, here,
here lies buried proof positive,
"even silence finds a tongue,"^
even words, unspoken,
yet, mind-reader read quietly,
permits the howling agitation exorcise and surcease,
rein to escape

come for a visit while on a
business trip?

absolutely, sure, I'll be there,

to exchange poetries,
do some heavier explicating,
with a follow up assignment,
body fluid exchanges a tangential
possibility

incoming out-coming,
composing poesies by tablet light,
fingers sticky, a wonderful hindrance,
debating the long and the right,
confabulating the short and the slight

will you, write me
will you, right me,
longest now, our new ancestors
of our abbreviated histories

come for a business trip,
seal the deal,
sure, absolutely,
the flesh test pressed,
handshake awkwardly,
but kiss with lusted hunger,
create a short story
leaving poetry crumbs stains
on sheets of paper loving

Pushing out the daughters of older woman words...

~
it's almost May Day,
and the only niece,
husband towed,
all to a springtime glorious
drop by, dinner come,
......and there is poetry in their expectant eyes

a pronouncement,
predecessor to an announcement,
spring blessings uttered over melting smoked mozzarella pasta,
sweet balsamic fruited salad dressings of
of the unripened fruit of newer life,
seeded, deeded and coming,
soon enough

we act not shocked,
shocking them

oh yeah,
we figured dropping in sudden,
needed a really good excuse,
and a good one,
a new life,
a **** good one

old man granddad and now sooner
to be dubbed grand uncle'd,
children bejeweled cherry garnet carbuncle'd,
decorating his
red cheeked face,
redden a happy heart,
duly recorded, his thoughts,
twine cord wrapped and delivered,
4am punctual

we toast with three wine glasses Spanish Malbec,
one just air-filled, sorry Charlie

we all review the rules,
garnered from our
personal histories,
lore and the gore and the endless more
of raising children,
stanzas that never rhyme quite the way you planned,
and blessed is that good enough is
plenty good enough

am I excited, they inquire?

long pause, no, not excited,
thoughts quiet, paused,
words needed,
and in time,
drafted, recruited

something different,
more pleased in a way,
that comes so rarefied,
a distancing sense from the normalcy of life,
the taste
when life's hard work.
is justified,
yes,
justified

~~~
may first four and twenty ante merry-diem

join our company,
the erstwhile, ne'er do well,
itinerant lunatics,
the no-sleep freaks
that hallway haunt the passages
where these passing-by poems
on the fly, go by, like raindrops,
crawling up, against logic, on a window pane

be comforted by the fact
that tho alone in your own writing castle,
I am looking over your shoulder,
wider, older, maybe wiser
and yet still can't
answer the question
we are unitary posing,

can we handle the nighttime seasons of our lives?

howling agitation

~~~
But this old man's tiddlywink, land-locked words,
blunted instruments,
needy for release & salvation,
neither silvered or exacting,
stain a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon,
'cept for the brunt'd bunting of lines
across his roughened terrain'd face,
a black and a white
Degas pen and ink etched illustration
of howling agitation.^

wrote this; I added a little spit 'n polish


when words tumble jumble out
of our body's orifices,
scored in electrons, on paper,
surprise and befuddlement, our thoughts,
both the source and the answer,
a belling that resonates in more than
the Pyrex container of our writing minds,
so easy this spilling,
bought so hard in the learning,
paid so hard in the earning,
but the journey's price,
the resultant device,

*worth the journey's cost

Ineffable (More Tornado Prayers and Such)*


Ineffable:
Too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words;
Too sacred to be uttered.*
~~~

The whimpered cries of the dying
in the rubble of Bangladeshi avarice,
announcing we were worthy of life,
to which we think to ourselves,
agreed upon
with our,
a whispery, silent
amen.

The still alive cries of children,
tornado-tormented parents screaming unfair,
teachers body shielding their charges, whispering
save us Lord, from your inventive toys,

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

But here comes the Oklahoma tornadoes again,
now four more dead in Houston,
selecting the innocent, the brave,
logic in any of this, none,
nonsensical at its worst

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

~~~~~
The first I-am-alive cries
of new born lungs,
I have grandson, stain-less, perfect,
recovering in the stainless steel delivery room,
I hear the all babies in the neo-natal unit in unison
pronouncing a Hebrew blessing,
the Shecheyanu...

(Blessed are You, Lord our God, Master of the universe, who has kept us alive and sustained us and has brought us to these special moments)

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

These unspoken poem devotions of adoration
of the sleeping chamber, that cannot
be heard or answered for they're dreamt and
perchance in the morning thankfully recalled,
enough to be transcribed,

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

Ineffable.

A day,
just another supplying an average day
to the mass of average.
Birth + Death = an average day.

I thank a God for the
birth of a newborn perfection

On this day the newspapers report
about silence of the God others pray to,
could be the same deity,
reporting that in his holy places,
Jew spits upon Jew,
Muslims usurp Christian lives,
all for none,
all forgetting in
whose image they were created.

to which we cannot say nor think
anything.

Ineffable.

too sacred to be uttered,
so instead of the paucity of these un-uttered words,
know that each tear in
the reservoir of my eyes
is my unspoken poem prayer.,
my amen.

Instead of answering
amen out loud,
wipe my eyes
with your fingertips,
silently.

An ineffable amen

~
words given life's first breath by this comment from
SE Reimer  
"thy tiller has found a storied port"
~~

captain of a city street ferry,
upon the choppy holy waters of
scarlet fevered spotted gum stained
christened concrete streets

daylight guided by the starlight
of quartz sparklers sidewalk embedded,
resurrecting, overwhelming,
the grayness of men's mortared materialism,
these textured bright city lights,
from murk morn steam-pipe risen,
signposts of a city boys life,
navigation tools on his
steerage cruises

'tis only my poor torso
I captain,
my bus driving days retired,
single masted, obedient to the sun's paths plotted
on a personalized AAA TripTik,^
my cargo, my tiring physique,
the refined mettle product of a
sixty five year too short voyage of
deep diving mining defining,
and for surety, water divining

city walking life driving,
debtor-in-possession of a
city infection
of perpetual motion sickness

enabled inability
for standing stilled,
lane weaving,
people receiving and perceiving
as buoyed obstacle objects
to be passed by
in a higher lane
of shaken and stirred
city waterways

muscle's squeak in sonnet speak

Why speed thy errant boots
upon lanes of wandering men,
is there not time enough,
words suffice,
in history's future present
unlived long life,
to recompense
all your recorded stanzas,
mariner's tales and wrote recitations of seafaring voices?

sea nat run.
sea nat go.

dodging tween his fellow citified citizens
and the puzzled and puzzling drowning tourists,
sea nat write his unsecreted visions,
sailing from street to shining street poetry

this glorious grime,
this delicious dirt,
stuff of my blood,
genes of my children's children inheritance,
of thee I sing,
in thee I revel,
of thee I am composed

when my decomposing time scheduled arrival
lately comes on time,
bury me in its cemetery of memories,
within the soft earth of a watery grave
that the jackhammers drill bit paddles can uncover,
in rough canvas toss my worn smooth
failed frame overboard,
so I may become but one more
fable
in your fabulous liquefying
cement oceans

~~~

3:53 am
5/18/16
nyc

^
http://pearlsoftravelwisdom.boardingarea.com/2014/01/remember-triptix/

"The world as it stands
is no narrow illusion,
no phantasm,
no evil dream of the night;
we wake up to it,
forever and ever;
and we can neither forget it
nor deny it
nor dispense with it.”

Henry James

~~~

crumpled tissues soggy slog
brew of up-all-night tears
daylight brings no belief,

sunlight offers but illusory relief

we dream awake,
awoken, we yet dream

some one...any one
come to me
be number one
on my to do list
be my next breath

and

whisper with heated words:

the world as it stands is
never standing,
revolver shot turning unceasing.
permission granted for water borne drops of
fated phantasy,
shower shaken

to

never forget never deny
fresh in every turning,
write sourced furnacing
that though the
weary
worn worries of
forever and ever
have a terminal final,
and though the Phoenix consumed,
it's whited ashes give rebirths hope
our narrow illusions
will yet be transformed
into broad avenues of better directions,
there will be
restitution
there will be
Union

for the lesson is cotton plain:

that the world as it stands,
stands not!

on its axis,
turn, turn, turn,
each revolution,
an explosion,
an opportunity
for restitution!

a revolution
if only we never dispense
with the belief
to believe

passerby words plain hidden
in a wall sconce of a
fly-bye compliment,
sent to the thankee intended,
creating an instantaneous,
Slam! Bam! Thank You Man!

yeah come , face slap me,
with open palm instant recognition,
there's a poem lurking therein, within,
that uncommonly good common observation,
like hearing a drill bit roar,
demanding with insistent persistent demandation,
"come out, come our, wherever you are"

the good lord makes 'em in
all kinds of shapes and flavors
then makes sense, most eminent,
to favor the good kind,
who go on marching in our number,,.

no claim here to good,
certainly not, sainthood,
that would be quite the hoot,
so settle, man, do settle
in and for the right kinda,
nothing could be finer,
than to be
in the company
of
my kin and kindred,
the kindest,
y'all

God bless all...

artist working by candle light,
neon lights, coffee shop lights...

~~~

to, for & from SJR
~

this force,  
burnt soul kindling,
rampant urges that bow a man's
spine

write write rite right

consumption of the soul
straighten up, flex,
flex to the curvature of the Earths
invitation to

write write rite right

cast my eyes to the mountains,
from whence will come my help?

street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the baggers question,
each a post
begging each other,
from whence will come my inspiration?

lick the stubbled sidewalks,
fall down living in their caverned cracks,
light needed needy soft heated
orange and green pizza neons
say here,
if you see upon what be,
your homelands colors of veracity

from
candle light,
neon lights,
coffee shop lights.

all queries so queer,
so cheerfully answered
in the ***** air,
in warped woof of
city write lights

he goes home
in the dark of a green moon,
and its delighting inviting
moonlight,
he composes
what is his eyes have
decomposed into a single memory,

and is satisfied
unto sleep

praising the eyes,
light lidded, but eager closing,
that
had wisdom given
to observe
light various by which to

write write rite right




4/16/16
10:30am
nyc

indeed
we are sum and summation of choice ( D)

always the last choice
on life's surprise quizzes,

naturally, the answer is:

(D) All of the Above

it is the correcting answer

correcting?

each addition is a game changer,
the answer,
now forever instantantenously
     different

for we are:

"We are so much more then just these little blogs"

every kind word
creating a totally different
total

yo, yo, lucky, lucky boy,
you
t rave l
    with the best

~~~


The Poet, God,
God, The Poet,

smiling beguiling disguising
as old man tailor,
in dusty shop,
well hid neath the arch of well trod
ancient medieval arcade

in modest, peeling letters,
of gold plate,
hawking, hawking,
suits of poems,
made to measure,
cut to the cusps,
so profound unique,
each will be a promise,
modestly guaranteed,
at a price proffered,
profoundly inexpensive,
to be merely,

"only the very, very, very, best of the best"

grasping torn yellow cloth
measuring tape,
the tailor takes your heft,
drawing broad lines,
sketching your pored cells,
measuring your 'made,'
the stuff that you claim
as only your own,

"only the very, very, very, best of the best"

this delivered,
but none of the finished,
fit to the sane, none fit the same,
all off, hanging wrong,
each different, each suit,  each poem,
fitted but still imperfect

angered and human,
de-man-d,  
an explanation,
why each poem bespoke,
speaks in a different tongue,
tongue stained with complaint,
these are missed leads, misleading,
none made to measure

The Poet, God,
God, The Poet

the the tailor
of each and every
misshapenly one-of-us,
condescends to explain
the foolishness of
human shape

my tape, with steady hands,
takes with accuracy,
the who, the way, the which,
of your momentary composition

but who can say with honesty,
what is the best of the best,
accept that flaws are your finery,
and the skin of your fabric
every changing, a peeling changeling,
excited atoms of colliding constancy

there is no 'best of the best'

there is only one standard
of each creature
that can be accurate recorded,
and this poem, I have delivered

give and gave the
'very, very, very'

e-very stitch and syllable,
is a truth, a ver-ity,
unique to the measure of
who you are

but there is no,
'best of the best,'
from this classification,
you, yourself, must
deselect

make no error of compare,
the wrongness of unfair,
crucify not on the altar
of a golden calf made of
erroneous bitter 'betters than'

every suited poem
suits you,
well and proper,
of this I certify,
all a verification
of the
ver-i-fiction
of the

'best of the best'

of who you are,
reflecting your mirrored image,
of who you wished to be
for in every exhaled instance,
in every poem,
is the
'very, very, very'
of you

is not misshapen
perfection?
what could ever be
better than the best
poetic imperfection?

~~~

The Puzzle of My Tao


twenty three
years long,
the hands suggest,
the heart demands,
the chest heaves,
after a stumbled upon re-read,^
asking and answering,
more precisely
once asked,
now answered?

the most satisfying solution proffered,
a humble and most humbling,
more yes than no.

imagine a jig saw puzzle,
of infinite views,
depending on a perspective,
maddening and mysterious,
tortuous and terrifying,
wondrously wonderful,
this no,
that yes,
as time demands
movement, modifications and
self-awareness revisionism.

you try on women,
as they try you too.
this, not a trumping misogony apology,
for women
are
still and always
the only solution,
for me.

then one day,
marveling miraculous,
a second skin,
so thin you wear it
as art of your own,
and the painter,
and the poet,
find themselves,
contented best,
with but one
subjective perspective, contentedly repetitive,
a view for an ever,
a view forever changing.

the answer is subtle.
women woman.
one woman.
e becomes a,
the subdivided man,
an e,
cut at mid-curvature,
finds his perspective,
reveling in scene from a winnowed window,
never different, always different,

and the poet~painter,
arts the subtlety of  
unceasingly upheavaled satisfaction renewed,
and in doing so,
transform himself,
from a cut up, halved
e,
merges to its almost but differing reciprocal, an
a,
so that
ea,
joined and fused as one,
marks his woman~completion,
and all is both,
singular sharing, and now
the every changing view
better understood thru the prism of an

o.
~~~

Mar. 25, 2016
NYC

the puzzle of me
is the puzzle of women,
for they are me.

even my children,
men both,
are the product of
me-women.

what a delightful miserable puzzle,
running in a circle like
a-dog-with-can-on-its-tail.

I run run.
I chase chase.
I am pursued / pursue / pursued.

and great joy
in that shiny tin can,
just can't quite be
caught.

cause if
I got it,
what then?
I'd just kick that old dented piece of
tin hearted-less man
down a *****, black topped, summer city street.

so does the puzzle's solution
want for solving,
in the not-knowing
is the knowing

women are me.
they hold my answers,
to what - to all - to I don't know.

there are so many women.
there is so much to know.
so many solutions
to the puzzle of me.

~~~

August 6, 1993
Mykonos, Greece

Yellow Freedom

"Yellow is the color of my true love's hair
In the morning, when we rise
In the morning, when we rise
That's the time,
That's the time
I love the best...

Freedom is a word I rarely use
Without thinking, mm-hmmm,
Without thinking, mm-hmmm,
Of the time,
Of the time
When I've been loved"

Lyrics from 'Colours' by Donovan*


~~~

just another old folk rock ballad,
memory wrested from
your years as a young teen lad,
growing up rebel singing in the
Dylan and Donovan first decade
of rock n' roll and revolution

these lyrics, always a fav,
for despite your ability to
mangle a tune,
this one when you sang,
never sounded quite so bad

a precise half century from the first time,
till tonight,
when you once again
caught yourself humming
those two juxtaposed and particular
two stanzas, quiet out loud

the words yellow and freedom,
merge as one, a phrase ripe,
coloring precise,
your present circumstances

that simple is the finest
in defining us,
and these lyrics are
my simplest truth,
fifty years on

as the clock nears the 00:00 hour,
the unobservable line
between this one and tomorrow,
between just another day
and one with a poem born,
yellow freedom are words
that define his world

blurry edges,
and for no godly reason on earth,
your become a writer of a
thank you note
entitled, to the title
Yellow Freedom

to whom should this signed note
be addressed,
be delivered,
with a smile and a languid caress?

there's a blonde in my bed,
inches from my head,
so close, why not,
leave it neath her pillow,
for her awakening,
for she stirred in me
an awakening too,
so this one,

is my simplest truth,
still singing,
fifty years on*

~~~

March 23, 2016
11:53pm

why is it that at 38,000 feet above the sea, the words come steady easy?**

~~~

heart and head soundlessly conversing,
as the body southernly traversing,
along the Atlantic Seaboard latitude,
quiescent, his manners and attitude,
sure where he is physical destined,
unsure where he is living bound

this time,
his designated place,
a blue leatherette stoop,
identifiable as Seat 23C

three seats, rowed across,
four letters, aisle down,
the crossword question;
what rhymes with "don't y'all know it" -
must be that word,
poet

why is it
that at 38,000 feet
above the sea,
the words come steady easy?
almost as if, they grow excited
by their return to the angelic upper atmospheres,
from whence they fell,
to a planet where mundanity revels

nothing to say,
plenty to feel,
like I said,
the head and the heart confer,
a baby born poem emerges
bawling and crawling,
lolling and drawling,
southern style

poem does not state a particular,
direction unknown,
disposed to the philosophical,
it forms, then reforms,
stymied but satisfied ironical,
posing while reposing,
the newborn's query repitiously millennial,

why?

the answer too,
an airborne pollen perennial,

just because


march 8, 2016
somewhere between
nyc & Fla.
11:20 pm

ordinary is miraculous
when ******* reaches
deep everything

a setting on the dial upon the stovetop of
you

jargon consciousness ying yang dang state
not of interest, mystical scientism,
classifications that divide, anti-unite,
unnecessary complicatory

deep everything

when verily every
breath an instantaneous synaptic verity confirmation

that perfection is simply never solitary,
solar flares sensory bursting in points of interest
that can only be never seen,
just believed

the tuning fork of every pore
pitched at the precise vibratory
of another -
deep everything

attain attune
past action unrecalled,
have miracle forged a future
that is present now
a charismatic karma,
deep everything

This poem is dedicated to Steve Yocum,
author, poet, and soldier
farmer, father, grandfather,
man exemplar,
whom I honor
and honors me,
with the noblest title in all humankind,
friend.

But above all,
I honor him most,
as a tireless, truthful, harpooner
of the examined and the unexamined life

~~~

"Be the harpooners of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders into
crinkly eye-lined smilers."

~~~

these mine words writ many years past,
dusted off phrasings,
on dusty shelf long lain,
mined from notes,
decades steadily collected by steadily diminishing ears and eyes,
gathered most from self-taught lectures
and self-deceiving dances,
garbed and wearily grabbed
by the addict-strong
 observational need,
persistent and perpetual,
to pay off fresh debits,
renewables owed
to the lovely,
to the loopy,
inhabitants who excite and inspire
my so far, rebirthing, youthful,
yearling heart
who provide the special crazy that
justifies existence

just men,
connected by a bond of sonship,
kinship crowning kingship,
blood types as different as an
A is to B

both shall weep in one blood,
I, as I do now,
while midst the nascent commencement of this sonnet,
He, at its commencement,
for a good friendship has no
beginning or end,
but is a circular track,
a loop,
familial by repeated runnings,
yet never, coursed in the exact
same manner or speed

this thought,
this knowledge,
bring a smile to this crinkly eyed composer,
that the metaphysical
will always surpass the binding physics of mortal physical,

that two man,
who have
never met,
race side by side,
not in competition,
but in the mutuality of composition,
each a candle holder,
both writers,
observing the dark illusions,
re-making each into a carrier,
a shedder of light,
each a debt giver and a
debt holder to each other,
hosts to all the loopy,
comfort caressers,
to each other
and to all
who too,
are light-bathed by being in possession
of the title
*friend

Sa pamamagitan ng kabutihan ng Kanyang Kabutihan


~~~

the message arrive by private telegraph line,
"write,"
she behests,
more than a mortal's requests,
an authoritative pleading,
an urgent prompting
with an element of divinity attached,
almost a command

by virtue of
her virtue,

who am I to refuse,
though the writing gene/genie,
somnolent, suppressed, quiescent,
melatonined by the pills the
life force feeds us
from a bottle lonely labeled,
"whether you like it or not"

reckless explore the venues
you would prefer to never venture,
so,
this poem becomes her,
this poem be comes her,
this poem be comely
for and because of her

unbare chambers that have rusted shut,
be unafraid,
she seances me telepathically,
in the poet's way,
a crying smile accentuated with
"write of the titles you have confessed
to the body's mind inquisitor
that be stored
in the warehouses
of thy heart"

this irrecusable, willing bidding,
sneaks in the back door,
so easy oiled opened

by virtue
of her virtue

seven years of grain Pharaoh stored
in preparatory for the lean ones that
inevitable
come

yes, have so many would be's
gestated, but not fully formed,
none adequate to honor sufficient
her comely
behest

thus commissioned,
my purposeful mission,
to honor her once more,
with a simple honorific,
her wish, no matter how couched,
t'is my duty to fulfill

so here, full and filled
I grant her wishes,
with impoverished verses inadequate,
for you know her too,
as she full and fills us all

*by virtue
of her
virtue

for vicki who loves this poem for the best reason ever: just does...
<•>
read a thousand love stories,
pause, rest awhile,
read ten thousand more,
and then deny equality.

If you ask for no more than you can give,
you ask for not enough

love is imbalance not an equation,
with a single solution

love has both constants and variable factors

so you write of tribulations and tributes
so you write of lamentations and liftings

you think you are on the same page
perhaps
but do we not all read at different paces?

one of you is solid, one is dotted and dashed
one of you is straight, one is bent, forever curving

when you think you are
in balance
in the same place
in syncopation

perhaps you are for a moment
a calculus of one point on a trajectory

and you say I can only ask for what I give
and am given
and no more,
you have miscalculated

this flux
flummoxed
when the old terrain is flayed flat
but thru the windshield you see the
plateau ends, the geography unknown,

when you see unknown
when you seek the unknown
when you give from places you did not know
you had to give from
when you kiss a hand
for  twenty minutes more than than the one minute you intended
when you give more than is asked
when you ask for more than you can you think you can give
the imbalance that  is the only concert
the imbalance that is the the only constant

how do I know this?

what are my credentials?

you are not a teenage girl,
what matters of what you know, recall of these matters?

I am who I am
a diversity of man and manner;
I am past prime and in decline
but this I know
for having failed ten thousand poem times
you must ask for more than one can give

but that's not fair!

silly one, still wretched confused,
even after one hundred thousand poem times

you must ask of
yourself
more than you can give
and ask no less
demand no less

a body in emotion is not a body in rest
when the imbalance is too great or insufficient

then you write a poem
look in the mirror that cannot lie
and move
on
or
move off

  begin to ask
yourself
to whom may I give myself
more than is asked.
then you have finally asked
the correct solution to the
unsolvable equation
---