for Maria*

if you have lived with me for more than a day,
you know I hero worship each individual word
in my birthed American English language

as is my style, I oft honor it with a poem,
but begin indubitably with a definition

Base
is such a word that deserves a recitation

for complex it is, a multiplicity of uses,
a word of many characters,
a word so unusual,
to the French I defer,
un mot plein de mystère

see its complexity,
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/base

a base is:

your bedrock, your cornerstone,
on firm footing your base must exist
t'is a groundwork word,
a keystone cop,
a root underpinning,
your warp,
your woof

Your children

so when taken,
when the spiritual
is crushingly wrong


sometimes I feel like a motherless child,

tense all wrong,
all wrong perversed,
the words reversed

You understand the nuance of words
so much better, and you
engage it
for now the word, just
enrages

Base


my new base
is
bad, black, evil, foul, immoral, iniquitous,
wrong and cruel

my new base-full state now,
my new base-less state now


this is my base now,
now that my organs,
cut from my body,
cannot be restored

Base is my life

For my dearest poet and friend,
Maria

hard in so many ways
hard cause I know before I begin,
I ain't got the words,
don't think anybody does

I am bereaved, bereft,
ruthlessly deprived by force
of the pretense of composure,
the daily mask worn to perfection,
to avoid detection by the world
of the sum total of the heartaches
brought by chance to my door

Thus stripped, I can give forth easy
screams that have no end, no use
for anyone but me and they,
when all said and never done,
give no relief and just continue endlessly,
form changed to silent ones,
and that is even worse, so much harder.

no point in questioning this fate,
work in a place where pain is routinised
so you can function and be of use

no point in questioning this fate,
but met my master, bested by the worst,
no training, no feigning - I am defeated,
and make no excuses for my loss,
of everything, of anything, for I have
entered a place where there is no poetry anymore

for jVk and Jeanne

One took me to the place
where X marked the spot,
and the other,
named what I was doing

Hand to Chest Poems
or
fist to mouth,
body to floor thrown,
couch drone shot down,
or bed ridden, done in,
if you are feeling kindly
towards your last ebb flown

but hand to chest,
just to touch the chest,
hands
V formed and in formation
on and where the
X
marks your body

when words rip you
as intended

but my fists
do not abide
a simple extinguishing,
a most modest putting out
of the roar of an inferno flaming,
licking me up with many
"welcome back fella"

no no no

your words have placed my hands
crisscrossed stitched upon my chest,
and they beat it twice for every
single exhalation of exhilaration,
singular pain ****** crushing me
from the inside out

my beating them back inside where
dormant they lay,
dormant they must stay,
lest I beat myself into oblivion prematurely,
robbing Father Time
from completing his watch,
from completing his rounds,
and me picking myself up
dear god, one more rhyme,
one more  2:33 am poem
rewritten again

When will the congestion in this body
be paroled, sentence served,
I know thine answer,
no need to taunt,
what ya got is an
ironic deathly
life sentence...

see updated banner photo
~~~~~~~~

my phone informs me
your turn to turn,
one year old

my iPad delivers me a photo,
goodness of a creme cupcake,
all over your face

I see sprinkles,
blessed Joseph-coated-multi-colored sprinkles,
blessings sprinkled upon
on the visage,
of my child of my child,
my grandson.

sorry,
it feels so good,
gotta say it like you,
one, one, one
(shush! I can too count!)

like you,
one
mo' time,
my grandson...

someday you may stumble
on the Internet reservoir, this histoire,
where memories never disappear,
from somebody's server and
my this,
my creme word decorating,
adorning this little mini-cupcake of
just ours.

if you walk the streets of
my city of poems,
you will find a poem prayer,
I once uttered,
after turning down an invitation
from the East River to join its
swift currents carrying away hard strife,
to the Atlantic Ocean graveyard.

three words denied the seductress
the toll she was charging that day,

smart kid you guessed it,

my future grandchildren.

there will be days when the crush
will prove too much, I know it's coming,
no use denying that all my blessings
sprinkled cannot preempt
your heartbreak and soul ache.

but I will write these words,
and sprinkle them upon your forehead
when no one, especially those parents,
are looking,
thus protecting you from yourself,
too oft,
a human's greatest enemy.

if I can not grasp your hand,
let my words gasp you into understanding,
that in the future someday,
you will say just like your old poppy,
my future grandchildren,
and

stay thy hand from the worst temptation

t'is of man's nature, the ability to forget,
different ways of foreseeing better days....
so to see the future's betterment turning your way,
just say,

my future grandchildren

for SJR
who lets me borrow his voices, a good man, asks for nothing in return
and therefore, is given all I got...

~~

“She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like the honey, baby, from the bee
She's my baby, you know she's alright.....“

Van Morrison


~~~~~~<<<<<>>>>>~~~~~~~~~

old folk listen to old folk
and rock,
stung and sprung
from Pandora's box

someday
maybe,
you'll understand,
certain phrases,
from certain phases,
first tasted at a flavored oxygen bar
where youth drank,
worshipped and adored

and when those certain
word combinations reenter,
slipping in from unawares,
recalling easy the first time
you tasted with your ears,
Tupelo Honey

but what you remember is

that differentiating phrase

and
what you believed,
what you needed,
why you existed,
all because there was a new knowing,
that
an angel of the first degree,
was out there waiting for you...

white lies,
so well remembered,
a tool first employed to salve and save,
from places, tasks, situations unasked,
to shape things the way I desired

white for they were pure
devilry,
a lie is a lie,
except for when it lets me,
my very own truth be

these white truths,
double colored black,
by and for me,
I do not deceive,
nor lie to myself

but no longer need I lie
(much),

now, write poems
where, with mortar and pestle,
grind them both up, together
the white lies and the black truths,
they are as they should be,
one and the same

my poetry,
a simple sum of both totaling

**me

~~~~


just google it plain,
see it in Wikipedia,
just that number

613

every number an association.
this one magical, mysterious,
and born to this,
my tradition.

613 commandments in the law

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/613_commandments

but today I come to speak of but one commandment.
first among a peculiar
613

not listed amidst the
thou shalls,
thou shall not,
of which,
many have I transgressed,
many have I blessed.

today,
******* the heels on my fast first
anniversary conclusional,
noticed that I had now
613
followers.

a young man,
from across the oceans,
from New Delhi,
honored me thus,
what a delight,
how easily these god and man-made
geographical boundaries crossed,
my spirits raised.


Follower,
how I detest that word.

I could no more lead than follow.

let us be neutral observers,
let us be recognized sharers,
let us be hand holders,
let us be mutual lovers,
let us be but friends.

root out this
servile attitudinal,
sacrilege word.

I do not celebrate this irony,
but oh yes, oh yes,
I do I understand this election
as a commandment,
a sacred obligation,
not of my asking,
but of my anointing.

The first and foremost poetic law.

write to
levitate and elevate
the human spirit

all the rest is naught.

this kids,
is how you do it

in the mid of the dark hours,
when two am is your new oldest friend
when sleep, your oldest old one,
left town on the midnight train,
taking your peace of mind

though she is far away
lost in dream-thoughts caught,
but only twelve inches close,
granting you an unasked permission,
you ok to stroke her hair,
undisturbing her, yet comforting yourself,
every voice in your temple'd altar praying,
one glorious chorus godly chant:

Oh Lord, what would I do without her?

and you stroke her hair and are saved.


2:51am

May 2014

For most, a cruise speed,
with an occasional disruption,
tap on the brake
then reset the cruise control with a
finger flick, all it deserves

and on and on

then there are the points of inflection,
when the trend direction resets,
you know it too, it's not a
"when did this happen to me"
sadly, most oft, not of our choosing

then there are the oft, silent, self-reflection moments,
when you think cruising, it's ok,
but rumbling around, mirror bound,
you see in the fear view, I mean,
rear view, the direction is
the one you just came from,
and you purported poet,
chooser of each word you write
so carefully,
thinks only,
*****

and on and on

not quite right,
but what ya gonna do?
give up?

Whatever,
the new maybe,
Whatever,
the new who gives a ****

here I am
falling over the double-edged
borderline,
another alone morn in a hotel bed in
not-my-city,
slipping over both sides,
unattractive new direction tracks piping up,
boy,
"bond and band with me,
me, me, take me"

every day every word mine
I question,
you see the cruising on the surface waters,
underneath the propeller, churning,
what is it all worth,
when crap and rap and rant
rule the day, and you rue the day,
you thought you were a poet
amidst the undiscerning,
you the solitary sock,
washed (out) but useless

it could be an inflection day
or just another internal investigation way,
report issued and recommendations ignored,
and it's back to the side views mirrors applauding
a ten round bout ending in a no decision

just when you are found out,
by yourself and his friends,
Me, myself, I and buddy depression,
that its time to shed the proposition
that you can write to pleasure the world,
be a cut above, something special

more than

and on and on

and this pesky little message
comes and changes everything
someone tells you in a sentence
a saving grace that you added quality
to their lives and you gather the crew in
the corner of the ring,
for a huddle, and say let's go for it all
on this our last round,
cause if we don't,
we've lost anyway

You read, disbelieve, but here you are
writing again and the chest is gladden,
the words, like they used too,
arriving fedex,
and you put aside the naggers,
asking who cares,
for the eyes see this,
Re one of your very own
poem~children:

"I think of this poem so often, some days I find myself
reciting it at work"

and the sprinklers in the
yellow stucco ceiling of room 1531,
sudden spilling rain tears,
and tho showers not in the forecast,
here you are again,
scrivening, writing, scribing,
giving hope another say,
giving hope its due, it's day

maybe you are an uptown boy now,
from downtown,
but today it's ok,
being in midtown,
direction,
but more important,
the choice,
in the making,
still unknown

cause in the mid,
that means that today,
you will

*go on and on

don't fall for their tales,
their trapping words
intended to capture all manner of
literary loving girls...
while they, these mopoets^ are perfectly content
to keep on looking
"for the perfect one..."
to write about,
the greatest love affair in all of
his-story

but only after getting first
a close dose of,
a teeming taste of<
her
"inspiration"

He tells them that
after the first date,
he'll go home thinking:

"I could drink a case of you"*

but usually but a glass,
at most,
a bottle, a month,
a satisfactory suffice,
and it's onto the next write

that's why the FBI labelled him,
a dangerous serial poet,
his mot
to be trusted,
not, no, no...no!


Ah men! Ah poets!
somebody should pass a law....

4:03am

What haunts you, where is that poem?**



3:41am

don't call me that
and
don't call me
astronaut or

good

provider
businessman
trader
father
lover

all ******* up charges

mark me plainly
Cain stainedly

mark me
just
as plain man

for plain ordinary man,
failure is
an ok option

too bad
some hu-mens
must be
princes and princesses,
even poets too,
and all the rest

*for them,
failure
is no option

Silent Labor

both my children came via "silent labor." The woman experiences no visible contractions, until she is almost ready to give birth...we made it to the hospital in time, where the nurses handled the delivery.

This poem is about none of that, but from whence the title was taken.
~~~~~


my water just broke

the contractions just started and they are coming every three minutes

too late, they won't give me drugs

***, that is the ugliest
poem I just gave birth too.

guess I'll have to do better tomorrow,
now, that I'm done in,
now that, they'll they give me some drugs

they rip me,
and I love it

they cut me open
in batches and bunches,
tumbling into me
staccato rapid machine gun fire

this crew, my friends,
they don't read my stuff,
and say very nice, natty,
and move-along-little-doggie

nah, they pick me up
kick three, four, five
poems back at a time -
eat me, drink me, in batches and bunches,
then pick me apart,
then kick me out,
spit the pits on the floor

the way it's supposed to be done

poems - rip n' write them
in batches and bunches,
******* torn from my breast,
fight me every step of the day,
"Is that all ya got"
"yes'" I answer,
"*******,
that is indeed, all I got -
not!"


take a rag and wipe off the amniotic fluid,
throw 'em up against the wall,
and let them stick and maybe
they'll stain your DNA,
and your fancy wallpaper,
well and proper

That is how I want to be read,
my body, my head
all at once, not a droplet
here and there,
but a
rip tide
where we drown in each other,
side by side

That is how I will read you

will rip you and replace
in that empty cavity
that was created
when I ripped myself open
with what I rip from you.

I won't repost you.
but,
consider yourself posted.

~~~

this is my opening night.
this is my final performance.

this is the very first poem
I have ever written.
this may be the last poem
I ever write.

I cannot be sure.

so utter these words before you write.
pray this commencement invocation,
each time, every time,
for who can know when it will be
the last curtain call,
for your first may also be your
finale.

you are the architect of an edifice,
that will be tested by time.
before you lay the cornerstone,
before you press the save button...

ask - is the best I can do?

this creation, forever etched upon your face,
will be reflected in the eyes of strangers,
are you satisfied with your appearance?

must answer this question.

is this the best I can do?

must answer this question.

whatever the answer,
you will know what needs doing, before,
before you do it.

This is my first and last poem.