She caught me cleaning the countertops
in the kitchen,
coffee stains and crumbs of
corn chex
needing removal and
crunchy disposal.

she came unexpected.

off to shower, she had said.

she watched silently,
then wept copiously,
bawling as if it were the first time,
tears and copious were married.

what! what did I do?

you cleaned the countertops,
reminding me why
I love you.

I lent her my paper towel,
for surely she needed it now
more than those countertops.

You have my permission
Off to Austria go,
Braid and plait your hair
Alpine style, sing if you must,
Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hoo hoo
Even Do Re Mi

But be **** sure
You are back in
The USA, on NBC,
Come the weekend,
Singing the opening song of
Sunday Night Football

Your braids and long dresses,
Leave behind,
Blow out that hair,
Wear the shortest of skirts
That wardrobe will provide,
Cause if truth be told,
No football watcher on the workweek eve
Will sleep well,
no matter the outcome,
Unless your presence is the opening
Finale of the weekend to
Do Re me.

The Sorceress, Jacob's Most Beloved

she had eyes for me
I knew it
she knew it
man among boys
stare beguiling no accident
entrancement, entrapment,
of course, her eyes hid,
but knew it anyway, for
her warmth dripped into my body,
resting happily within my centre.

why not?

her sorcery, profound,
when she cast the words,
she cast them instantly
without human fore thought,
thus pleasing and being pleasing,
when her branded magi magic
home in other people's minds
did come to rest.

the spells cast
in and on me
own me as much
as I now am possessed,
and in possession of them,
though which is more powerful
is indeterminate,
for I am stained
either way.

in a quiet hamlet,
in an ancient thorp,
the lambs, white and happy
prance on the commons,
the El god's angel disguised,
fresh and unbroken,
I observe the only one,
spotted, stained, like me,
open hid on this earth.
bleating,
I am my beloved's,
and my beloved is mine,
mine very own sorceress.

Desiderata

— things wanted or needed; the plural of desideratum: “Happily-ever-after” and “eternal love” appear to be the desiderata of the current generation"

Your stream of drops
Enters my
Conscious Heart,
and is
Absorbed, removed.

Let me feed you
Rich words
Whose taste will linger
Long after rich foods
Flee, leaving only
Emptiness of calories
That will burn you.

Better than hugs,
These words are yours
Forever,
Yours, embracing,
Forever.

Your pain is absorbed
In the sponge of this
Poem of caring, a
Tissue of shoulders to be
Cried upon.

Until this day is over,
Until tomorrow when
Up you stand,
Eyes no longer red,
Determination ruling,
Be better,
The only face you will wear,
Until then,
These words, are yours
Now,
Tomorrow and forever.

Cloak yourself in them
When the invaders attack,
Wrap yourself in their armor,
As often as needed.

No one can ever take them
From you,
No one can touch
Them like
You can.
For they live in the human warmth,
In the centre of you,
Where the day's soul soils
Cannot ever reach,
For they are
Kitty's Desiderata.

3:43am
NYC

Nothing So Sensuous


Last night, I went back in time and met Alice Liddell in 1862.  
Alice Pleasance Liddell, known for most of her adult life by her married name, Alice Hargreaves, inspired the children's classic Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, whose protagonist Alice is said to be named after her.  See her, greet her, in my banner photo, and all will clear.
~~~~~~~~~

nothing so sensuous
as to watch a woman,
nay, a woman child,
brush her hair
in the mirror.

sensuous,
more than sensual,
all my senses
affected.

luxuriating in a gift that
cannot be
bought,
her head titled,
then thrown
from her chest as far back,
your eyes see waves
of chestnut in
slow motion,
the smile on her face
for the knowing that
she has
sorcerer succeeded
in capturing
all of you.

mesmerizer,
she languidly strokes
her hair,
though it needs it not.
no, she brushes you
to your
knees,
your eyes,
see her eyes,
in the mirror,
the woman's sensuality
maddening.

every sense alerted,
you body fired,
far beyond
merely stirred,
she has you,
and then she asks...

would you brush my hair?
have you ever been in love?
have you ever had to tell someone
you no longer loved them
though you still did?

you answer:

Oh yes, Oh may I?

yes, with you totally, at this very instant.

yes, for I
must leave you
and return to
my time, my age,
150 years from now

the only way
I can do that
is to lie to myself,
no, I do not love you
that much,
not that way,
pretense,
for the agony of this

impermissible desire

is such ecstasy,
that I can
only dare to
write of it,
in my time,
lest I fulfill
it in ours.

Photographs by Avedon

This was written in a friend's home in the Berkshire Mountains, on a Saturday morning, a few years ago.  Up early, I went exploring their bookshelves and found a book of Richard Avedon's photographs of average Americans out west.  Google "richard avedon photos of the american west" - then read the poem.  Please, for without seeing the faces, for this will make all the difference.  In the Berkshires, it is always chilly there, even in the summer sun.  This and other obscure references are better detailed in the notes.


Join my warmth and
my chill,
as the nine o'clock sun,
a 45 degree steeplechase
warms,
but still not
strong enough
to dispense
the lingering,
residual, remaindered,
breezy chill
of the prior eve,
that hides in,
emanates from,
the shadows
of the
deep wooded hillocks
of the
Berkshire Mountains.

Join my warmth
and my chill!

Upright jolted,
head kicked awake,
entranced and revolted,
excited and repelled,
emotive, yet, stilled.

For oh so casually,
this heroic city dweller,
brave and fearless
bookshelf explorer,
retrieves a book,
to find a new route
thru time and space
to the center of his brain.

Photographs by Avedon,
of my fellow Americans,
the Have Nots,
his "Havedons"
of the
American West.

These uncommon people
with whom I share
uncommonly little,
these drifters, the carneys,
the would-have-been cowboys,
busted blackjack dealers,
rattlesnake gut n' skinners,
coal and copper miners,
the hay truck drivers,
dirt so deep in
their pores ingrained,
colors and bloodies their souls,
browns their veins,
are the ones that
too oft,
go off first to
fight wars
in my name.

Photos untitled,
words unneeded.

In this far corner of our
shared contiguous space
called the
United States of America,
top of the line here
would be
insurance agents,
secretaries and maybe even,
the waitresses.

But their eyes,
oh their eyes!

Words I do not own
to fair share with you,
the clarifying gaze
of measured dignity and
immeasurable ache,
heritage pride,
heretical heartbreak,
that marks and unites
these disparate and dispirited
vessels of humankind.

Disjointed,
the noon suns finally,
raises my body temperature
browns my surface...

Yet, nothing eradicates
this ******* chill
in my soul
or calms my consternation,
as black and white
eyes discolor
my comfortable existence,
as I ponder
Avedon's words:

All photographs are accurate but none tell the truth

Pass over,
pass by,
The Evil Son at Passover
asks ever so sly,
what have they to do with me?

It is the Sabbath.
We luxuriate in our rest.
Rest is the greatest luxury

What is this Sabbath?
Heschel's cathedral -
existant both
in space and time,
and one enters
when and where
one can.

Do my distant,
(both in space and time)
American cousins
share my Sabbath?

Are they allowed
this luxury,
or is it endless exertion,
severity and deprivation,
all and every day
of their lives?

Constant risk every day.

Who cannot fail to see the
precipitousness of life
edged in the lines of their
hearts and minds?

Day to day hardens them
and teaches the
discipline of
severity unended.

Is the prudence of
self-forgetfulness,
their morning bitter pill
they must swallow
to carry on?

Among the resolutions
I need
to claim a
life fulfilled is this:

How to end this poem,
close this can of worms,
accidentally kicked open.

Will sunset end these
troubling questions
of which you have
your own,
more personal variations?
(what about the ...)

Perennials flower everywhere,
in Auschwitz,
along the Tigris,
even in Kabul and Somalia,
along the highways
that lead
to the mecca of
Las Vegas.

Perennials flower everywhere.

In warmth and cool,
in time and space,
they flower in my heart and
my brain and in
my prayerful tears.
flowing down my cheeks,
as I lay me down to sleep,
to dream these of
impoverished words

Havdalah^^ thoughts,
separations celebrated.

Distinctions noted,
even celebrated tween
holy and common,
light and dark,
Sabbath and
the six weekdays
of labor,
between sacred and secular
and
between me and
my American Brothers
of the American West.

I know
just one thing
to be true:

The Sabbath Cathedral is
open to all,
whatever day
you choose to
abide there

I await you,
my American cousins,
with wine and bread
and the
holy of holiest words
of comfort and sooth.

I will wash your feet and
lay you down to
restful sleep
in the
Sabbath Cathedral
in my heart.

Together,
at last,
we will be joined,
in warmth and chill.



August 29, 2010
Lanesboro, Mass.

In my real life,
not a poet,
just an astronomer,
an observer of
universes, bodies,
places, faces,
visited, discovered,
named and oft,
best forgot.

I observe:

Some never find true love.
Some never fly first class.
Some of us
never see the
South of France.

Some of us wear
hand-me-down pants,
white lined creases when “let down,”
mocked, we never forgive ourselves
the shame of it.

Some never experience
reckless abandon.

Yet, some of us are
recklessly abandoned,
and never forget,
and never forgive.

Some of us lose
children, husbands,
avanti nel tempo,
before their time,
and
the anger is
forever, palpable,
costly.

Some of us
were raised by
someone else's parents,
and never rest easy,
the abandoned taste
always nearby,
a cruel living, breathing
teasing wasting

Some we can pass over
with ease,
as new tissue grows,
those cuts marked -
emotionally healed.

But the ones that scar,
the ones that visible scar
permanent reddened,
are the
holocaust deniers
that there is a real
promised land of
peace of mind.

Peace of mind -
not even for a second,
foretold but
unrealized,
a biblical myth,
a promised land,
a capitalist paradisal hoax.

Some never feel
public victory,
adulation, adoration,
always wearing the T-shirt labeled
Property of Someone Else.

Most of us remain
unpublished, undiscovered,
unremarked, blanketed,
cloaked in bills to pay;

Living a triumvirate of
heart ache, loneliness, worry,
our normal table fare
consists
of hand to hand
into the mouth
combat MRE's,
we engage,
to survive,
just stay alive.

We are not digitalized,
nonetheless,
we are
but digits,
our faces hidden, and
in no one's heart book
are we recorded,
friended,
yet our viewing habits,
purchases, secret sites
are enumerated, captured.

Some of us live
exclusively
in the real life,
never to escape to the
province of Wifi,
in the landscape
of the electronic mind,
an option for which
we are
untrained.

Perhaps sanctity of separation,
safety of text, email,
avec the ******* intrusion
of tweets are
the real life today,
games are always won,
and what we don't enjoy,
we just delete away

But In My Real Life
getting up is trying,
IMRL,
the trying is trying,
IMRL,
delete buttons don't exist      
in the keyboard
of our brains,
IMRL,
all we have is a
measly twenty six aleph bets
to find new ways to say
that living is striving and
what we feel is
oh so real,
not digital

IMRL,
when I laugh out loud,
the neighbors
beat the walls,
complainants,
registering their feelings
in my face,
in my book,
so to speak.

IMRL,
I got a friend,
maybe two,
all I need,
voices to help soften
the 400 blows of RL.

Their synthesized silence
of their breathing
on the phone
is precious unto me.

IRL,
limp from Friday
night to
Friday
night,
a bottle of Medoc
my weekend reward,
my bedrock cushion
in order to sleep.

After all these years,
gains and losses,
conversations with God,
I look up,
see the risk,
the slightest breeze
is a
hurricane wind.

The shaft,
of the
the sword
hanging above me
the hilt,
swaying in living color,
is no legend.

But what I have is
the ability
and maybe
the responsibility
to let anyone know
that
in my real life
anyone who touches me
with fine and good intent,
a momentary glancing blow
or a gunshot to the ventricle,
is part and parcel of
my real life.

This makes you real too,
savior, and hereby notified,
that you are not
just an observer, but
a poet of me,
an astronomer of my heart,
and namer of
a secret universe
inside of me.


Sept. 1, 2010

_____________________________
US Army jargon: meals ready to eat

This writing was found in Italian among
my father's papers, when he passed away
___________
*Dedicated to F. Murray Abraham, whose
performance as Shylock, rent open my chest.
and with deep apologies to Shakespeare*
and gifted to Liz Balise
__________

The True Tale of Shylock's Pound
(Did Shylock pay his pound of flesh?)

A peculiar circumcision,
into the Jew's chest
shall now be commenced,
by the Medico Legale of Venizia,,
his instruments blessed, ready.

Dual purposed, to extract  
an accursed payment,
in service to the Court and
in furtherance to man's
greater scientific knowledge.

Incise a body prone before him,
but it's not a body at rest,
the cut, the trademark coroner's
inquiring and most appropriate Y,
(his pleas to Yehovah go unanswered)
shall be executed just so,
both as legal tender,
his debt to pay,
and to answer queries varied,
shall we,
this living body, dismember
while coincidental, alive.

Tho we injure with pleasure,
t'is recorded fair,
t'is at the behest of a
court-ordered scientific inquiry,
ordered to measure,
answer questions
from the trial's record
that having been posed
to the Duke,  
and for answers,
impatiently,
the Court and Duke,
now awaits:

By the unholy virtue of his
guile and trickery,
a trifling pound
shall be ours,
for the Jew's resource,
and fortune
have been most
legally reversed.

His due, most legitimate,
more than forfeit,
is now ours to keep.

Hath a Jew hands,
organs, dimensions,
senses, affections, passions?

If you ***** the Jew,
doth it bleed?

How much doth a Jew's
pound of flesh weigh?

Doth it weigh more or less
when his unholy soul
yet contaminate
his writhing body?

What color doth his heart,
exposed, reveal
or simpler yet,
does the accursed,
this dog's vessel,
even a heart contain?

What powers the Jew's cunning,
inspires his deceptions,
so he prospers despite  our
many constant degradations?

Come wise councillors of
most notable lineage,
let's us put our heads together,
like the olden Egyptian sorcerers
who tried yet failed.

Have at it skilled Da Vinci, you
and your scienziato brethren,
do assay well the potions
that doth taint the Jew's blood,
so that we may,
his secrets maketh,
our own notions.

Come Medicos,
discover how the Jew
maketh precious stones
from coals, spit and hate,
for the bene proviso of the
citizens of our city-state,
dearest Venice!

Our brothers who from
Spain and Portugal hail,
have much knowledge
in these matters,
so let make haste,
cut deep and true, Doctors
the Jew physic treasures discover,
lest the Spanish Alchemistos
the secrets earn,
their inquisitories reveal
how Jews turn
dross into ducats!

Take measurements fine,
observe most accurate
his corde vocali,
the infernal instrument
projecting these shrieks, cries,
so horrible peculiar,
we need to ascertain
the wherefore of such
wails and moans.

All knoweth,
Jew cries are lies,
yet they haunt and crucify
our most perfect, noble demeanor,
**** them.

Attention pay, dear ones,
examine with great care,
the tongue that populates
his now most deformed features.

Its secrets many,
for it speaks guile
so fluently and elegante,
and in so many lingua,
a skill, our brothers Borgia
hold exceedingly valuable!

Our introspection today
in Heaven's service performed,
this pound,
its value exceedth
its countermeasure in
gold and jewels

When has Justice
and science
simultaneous,
been served so well?

Only one quest remains
unknown and alas,  
as yet unresolvable:

**What maketh a Jew,
this Jew, all Jews,
choose death
over our warm and willing embrace?

Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."

Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,
I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?

Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,
where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA., friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,
of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.

even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.

She brings me morning coffee and tissues
(Tissues, ostensibly a coaster)
for she knowing.

Poetry,
I am writing,
needing then,
to wipe up
the spilling
tears.


PostScript:
Which of the mysteries within this poem
need answers?
All or None.

My father, gone fifty years,
A transplanted German,
Arrived early, in the 1920's,
Fleeing the worldwide depression,
That decided to follow him to America.

Traveling salesman, raconteur,
A busy man who decided he
Found the right girl at age forty,
But by the time I was teen,
He was, then uncommon,
An older man, an older father.

Raised three kids,
Working six days a week.
Unlike the other fathers,
White shirt and tie every day
Even Sunday.

No backyard in the city,
To toss a base or football to his son,
Though he wouldn't, couldn't,
While his son grew,
Grew up worshipping
Three Gods:
Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, and
The bold, the bald Y.A. Tittle,
Heroic sports figures.

The son who went to Yankee Stadium
For the first time,
There he saw the color
Emerald  Green in the Bronx,
In The House Ruth Built,
Whispered Hallelujah,
There, courtesy of someone else's dad.

Goatee he wore, and on Saturdays,
Wore a black jacket, striped pants
And Homburg hat to the synagogue.
Custom of his Hamburg upbringing.
The only one, the only dad,
Of course, dressed that way.
Proud of his style, his heritage,
Helping me not to fit right in.

Yet twinkle twinkle did his eyes sparkle,
Such that all the other children loved him,
Better and best.

But I was the son with the unlike,
The father, unlike any others.
Age thirteen, he's asked me this:
Now you are a man, I wish of thee this,
Accompany me to synagogue every day,
As is my custom, and all your father's,
Twenty generations before me.

When he passed, the stories of
His saintly deeds, his help,
How he saved, brought many to
The United States of America,
Including his five sisters and their families.
During, after WWII, became legends,
all the while, trying to make a living.

One time, I was listening to
Rock n' Roll, on the radio,
In the den, study, his home office,
Where
The Stereo,
proudly sat.

Chased me out,
Paperwork to do,
But stopped me first,
Listening to the song.
That happened to be next.

When this old world starts getting me down
And people are just too much for me to face
I climb way up to the top of the stairs
And all my cares just drift right into space

On the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let me tell you now

When I come home feelin' tired and beat
I go up where the air is fresh and sweet
Up on the roof
I get away from the hustling crowd
And all that rat race noise down in the street
Up on the roof

On the roof, the only place I know
Where you just have to wish to make it so
Let's go up on the roof
Up on the roof

At night the stars put on a show for free
And darling, you can share it all with me
I keep a tellin' you

Right smack dab in the middle of town
I've found a paradise that's trouble proof
Up on the roof
And if this world starts getting you down
There's room enough for two, up on the roof
Up on the roof

Up on the roof
Up on the roof
Oh, come on, baby
Up on the roof
Oh, come on, honey
Up on the roof
Everything is all right
Up on the roof
Say that, "It's alright"
Up on the roof
Oh, we gotta go up on the roof
Up on the roof
The Drifters - Up On The Roof

He listened carefully,
Pronouncing with an austere smile,
"That I like, now go."

Now fifty years later,
Having failed spectacularly as a
Father, family man, having never saved a
Soul or life, I remember the outcast days
Of my growing up years,
With a different kind of father
Than all the kids who
Played catch, had big suburban homes.

I never understood much,
Always struggled to be one
Unsuccessful in fitting in,
In my high school yearbook,
They outed my anomie,
"Either apart or ahead of us,
Nat stands, uniquely individual."

So here is a poem, an apology,
No, more an anthology, an anthem,
Of, and,
To my pop, for resenting, misunderstanding,
How
You were more than unique,
How you were special, in ways
No teenager could see.

I am have written some of this before.
Tender apologies, but when I awoke this
Post Thanksgiving Day, at
6:00 Ante Meridiem,
In not my bed,
In not my city,
Pandora surprised me
Real Good,
With an old song,
Up on the Roof.

These words,
The ones you are reading did not drift,
Nay, they spilled out in shades of
Tearful regretful guilt-filled,
Pooling tears that cannot n'ere erase
Prior youthful errors, grievous sins.

Of course,
They like to surprise you,
At the end of their song,
Twisty surprise ending.

I will say it, not you,
In some ways, not all,
I grew up to be just like him,

And for that,
I will give thanks,
Not just one day, every day,
Until it is among,
My last thoughts passing,
Proceeding me,
Preceding me,
As I depart this globe.

The third and last Thanksgiving poem

they went round the table
asking what are you thankful for,
arrived my turn,
all the easy ones already taken,
family food etc.

so they said give us a poem,
and I replied:

I am thankful for the
light at the end of the tunnel,
the eyes to see it,
the patience to wait for it,
and the words to describe it.

Unreality: Thanksgiving Miami Style

It is 70 degrees, afternoon,
sunny Miami winter style.
Nike shorts, flip flops,
polo shirt white,
music, pandora, and
no place he
needs to be.

the collected works and
worries, left behind,
the boy, and he is taking
it to the limit,
wanting a day of no cares,
one more time.

yet, recollecting, writing
impertent, dissatisfied,
no reason, none that I can
irrationally explain.

previous night,
my eyes have
seen the
second-coming.

everybody smiles
happy, looking fit,
tight black dresses
the law of the land.
food flows like wine,
wine flows like water.

lose track of the numbers,
glasses of Cortese di Gavi,
cold and white refilled
in the Miami heat,
exactly, how old am I,
and where
my eyes should
not be staring,
bodies intended
to maim,
after they
**** you.

it is a long-short tale,
how it came to be,
that I am living thanksgiving
in the unreality of Miami style.

was supposed be at the
head of the table carving,
giving secret tastes to
numerous grandchildren,
multiple dogs,
defrosting after the
Macy's Day Parade.
my children, their
kith and kin.
that was supposed to be
my New York reality,
at the head of the table.

divorce, monkey wrench,
I am in a different state,
a different table, a
welcome bystander,
but her love,
my love,
has brought me,
to unseasonal places,
higher and higher,
where I am welcomed
as her man.

not a bad unreality,
but still someone has torn
off a piece of me,
a tasty combo of
sad and guilt,
that I ******* up,
which is why this
writing is my re-righting
the ship of perspective.

maybe I am dreaming
of what was never,
could have been,
should of been,
kidding myself, with an idyll,
the unreality of an idol,
though I vague recollect,
there were meals like that.

think this is my fourth trip here,
sort of, almost a tradition.
BobbyDylan, he reminds
what that woman,
done for me,
been doing to me.

"I was in another lifetime
one of toil and blood,
when blackness was a virtue
and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness
a creature void of form.

"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter
from the storm".

so she did,
a new reality born.
so semi-sad poem, but
happy thanks to give,
for this day,
new family
embracing, and I am
recollecting,
read somewhere,
you cannot be thankful
for having,
only for giving.

Thanksgiving

Not
Thanks-having
Thanks-receiving

New Reality: Thanksgiving Miami Style.

The seat, 15C,
it calls itself,
screams at me,
let me out!
can't breathe,
with you in it.

pretty sure
sir seat,
it ain't me
that got wider,
but that you
are slimmer.

your momma cut you
3/4 inch, on a metallic line,
on either side, each wrist,
read it in the Journal,
their motto, no fooling!

yup,
even at 10,000 feet,
the ****
cutting word
gotta put in a
guest appearance.

in the exit row
we swore an oath,
administered with
great solemnity to a
no-nonsense stewardess.

bowed we did,
to the AAlmighty,
in the event ,
we needed to operate
the emergency exit,
we would a good job.

**** right,
all cheerfully replied.
nat, women and children first,
which was perhaps
why my fingers
were crossed
under my iPad.

sweetly, they offered me
juice, soda or water,
hard crust of bread,
cost 6.99 if you could
squeeze your hand
in between
your **** and the seat,
your wallet to retrieve.
(credit cards only)

plenty turbulence on board,
the east coast weathering,
you may well have heard,
inclement weather
up and down its entirety.
at least,
I read that in Miami,
the rain is warmer.
(no charge for the
RRR, real rock n' roll)

because I am feeling
the holiday spirit,
signed up for the
up-in-the-air Internet,
the price paid,
I won't reveal,
lest you call me Midas.

somewhere over Tennessee,
I thought I would drop you
this note, pretending it was a
for-real, certified, sorta of a
poem, disguised as a
Genuine Thanksgiving Prayer.

in a way you will never understand,
that lovely thunderbolt lit up yellow,
just a click, a finger tip flick,
kind words in accompaniment,
make feel better about myself.

much do I have,
for it is given unto me,
to be thankful for.

you cannot be thankful for
having,
only for giving and receiving.

this is my first thanksgiving here,
and though jocular do I prose,
with earnest almighty I promise myself,
I will share my corn, feed you pieces
of me that I don't speak of to others.

my feast of words, more glorious,
because of your attentions,
the warmth of of your fires of
appreciation are recorded,
each in its own unique neuron,
cherished, cared for,
and as promised,

I will shake your hands,
then your body
and your soul,
as long as
I have breath,
an Internet connection,
eyes to weep
at mine own foibles,
fingers to record,
and something
worth sharing,

I am sending you a thunderbolt,
and a notification official,
that you have given me much
thanksgiving in the year
two thousand and thirteen.

thank you.

My life is about never.

you say we will never meet.
my life is about never.

I lived a living death for decades.
awoke each day begging that it be
my last, my now, my never more.

never was my watchword.
never was fate.
never was my hell.

you better go back and
read my poems from
A to V.

therein lies the stories,
true to each word.

rivers I almost jumped into.
mental faculties rusted brittle.

until by accident,
I lost the N.

never became ever.

there are the magic twenty five.
met one and the journey,
trip has begun.

a world tour,
I will make.
gonna knock on your door at the poetry hour,
around six am,
and with the biggest smile,
will hand you this poem,
and pronounce this blessing:

Gotcha.

need no will,
need no way.

cause I got me a passport
issued by the authorities of
Neverland.

As a degreed graduate,
I learned magic and how to spell,
never is spelt ever.

we will shake hands,
whenever,
whoever,
wherever.

but always
ever,
forever.

gotta get me a big suitcase,
these crazy twenty five,
who always ever read every
poem I wrote, I will meet,
on this planet earth.

they live in the craziest places,
but I got maps and google earth.
and I will find them and you sir,
hands will I shake and then grab you,
soul and body,
shake that too.

first you gotta eat.

first you gotta work.

get in the F150 truck,
the dust maker.
don't crank the music
too loud
cause you know
that, as an
escape venue
don't work,
same as nowhere at all.

you hit what is
a dry patch.
mostly stone,
pebbles and
way too much
concrete,
ribbons of white and yellow
making you crazy, and
you force yourself to

settle down,
get it organized.
only a matter of time
then when it's calm,
the itch,
can't  be creamed
or suppressed,
want to write,
you are afraid,
why and what
might,
will come out.

you proud, not loud,
you are the dust maker,
you will make your dust,
when it is time when
life is just a little less
dusty, or dusty enough,
don't matter, either way,
to get it straight,
the crooked will out.

Men of few words are the best men
Shakespeare's Henry V
(Act 3 Scene 2. Line 41)


yet men still
pleasure themselves oft,
the music of their voices
soothes their conscience,
even as it irritates
those unchosen few
who must deign
to listen to the
ration of their excuses.

I fare not well
in this endeavor,
for as poet and
recorder of all that be
known as human folly,
more is always best
or at least, better!

for no man knows
the limits of his import,
his web of self-deception
cast far and wide,
for it must perforce
hold him aloft,
on all the tissued lies
he hath convinced himself
to be the absolute truth,
and nothing but...  

so let us ascribe
to those fools
who call themselves
mistakenly, men
a smokey, fleeting honour,
for many words
they do employ to
plead their case,
proving well in
a fashion most
contrary and contradictory
that their worth is
worst, when they speak
long and eloquent of their
vainglorious heroics and medals,
watch their words ascend,
and like smoke, forever disappear.

that is why, young reader,
heed the lesson of the
American cowboys
who say little,
but walk tall,
and sit straight
in the saddle,
and sing consoling songs of
lonesome love around the
dying fire.

on the phone with her sister,
a 9:00am, a Saturday, weekend ritual,
and I hear say "even..."
and I wait,
knowing she can't
remember my name,

so I help her out,
filling the blanks,
and say out loud

the guy in bed next to me,

but that makes it worse,
cause now she is
laughing so hard,
tears are rolling,
she can't talk at all.

me, I'm writing this
down and
done.

not much of a poem,
agreed,
but a moment,
a slice of the day,
forever captured,
and someday,
when she stumbles on this,
when I am no longer scribbling,
here's hoping she starts
laughing all over again,
like you are now.

I don't dedicate poems

nope.

the dedication is in the
composition.

In the composition is:
the ceremonial fire

the ribbon drawn tight
ready for cutting

the struggle, heavy breathing,
the ****** of completion

the satisfaction of having
torn off a piece of you,
and in doing so, you
are even more whole
than before

when it is done
I don't dedicate to you

I surrender it, grant and give it,
push it away, can't even
remember it days later,
cause it ain't mine,
ain't mine no more
from the second
I push that
black n white
Save Poem
button.

someday I am gonna plagiarize myself,
and then laugh and laugh all the way
home.

5:00am and folding laundry

when the inspiration tank is yellow lit,
and E stands for more than empty,
but evacuation,
try this remedy,
a first generation family secret!

fold the laundry.
all kinds.
his n' hers,
blacks n' whites
really clean and

and the kind that never get clean,
no matter how much d e t e r-g e n t
you use, how oft you wash 'em...

Instructions:

1. fold only when wearing t- shirt, tank top, briefs (optional)
2. put on Pandora 60's rock n ' roll (folk rock - highly recommend Runaround Sue by Dion and the Belmonts, The Wedding Song, The House of the Rising Sun)
3. dance, shake, improve your moves when nobody's looking
3a. control yourself, if you must sing, at the top of your lungs is not acceptable.
If alone skip, skip to no. 5
4. every third piece give a sniff, get high on
fresh starts, clean notions, the idea that all can be washed away
4a. Every third piece of hers give an extra sniff,
so you can know why love keeps you alive
5. if you have to sing, then only loud is acceptable
(***** the others, you're doing the folding, they're sleep-dreaming)
6. drink lots of water
7. have pen + paper handy cause ain't no doubt
the poet puppet muse masters gonna smack you down
when folding sheets alone.
8. finish the write and post it ASAP
9. always leave the single socks on top of the dryer,
a prayer to the laundry gods for the
safe return of their better halves
10. finish
11. If done correctly, you need to shower (wash hair!)
12, around 6:00am, all scrubbed and clean,
fold yourself back into her arms. Snuggle, spoon.
13. when she mumbles you smell clean, you reply,
                                  "been folding laundry, writing poetry,
                                   and the clean smell done fell on me"
14. if alone, despair not, read this poem and know we are together
15. believe this day is full of possibilities,
write me a poem, put the load right on me

there are stains that cannot be removed,
deterred by this gent, and his a-gents,
they are history, treat'em with respect
and not more
deter-gent

every poem must end,
so when the folding is done,
whisper:

*the day ahead is full of possibilities
like the pleasured reinvigorating of my clothes,
once happy soiled, now happy cleansed,
so I possess an excuse, a reason,
a rationale for living
to fold laundry again!

had to
give a speech
at a funeral,
tried to leave them laughing,
happy to be sad.

but i done it.

whipped those rivulets
back up and into
those emptying tear ducts.

bring on the next act,
be prepared, scouts,
to exercise your
laughs lines.

you see,
when the deceased
and me,
walked twenty paces
behind you,
close enough that y'all
could not hear,
we cackled and cracked jokes,
in joyous wonderment
of our own foibles,
drunk silly on our silliness.

the jokes went from
bad to worse,
the worse it got,
the harder
we laughed.

so i ask you this?

did you're hear the one about
the grandpa
who asked his grandchild,
could he possibly source
a little yellow pill,
in return for
twenty bucks
under his pillow?

Sure, said the grandchild,
he knew where
his dad kept,
hid his stash,
free cash.

Next morning,
the child found
$120 bucks
underneath his pillow.

asked his grandpa,
what's the story, gramps?

the  twenty was from me,
as agreed.
the hundred dollar bill, well,
that was from Grandma.

a true story, maybe.

so long grandpa,
thanks for the good advice,

always leave 'em laughing!

then he broke down,
weeping inconsolable.

that has taken the mantle,
the muse of inspiration,
for she -
(did you think she was a man-god?)
dyes me oft, colors me, ***** me,
loves me with intensity hot
that near to make my heart stop.

poems I did not know,
knew not their name,
would write,
but moments ago,
now are
chicks in the hatchery hatching,
cupcakes in the oven rising,
spit in the mouth *******
so fast a-coming,
the sustained pleasure
the best drug I have designed.

seconds ago there were none,
a lifetime of moments,
now, multitudinous,
molecules of
oxygenated words
flying past my eyes,
purposed for inhalation
through my skin.

all week I have stretched and pecked,
shreds of lettuce un satisfied,
a title, no poem,
a stanza, no poem,
like I need a woman,
need to write,
like I need loving,
desperate and raging,
need to write.

even my alter ego,
the hidden me,
where I write on the other side
of edgy, indie, across border lines,
in a name you do not know,
nothing.

started poems about
being enlightened,
my eldest sin,
my eldest son,
hitting a kid with a car,
reading writing and 'rithmetic,
inch plants,
****,
about the young poets here,
fast track to nowhere.

but at 2:22 am awoke,
my small engine repaired,
the fingers humming flying across the keyboard
so fast broke the 3:50 minute mile,
dear muse,
I hate you with all my love.

would it be so terrible if you gave me
one complete per day,
is that too much to ask?

now I am choking gasping on
****** adrenalin cup overflowing,
now they come like *******
only a women can have,
so many more than one,
long short fast furious
separate but connected.

you make me woman,
just like you.

one day when get up high where you reside,
gonna start a recall petition, and if that don't work,
a revolution, to kick out  the cruelty y'all dish out,
the tornadoes and typhoons,
return the missing to their parents,
and give inspiration, hope
to every human poet upon this
living planet.

now I comprehend why
Shakespeare's theater was called
The Globe.

love is easy to fall into.
love is hard but still
so so easy,
to fall out of.

many are the women
I have desired.
enough are the women
I have lain beside.

but friends true, in all my life,
number less than the fingers
on one hand.

Sometimes your lovers
are also your friends.
lovers must learn
the other's boundaries,
respect them,
to stay lovers.

ex-lovers,
jumping back and forth,
over that
crack in the sidewalk,
trying, but man,
that's so hard,
almost never bother.

but give me one true friend,
man or woman,
will give them my blood,
my skin, my organs, my money,
and never ask for anything back
or in return.

simply because,
I will never need
ask.

Resubmitting for you consideration. posted to HP, my first week here, and another that got swallowed up in the multitude of words.   But I like it a lot, it makes me smile and perhaps it will find a wider audience, a second time around.



Do Not Put a Poem Here Until You Have Bent your ear to Shakespeare's sonnets

Until you have bent your ear to Shakespeare's sonnets,
Till you have laughed with Ogden Nash,
Wept with Frost, visited Byron's ghost,
Read the songs of King Solomon,
And once you
Despair of being their equal,
Shed your winter coat of worry,
***** your courage to the sticking point,
Begin to write then with reckless courage,
Unfettered abandon, make a fool of yourself!

Scout the competition.
Weep, for you and I will never surpass
The giants who preceeded us, and yet,
**Laugh, cause they thought the same thing as well...

Gonna die broke.

Angst, not this man
That be his plan.
My treat.
Feed the world.
That be the word.

Why eat home tonite?

Get on a plane,
Be the plan.
Feed the world
Specifically,
You and me,
In NYC.

Brasserie,
Patisserie
Hot Dog Cart
Wine Bar
Chinese
Thai
Felafel
Haute Cuisine,
Street steak,
Lean and mean.

Pizza in between
All meals
With white cloth napkins,
Real silverware.

Need your help
To execute
The best laid plan.

But one thing you
You
Need to do,
Need to due.

Bring Milk Duds
For desert.

When the account says zero,
Some might say you're a hero,
Even tho can't afford a casket,
(Maybe just a picnic basket?)
I will be buried with taste!

The taste of you and NYC
Upon his smacking lips,
Une bonne mémoire,
C'est tout, au revoir!

There are metallic, life-like statues of human figures scattered through my city, often on park benches.  You must look twice the first time you spot them, and sometimes, each time, as they are so nat-ural, that they fool the retina image of man.*

The traffic light,
red to green,
yet my limbs,
froze fruit solid,
release catch stuck,
unflippable,
somehow plastic freezes,
mobility skills rusted
by December's hampering
cheeky cheeks,
a seasonal reddish copper
discoloration of the extremities,
a harmony of no sensation

A comet stuck in
pedestrian neutral,
collided/jostled by
starry eyed
Fifth Avenue
street walkers and tourists.

my presence sensed,
touched, yet avoided,
unnoticed,
like streetlight,
lamppost, mailbox,
I am, a body,
at rest,
unseen
but on display
in the art gallery of
Manhattan's Lost and Found

In the section of the paper
where the
unimportant local news is
sliced n' diced
into single paragraphs,
of human interest,
tidbits, amuse bouche,
items of
major minor interest,
The New York Times
reported the discovery of an
unauthorized lifelike
bronze n' copper sculpture.

eyes of polished nickel,
heart of stained steel,
rendition of a man
so lifelike y'all do a
triple take, smile,
take a cell photo,
phone a friend

his embodiment can be found
on the rounded corner of
Columbus Circle, @59th St.,
where you enter Central Park.

upon a bench,
man clutching Sunday newspapers,
a pair of scissors,
coupons cut,
scattered at his feet.
a homely but comely,
****** expression,
one of bewilderment.

A tiny plaque on a brass plate,
at his feet,
hints of his progenitor and human origins.

Artist: Unknown,
Materials: Organic Metals
Title: A Living Finish

Sunday's newspapers
come on Saturday,

coupons spill out
torrentially.

weekend manna
from
publisher's hell.

makes my breathing heavy,
from studious inspection,
so many needs unmet.

I fall to pieces
every weekend,
securely knowing,
I'm lacking in
so many things,
feeling my
insecure neediness
keenly.

my Target is
feverishly simple,
solution oriented.

no can find any discounts for
new rhythms,
new rhymes,
life high fivers
to satisfy,
adhere,
and revere,
that would be my
Best Buy.

but I'm clipped,
the coupons, not.

awoke startled from a dream.
wiped out instantly.
except for the final sensory of
being a young lion cub
being lifted up from behind,
my fur, my neck
in between teeth
helpless.

a full color film
of a significant duration
erased near complete,
except for the knowledge
that there was one,
well developed.

woke to write this
before I lost it too.

dreams disappear fast
for they blur the boundary
between truths and
our fantasies.

what could be more dangerous
to confront?

So many lost ones, can you find me now?

Resubmitted for your tender consideration.
It fell between the cracks of us, but I love it so,
remembering its birthing, like it was but a moment ago.
~~~~~~

Multi-tasking multi-sensations

kissing your eyes,
sensing the tickling
of your trembling lashes,
between kisses and breathes
someone utters word-wisps of
love poetry.

right hand strokes thy chest,
sensing/sending heartbeats
upon my palm to the
forever to keep part
of my
treasury memory chest.

all the while
my left finger indexes,
it mesmerized, it memorizes
the curvature of the face
to be stored in the
never-forget-always place.

my tongue
restless to participate
goes whatever it feels like,
for the tongue is
the only body part
with a mind of its own.

my eyes, my eyes,
see only the
totality of this moment,
when mastery of multi-tasking
becomes
the single best poem
this man ever penned
with only
his entirety.

May 19th
Edited Nov. 17th.

In Lalitpur, a small city,
a poem in
and of itself,
near to the capital city,
Kathmandu,
in the magic
word-world of
Nepal.

Who in the world is Simrik?

Girl, 15, apologetic,
with the heart of a deer.
who unlike most
kindly requests your criticism.

Ok, here is my criticism.

Your writes are a shotgun blast.
It cannot be that fifteen years
has been granted
a simple eloquence
that writes and feeds
tastes of visions
of a spiced life
far away, but
close by.

winding roads
and the trees,
the train station,
train tracks,
jeeps for taxis.
the market at night.
a few bookstores i wanted
to enter but couldn't/didn't
benches at chowrasta,
aloo chat.
penang momo,
the "aum sweet aum" poster
they had there.
pretty girls in chowrasta.
so well-dressed.

at fifteen I could not
see so well, see so fine.
not I.

i have fallen for boys, and i have fallen for men.
i don't know if it'd still be falling if i only ever
fell for pieces of them. and as for you, you were no
exception. my eyes never knew the ridges on
your body as soft as icing on a cake, or the
veins in your arms and they've only read
your words, your tastes, in pixels, but i
fell anyway, briefly. the heart is a muscle
the size of a fist, an ***** that has nothing to
grow and fit into. you never really know where
exactly in your chest it really is or if it's the right size.
there'll be growing pains in your ventricles and
dislocation to your spine or your stomach to tell you
of that before the cardiologist, and when you find the
cure or place it back to where it was, you'll have
stories written like prescription notes.

One time, when I was fifteen,
(For I have been
fifteen
many times),
I knew that
I didn't know
how to express
the potpourri
of what
was inside
of me,
the desire was
compelling,
the skills lacking,
for I lived in amidst a
family of writers, critics, historians,
and saw the birthmark of my incapabilities
embarrassed rosy red on my face every morning.

my incapabilities.

not Simrik.
oh no.

here's blood clotting where i got bit by a leech at a
monastery, from after the day i told you we needed to drop
to being friends from lovers. deserved it, totally. you had
blisters on your knees, from the day i sent you back.

you said i still had your heart with me.
when i reach the sea in 12 days,
i'll return with the crevices on them
mended with the pieces of
toughest seashells i can find,
wrapped in a sheet of prayer flag
i tore from the monastery,
so that when you place it back
between your ribs,
you'll have prayers
and the sound of the sea
flowing in your veins.

At fifteen, I read Camus
and the sport pages.
At fifteen, I peeked  
at my neighbor's *******
dreamt blonde dreams.
what I knew
was
what I did not know.

so here is my criticism.

you remind me now, this day,
of what
I still do not know
nor can ever hope
to capture as well
as you.

Ah yes,
fresh starts,
like
fresh white sheets meeting
fresh black newspapers,
doomed to the inevitability,
groomed for the probability,
that their intersection
will be
newsprint contamination,
a black and white
condemnation,  

So, a clarification:

this poem,
just like this moment,
a black and white surrogation,
a seventh day progeny
a sabbath moment,
must and will
and by definition,
be explained as an
interlocutory.^

fated to be
jubilee ended,
a pre and post
sabbatical
of but a
minute,
by law and custom,
destined to go up
in a smoking trinity of
white flame,
red wine,
and a cloud of
myrrh and salt incense.  

Sigh with me.

Join in and
inhabit my eyes,
enjoy the unsullied
white blanket
of fresh snow
that humanizes my insights,
and for this moment,
share my peace,
my unedged relief that
the levees have broken
and I am awash in
waves of drifted snowflakes composed
of salt sanctified water

I may be thin and
clarified,                  
but my visions are still
less than limitless,
my sabbath poems
are but
momentary evaporated residuals of melted snowflakes, heretofore, salty tears, that become

rivers
that become
oceans,
upon which no
Poet-Envisionary
can truly walk,
see his tomorrows,
or even,
especially even,
his past days,
with perfect
clarity

The Riddle

One of you has seen my face.
One of you knows where I live.
Stuff. Important stuff,
like the locale of
my hidey-holes.

My email and my
cell disclosed
soon to be
on sale on eBay
for a trifling sum.

So now I must
disburse to parts
more remote,
reappear in a
nouveau identity.

Just a necessary precaution.

Moreover, methinks
you have grown
tired of my waning voice,
waxing ineloquently,
opining too frequently.

feel like a
thick wooly straw
welcome mat,
edges unravelling,
grown raggedy,
roundabout the edges,
or like a
paperback book,
tho well thumbed,
nonetheless,
consigned to the
bye-bye
discard box.

riddle me,
me be the riddle,
when I scribe
under a new
Nom de Plume.

will you recognize,
my signature
hid amidst the
restless words that
still need a home?

are my poems
worthy of a
second glance,
do you predispose
your attentions on
your favorites only,
the newbies squeaking
ignored and unattended,
whose ranks I have
now rejoined?

did you ever meet
a poem
you did not like?
did you ever greet
a poet
with palms
outwardly raised,
saying, no mas,
had enough,
no time for you
and your
clouded clarifications?

need you.
need you to judge me,
without the saddlebags of
predisposition and imposition.

if you need me
just give me a
loud holler
in my sleepy hollow.

tho sadly my
country road,
has listening posts
on the telephone wires,
I will know, when.
you call,
your voice,
I will come,
if you ask,
always.

I'll be riddling
in plain sight,
if you have the taste
for and of me,
you will find me
soon enough.

HOWEVER,
in emergencies
all you need dial,
my digital signature,
911 and
ask for the
Poetry Hotline.

six months to the day,
of treading along.
like many good things,
an Internet accident.

180 days can be converted
to one of these units:
15,552,000 seconds
259,200 minutes
4320 hours
180 days
25 weeks
(rounded down)

six months here,
a fortune of time,
goodly to behold.

new faces
from new places,
now crowd the heart
that has no shape,
for it expands daily,
making room for
more of you.

your welcome
welcomes more than poems.

ces triestes,
ces chansons de mon cœur,
don de la liberté,
doués pour vous,
dans la célébration de mon
Jour de l'Indépendance

some fingernail torn
from darker memories,
from fears of the future.
others from eyes to paper
ink spilled quickly,
lest the letters,
remain among the
stillborn ashes
hid in the caverns
of the man's mouth.

the ink in the bottle,
that spilt,
gotta be drops of
mixed blood.
by anybody's definition.

perhaps you sense the fearful
truths that lie within,
some yet to be invoked,
unvoiced, unyoked,
for which my concealer
in actuality is a
point-the-way revealer.

all in. good time.

Yet, never met a poem
did not like,
for the man in the beast
is just like {you, man}.

my only excuse for
to having not read
all of yours,
is oft thine stop me hot,
diverting me
to spill some more,
oh child of mine.

convinced still,
is the man,
that the secret
to this poetry racket,
is to never ever stop
laughing at yourself,
loving all the parts of you,
secretly and
secretly, as well,
in the open wide.

so you feed the beast
that devours me,
for restless are the
words that need a home.

someone said to me,
you are one of those
who are
nostalgic for
the future.

restless is the man inside
the beast, restless is the
beast that is the man,
who hates the word I.

With this sole exception.

**I thank you.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Let me explain.
This poem is about sleeping, dreaming,
the failure of my inadequacies in poetry to heal.

Three years after its birth, it is exactly what I am feeling this day.
It is long rambling and you won't stay for the whole movie.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Erudition is perdition,
dreaming in words, accursed,
death to the visionaries,
release from visitations
of over-staying, unwelcome guests,
Johnny Cash, Jesus,
Forefather Jacob, Bobby Dylan
and their whiny,
smug-smiled missives
on behalf of the
all knowing, dream invader powers,
who
just-happens-to-be-know-it-alls.

These guys,
sub rosa angels,
electioneering,
hand shaking  
you into dreams
that make you wonder              
unceasingly  

I have renounced chants n'
dreams that
wander                              
meaninglessly

so if there is no
repeal of the stupification
of the human condition,
just invent words that  fool
willful and mostly please
nobody

don't ask and don't tell,
then we can agree
that a life,
its peculiar
Hallmark Card of grief,
cannot be
disambiguated

yours is yours,
different from mine,
single poems cannot solve
multivariate equations,  
un-blow mind sensations
that circumnavigate my mind    
as I edge along the
borderline tween the
United States of self-realization,
and a State of Mexico
drug-induced, seductive and
self-administered pat down,
a colorless, tasteless, dreamless
evening in the company of
a rest-once-and-for-all,
sleeping pill

Repudiate yourself,  
privately you
hyperventilate,
but others willing to borrow
those surfeit of rapid
misunderstood breathes,
stored in brown paper bags,
that will be divided
most ingeniously by the
Misappropriation Committee
for wordy oxygen tanks,
desperate for refilling

Recant, Renege,
Renounce, Repeal,
Repudiate, Retract,
I herby foreswear
all previous poems, please
Return them

Back, send them,
so, I can end them,
desist any new arrival of vaniloquence,
direct 'em to  the trash box of inconsequence

My wrongful w-rightings
are now cashiered,
my cool is in mourning,
my plateau is flat but
upsided downded,
words drownded,
both sides now, spring silent

Tried to swim to safety,
to Spanish Harlem
but no hablo espanol,

In Miami, they done me in
for the crime of
insufficiently thin,

In Ghiradelli Square
they deemed me too blond
not 'ciscan enough
yet, in Frisco fairness,  
done deported me,
making me to choose
tween Los Angeles and/or
Orange County

So, poet poseur, where you gonna run too?

My better half sleeps,
my left half weeps,
so conditions normal.

Satan laughs,
offers me ***** or poetry,
knowing full well that having
foresworn, addictive wordmongering, liscentiousness
that a single letter
would stupor me into a
drunken poetry slam at
St. Paul's Church,
into Satan's collection box
of wordy sinners,
where lost souls, ex-poets,
prevaricate
vainly, in hopes
that anyone will let them
transubstantiate
in order to avoid their
expiration date
on Stub Hub

surrendered the master key,
turned in my ID badge,
opened inner sanctum no more,
poetry boy is ratiocinated,
peril dispatched, swear that I've
excommunicated the voices
determined to disintermediate

the compromise I've reached,
help is contraindicated,
ex-officio is my new grace state

please, devices decontaminate,
otherwise, poems disintegrate,
excoriate them, don't wait,
to disassociate'em, insufficient,
remove them from hard drives,
yank'em one and all!

let the diet begin,
no more food for thought,
no more dreams
wrought and recorded,
permit the ambient calm
of the still of the night
that engulfs,
to harmonize with the flatline
dreamless sleep that the
mind monitor machine
etchingly, quietly records

let hours of research
be rewarded,
by my imbibing the product of
laboratory pharmacological
fine tuning

***** S.,
what outrageous ego
let me suppose that in
mine own words,
I could improve upon
your lovelies,
with now bland homilies,
recitations of my anomalies

What id sexed my brain,
was I completely insane,
to imagine that I could
improve upon:

"and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the
thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,
'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd.
To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream:
ay, there's the rub"

Finished: Nov 27, 2010 4:44 AM

July 2011

The arrogance of creation,
the need for accumulation,
tis a satisfaction that
new is a justification,
for anything
requiring us
to believe that:

I am worth this,
this is a thing
I deserve.  

This is mine,
therefore
I am more than human,
I am special.  

In Texas
the oilmen put their initials
upon the sides of a sleeve,
so when rolled up,
you'd still know that this man,
his name, these wells,
his landscaping tombstones,
are his labored gain
upon fruited plain.

All hail my work product,
its insights are worth money,
I know someone approves,    
cause my garage parking
ticket was validated.

We labor for sustenance,
labor for validity, in order
to collect, shed, replace,
accumulate ego,
glory or gain.

Some labor to survive.
This knowledge creates,
within a great sadness,
a hallowed, hollowed ache
that hurts, but does not
explain soully, this poem.  

Pins in a map, mark battle lines.  
Midnight tally, where are the
pins to be put at the
close of business this day?
Is this even the correct map?

I am so blessed in so many ways,
but compulsed by needs
I can't define,
to write this,

Part manifesto, part preamble,
part poem, part bill of rights.  
part green eggs and ham,
a scrambled product of
clotted plots, shower songs,  
salt and peppered by a
conscience that rambles on,
cause it
just don't speak the language of the day,
so moderne, it is called,

**shut up!

No,
not short poems.
honest to goodness
short shorts,
jean-like short shorts.

No,
not those kinds that
the young girls wear,
jean lookalike stretch fabric,
skin so tight it makes
their ole daddies' faces
wince the same color blue.

in the middle muddle of fall,
now you write of short shorts?

Well, I was told I could not write this
till after the summer was final gone
from the rear view mirror glass.

Once I wrote/imagined about
a woman of a certain age,
who emptied her armoire drawers,
time to transition and take things
that could no longer be,
to the thrift shop,
for others to be
thrifty in.

Except for one bathing suit,
a two piece back from the days,
when two pieces meant
you were proud
of what you had and
what you didn't have -

the same suit she was
wearing grabbing her little son,
then a man of six or seven,
(now a dad with a son,
of three or six or seven),
in the photo on the night table,
some thirty dreams ago.

Man you take a long time to make a point!
what's all this got to do with short shorts?

one summer day,
a woman I know,
an actual
fire-breathing dragon,
went thru the drawers
of her ***** blonde armoire.
there she "found" a pair of
shorts shorts, from some
thirty dreams ago.

it did not take
too much encouragement,
just a little courage
to try them on,
thirty dreams later.

now these short shorts
were the old fashioned kind,
they look liked cut off jeans
but were not, they had rolled up
cuffed bottoms to increase the illusion.

They no longer fit!
Yup.

******* short shorts were


loose


around that curvaceous waist,
known as my favorite place.,
where I rested my head once again,
after,
we celebrated.

that is my poem about short shorts
that I've been carrying round
until the curfew was lifted.

but even tho I like short shorts,
I'll never ask someone to wear them,
risking scorn and mockery,
but I know for a fact,
those short shorts did not



**get thrown out.

A polemic:
— noun
a controversial argument, as one against some opinion, doctrine, etc.; a person who argues in opposition to another; controversialist.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


our principals have principles.
principles as long and as shallow as a
tv sound bite.

give me ten careful good persons who have the courage to say,
I am unsure.

men and women who can acknowledge that
doubt never changes never ends.

who do not lie with sweet surety
for the cameras to salve their self-knowledge of
prideful lies, yet ashamed of their piece prizes.

when you cannot pay back that student loan,
email them asking for the ten bucks back
you once sent them.

liking the sound of their voice filled
with hackney trite, and give us tripe,
not once but over and over again,
with greater ease of the groove,
then oops, a single apology,
now that they have taken away your choices.

doctors who do not plagiarize
with reckless abandon,
whose credentials are self-certified

mislead so ease.

Bill gets $700,000 to make a speech.
He charges only $500,000 for old friends.
Poor Hillary, she gets a trifling $200,000

Ask Maureen of the New York Times
tells the truth between the
news that is filtered then called
fit to print.

But when they say,
see me and believe,
then send
me ten bucks, once more into the breech,
go and register to vote instead.

we have sacrificed our ability of hard reflection
on an altar of mushy easy cheap construction,
accepting polemics as political philosophy.

we chose this.
we yearn for crumbs of certainty
in these uncertain times.

how we long for a man who can say
unhesitatingly:
let us try this
and if not perfect,
edit and change,
even start over again.

doubt never changes never ends.
seek out these men.
s  elect them.

Tell me something you know
with utter confidence that
men have constructed
that cannot be improved.

when I gaze upon the poems
of my early days,
see the typos
and the hackneyed,
I amend, even delete.

doubt never changes never ends.

outside the fortress walls
behind that you hide,
your enemies are
constructing new technologies
capable of going under over through
the old concrete
of yesterday's stale minds, worse,
molding the lazy ones.

Those who are certain
never confess that
their actions can have
evil consequences,
until you put them in the docket.

then they say,
I did not know.
they knew.

they say
I was only following orders of the
principals.

The worst is yet to come.
The tv is on and the soundbite lies
unceasing.

Those who get played,
are the ones who did not play,
but watched tv.

Woke up with children in my mind, wrote two new,
then stumbled on this...
I give this poem to an orchestra leader I know, who understands better than most, that conducting and being surrounded by many, is oft the loneliest task and who knows best the meaning of
"finally, all synchronized in time and space, on a single continuum, within, without and through."

Thanksgiving Day 2011

Through
the picture window,
watching
restless generations,
multitudinous compilations,
children's backyard runnings,
all about, hide n' seek,
uncoordinated coordination,
well calculated randomness,
perfection in its
discombobulation

Within
my bloodstream,
chemical changes,
blow thru my veins,
direction home,
like leaves,
on a November weekend,
windswept from a thousand directions,
endless energy, noise, and commotion,
results of internal tremblings,
the side effects of satisfactions,
in ways I could only dream of...

Without
knowing, nonetheless,
the knowledge rests within,
footage of future days of
quietude and satisfaction,
recalling earlier simplicities,
records recorded somehow
before it happens,
records recorded now and then,
but only for
future consumption.

Harmonies of times,
well deserved,
to be future spent,
now, finally, all synchronized
in time and space,
on a single continuum,
within, without and through.

They say that Einstein erred,
time cannot outrace gravity,
therefore it cannot be
that I have seen the future.
Yet, I know with
unerring certainty,
these truths
posses the gravity,
that thanks,
I have and
will again,
gave,
and will give

The remainders,
the children,
the net of our gains and losses,
within them,
        my thanks lives,
without them,
        I am lessened,
through them,
        I am whole,

Patience

never saw a baby that didn't
eventually
learn how to walk,
how to talk.

but I have seen, still do,
children who became adults,
but not grownups,
still ******* their thumbs.

don't blame the parents.
don't blame the child.
don't blame the idiotcreators,
pseudo-educators.

blame me.
always take the easiest course
when assigning blame.

Yet cherish them
tho oft they err,
have we not all,
stumbled and
extended hand
beseeching help?

let us learn
for they,
my blood
one and all,
and I call them
by one name,
each and every,
Mine.


------------------------
Hint: if you are thinking of taking your parents along for your ride, read this. Better yet, give it to them.

"And she taught me that my children
are not truly mine.
They don’t belong to me;
they’ve simply been entrusted to me.
They are a gift life gave to me,
but one that I must
one day give back to life.
They must grow up
and go away and
that is as it should be."
Charles M. Blow

No job no dignity no cry.

look again at those words,
please,
with all deliberate speed.

dig.

just a little more, a little deeper.
scrape off the foolish pride topsoil that
looks (are) rich and fertile.

god bless the child who plants themselves
roots in the ugly, hardscrabble earth.
they cannot be uprooted.
never.

you have not ever seen my picture here,
of my face,
only once I showed a single hand,
well worn from
Digging
with only fingernails.

the hands of babies are soft,
easy to kiss, easy to love.

but the hands of responsibility
are usually worn lined scarred sometimes even
nail bitten from
**** digging for dignity.

I sorta sleep in my underwear.

Another lie.

I sleep in the ****,
when I have the energy
to remove the day's toil off of my
skin, which is not so easy.

No special creme, cleanser.
too tired to tirade, living life,
fall in to bed worn,
shoes et. al., the ones that need soles.
you already knew that.

wake up in the dark.
start to disrobe,
and soon enough, *******,
another poem done.

the poem of course is me ****,
so you get to see what
is under what I wear.

So I sorta sleep in my under-what-I-wear,
is not exactly a lie,
just me dissembling^
and/or disassembling
another day in this life.

der Spegel: A Commissioned Poem

commissioned by Megan Spegel


Spegel
- a mirror; a smooth reflecting surface
- something flat and smooth, resembling a mirror (e.g. the surface of a lake)
- a (moral) guideline, used for correcting errors, similar to a mirror

Busted.
You.
Busted.
96 poems.
19 years young.
That's about 5 poems per year.
What's gonna happen when you chill,
Turn
A ripe old
Twenty?

Will you grace us with 365 individual
First Thoughts of My Day?

I suppose falling in and out of love weekly,
Steamy teen kisses
Will inebriate you plenty,
Into writing more plenty.

Truth is I am jealous-angry.

My clocks can't fall back
Because I've fallen for you
And the simplicity of your loving
Poetry

In two lines, you get done
What takes me half a dozen
Long winded poems.

I love the brevity pure
Of your youthful loving view.
For when I look on the
mirror of poetry,
I see, not me,
But the rising tide of the younger ones, poets,
Rising up faster,
Surpassing us,
Correcting our errors,
Who say so much with
So few words.


P.S.  **"Good morning dear
I hope the sunrise found you well."

The root cause

What makes so many
Weep and write,
What is the root cause?

Natty boy, c'mon,
This question, repeatedly,
asked and answered!
Turn the radio on!

No, scorn me not,
My answer sino-complex,
mine too.

Many of our devices
Record waves, cycles,
Of which the length, shape,
Endless are the variation.

Your expertise? Your cycles?

Read my **** poems,
A to V.
Even the equations.

I have known heart ache so real
My chest hurt for months.
The doctor had no pills for that.
Risked everything. Lost.
My own weakness seek and sought,
Self-destructing me.

I have known the soul ache that makes
Rising From The Bed,
The most agonizing decision.
A life and death incision/rescission.
A go/no go apparition questioning.

All this long after I was a man.
Two children, reso-possible?
Nope. Choices limited,
Sat in the sunroom,
Contemplating all this.

Say what you need to say.

I try every day to just grab,
Hold, get fastened to me,
The tiniest scrap.

So when I walk by the river,
One atomic iota of sun, a single rain drop,
Gives me cause to pause.

The cycle begins again.
Still unclear? Get graph paper.
Copy this overlay down.
My manic-depressive cycles lookalike,
But the amplitude variegated.
In 59 seconds, Live and Die,
A calculus point on a monthly cycle,
Which in turn, but a point,
A microscopic dot,
In a cycle longer,
A Hundred Years War.

You ok dude?
.
Where is this coming from
On the commencement of a
Three day weekend?

Fair question.

There is a button here,
Randomness incorporated,
Into some poetry sight.

Led me to a eleven year old, poet.
Now,
Know, you understand...the question, posed.

The tiniest scrap of hopeful buried here
In plain site.
These colorful, wordy points,
Scattered, on the cycles,
Usually at the highs and lows.

Maybe I did not answer it well enough.
Maybe nobody can.

Yo, need a job.
Yo, need money.
No cycle in my savings account,
Only a straight line downward sloping.

so I grab an iota of sun,
a solitary raindrop,
make a plan,
write this poem,
a cycle
inflection point.

I ask this question
Every ten seconds stil,
If you must know my truth.
Dueling banjos in my head,
never ever
have stopped playing.

This poem-answer,
Not my best.
But a cycle turning point.
Again.

Having fed the beast,
Maybe I'll get five minutes till
I write it again
In a different shape,
En pointe,
Standing up and beautiful,
I am a twirling ballerina,
who can twirl with out ceasing,
knowing the perpetual motion secret.
For but another mini-cycle

I am endless.
It is endless.
But dear god,
why must you commence with the young ones,
aged eleven?


6:40am Saturday.

a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs*

my woman, she's a
snuggler and spooner.

burying herself on my,
no, in my
double barreled chest,
her blonde hair,
my field of gold.^

she landscapes my life,
paralyzing me with the
simplest of gestures.

she sleeps holding my thumbs.
locks me up.
locks me down.
so I cannot transcribe
the lines of poetry mindful,
landlines shut,
land-mines of verse
unexploded,
till these now,
hours later.

a few notes ago,
a few days ago,
heard an octet,
eight voices singing of
five letters, five vowels,
a  e  i  o  u.

you can hear what I heard too.

after you listen,
better understand
vowels are the butter of language.
the anointing oil of connectivity.
more than a line of code,
they are the keys to the code,
that make words and life musical.

I suppose we could mange without them if we had to.
spsz v cd mng wthot thm ff v hd t.

but not so well.

I suppose we could manage
without opposing thumbs.
learn to type with my nose,
paint with my toes.
but not so well.

here is how it comes all together.
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs,
never give them more than a
never thought, passing over, assumed.

oh yeah, on some tv show,
you can buy a vowel.

these glues are the things that
give me the chance to tell this:

this poem it is a bit about me.
this poem it is a bit about her.
this poem is really about you.

I could live without
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs.
but I could not live
without her landscaping my chest.

but
when I share this knowledge
with you friend, it becomes a
verified, realized, acknowledged truth.

So you see this poem is about
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs,
but really about you.

In fact, I am thinking,
that if I did not love the title
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs
so much,
would entitle it instead,
a wholesome democracy of love.*

you, a registered voter,
vote then with both all the
a  e  i  o  u  and opposing thumbs
at your disposal.