Unconsciously conscious,*
her skirt too short.
tugging it down pointlessly,
every second minute,
like a regular breathe,
all the eyes in the room
rode it up,
and rode the tugging
down too.

that she was pretty,
pleasure for the eyes,
was not the question.

no longer young pretty, but
fulsome, knowing, more,
knowledgable in her place,
secure in her thirties.

or so I thought.

an Anne Fontaine blouse,
silk and collar cut angled,
Italian leather skirt from Barney's,
and legs that were not
just shapely,
but pouted comely,
come love me, I am lovely.

or so I thought.

the skirt, a leather glisten,
seams so thin, almost invisible
to the eye,
like the lines nearest
her eyes,
but all lost,
because all
only saw,

the tugging.

I ponder it,
the meaning,
of the tugging,
consciously unconscious.

was she tugging herself
back inside older younger dreams,
back to where she once unconsciously belonged,
or forward to this moment where she was conscious,
a line crossed, and needy to be tugged back behind it.

my eyes did not depart from her thighs
for she was tugging me as well,
in two directions, into a place
where questions tugged at me,
and I too, consciously unconscious
that I no longer belonged where I belonged,

or so I thought.

awas amidst
the bits and bobs of my pseudo-sleep,
check my watch oft habitually,
understand
that the precisive time is not
what I seek,

no,
what I desire is reassurance of
some sort, that time is present,
that it is
a measurable actuality in,

my about,
a breathable actuality
woven into my
Body’s  Constructional
Constitutional Cconsciousness


that time is there, here,
for it is rhe

wondrous of all wonder,
it is a
present of, from,
and,
is love itself,

love is time…
(think on it)

it is all and only
butpossibility,
the future in
slow mo
is both
realizable & visible ,
even some part knowable;
its somes & sums,
as we daily
practice realizing it,
as if
time is a
smuggler of snuggles,
comforting but not
for too long
like
a new lover’s
exploratory
beginning beguiling explanations
reforming our ardor
into
viability

or

a glove
asking us each:
slow s l i d e
your hand inside,
then,
newly commence
waving yours,
airy all about

conducting a new self
into your
precious moment of precarious
existence,
that we dare not waste!

so:
write and right
are no accident,
but purposed
equals,
friends,
brothers and sisters,
one and both
coexisting
at
in
the same time…

<>
“rootless in shallows of momentary mayhem
and no matter the change in horizon,
there is always some thing to be found
that could remind me
of the worst ways I have ever been.”

from “Harlequin Days of Fecund Fervor” by Victoria

<>

rereading these your words, upset forces me to break a recent vow,
my own writing banished, now faceless in the ranks
of just another poet, busted in rank, chose my own
decommissioning but then your momentary mayhem
plea, fecund you, your third harlequin, states construct!

stay the constriction, the recalling of our worst worsts,
for there is always something to be found, recalled,
that the horizon’s only constant is constant change,
especially the worst worsts

I am colored by your treats, your word plums ripe even
out of season, and the mayhem is mine only mine,
robbed you for it is I, rootless, given up my planting, then
the cobblestones of old new york, trip me up, saying
even old things such as you, have a prime yet to come,
stones fecund seeding, predicting I am not done, just undone,
and fetuses within this dying body, may yet be carried to term,
may yet, maybe, may be, but may be caesarean stillborn

rambling this, mostly musty unclear, so summarizations a
sensible thing, a pardon requested for clarity is a sometime thing.

rare are the days that the terracotta colored soil
darkens my fingernails,
it is dried blood from my scratching deep beneath the skin’s topsoil,
but nothing grows that’s whole, warped are the word fruits.
my soup is hot water with salt, a tasty dish apropos for one
whose growths are rootless in the shallow, infertile dirt of stones
that reside in the shallows of a garden of mine own
fecund may-hem of the grey fall sky autopsy turvy

"gravity has taken better men than me
just keep me where the light is"...John Clayton Mayer

where the light is...
this lyric gets carried from midnight to midnight next,
from troubled sleep to the bus stop, to and from work,
onto, back to, the homebound bus stop once again,
from solitary man to father to grandfather and cycles back
to once again a troubled sleeper poem writer,
who just wants to know, John,

when I find it, will, does the light fill, complete and heal the cracks...when I find that light...

in the city, starlight been banished by street lamps pointed downward, far too often it is believable that the whole world has been wrapped in white crinkled, filmy, wax paper, then,
how will the light know where it is needed most,
how will it find the empty chest cavity that writes these lines

there is real and artificial they say, nature vs. man made,
sun upon the face that heals for but an eight minute
bandaid summer ferry crossing, the fluorescent that says here, here is the bus stop, tarry, sit and rest, while you wait for
answer unscheduled, on a bench beneath to the street light
that illuminates a small swatch of street
between the dark spots on the x-ray of
this patient patient's soul awaiting,
are either of those
the light I need John?

no worries man, I'm just teasing, well knowing, neither of us,
tables turned, know where the light is, up high, down low,
if it is yellow or gold, if light is real or imagined,
only the sensation of the curettage needed to be healed when the
chest drained and the light supplants the drained fluids,
when it interferes, interpolates, how it found me or I it,
how I recognized it, how it reignited the home fire, and
I'll drop you line how light, lightly to find or be heavy found,
how light supersedes, defeats, the gravity of daily tugging,
and how what happens afterwards is golightly
up to us

2:10am **** it

For Helen
who wrote it first,
who wrote it better,
and in doing so,
makes me see more clearly
the why

~~~~~~~~~

no poem should ever be untitled
every face needs a name
every poem needs just
one read for completion,
but more than that, it is
a orphan still, deserving of,
due the
entitlement to be titled,
a parenting of sorts

what was the thought that born it
what was the emotion that conceived it
what was the sight that demanded sharing

this is the age of summary and synthesis,
140 and not one more,
so give direction, enable me to make
snap judgements, with so much on my plate,
we must predigest your concepts,
my multi-tasking slowed to levels unacceptable,
so I can adjudge you,
you worker poet,
before or never reading
after all,
why read anything untitled

more than this however,
for the few who chew
each morseled vowel,
ken each constant consonant,
celebrate stanzas that halt the breathing
and then,
god bless the whole child,
flaws and all,
they more than anyone deserve
your consideration in return

for the title is the essence spark
of you
and all the more so
of what you have  chosen *to share
of your essentials

transducer -
a device that receives a signal in the form of one type of energy and converts it to a signal in another form: A microphone is a transducer that converts acoustic energy into electrical impulses

~~~~~~~~~
so many names,
none of them, kind,
none of them, nice words

The A, The B, The C word.

she would laugh and mock a spite and spittle filled man's
feeble curses and flit off to
charge her battery, steal electric life,
from a new outlet, another male body.

now a queen bee, regaling me,
her private audience,
with takes and tales,
of newly arrived
used up worker-boys,
her pleasure sources,
discards after a
singed single discharging/recharging

why come back to me,
what perversity,
did I supply?

she was elegant,
not stupid mean,
she was royal, imaginative,
her conception of a life well lived
was freedom from responsible,
self servicing,
the only motive

the negative pole, was I,
her cruelties energy, supplied
she was a transducer,
she was a re-former,
making her hate into her positivity

the original sin, mine,
hardly original, a cheating a beating,
plot of a rerun, rerun

the fist of being her
first
and then,
her last,
and now her only,
was
her curse returned,
sevenfold unending

her vocabulary was her deeds,
and her stories,
raw rut, well writ,
notated with selfies,
to insure my eyes agonists,
lest I cover my ears

I am your Transducer
she boasted,
pronouncing it languidly,
completing its proclamation
with the venom of a shotgun

I am your
Transsssssss-ducer!

I am a woman more sinned against than sinning,^
I am a woman more avenged by revenging,
I have taken your energy,
learned your cruelty,
and it has transformed me.

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

For Sheron, On Our Seventh Anniversary:
Bound and Boundless

~~~
different shaped,
a square peg, a round hole,

and yet, the carpenter is pleased

two planes,
different shaped,
yet overlaying,
occupying
conjoined space,
angular symmetry

and yet, the geometrist is satisfied

can

bound and boundless,*

fully opposing notions,
incontrovertible,
yet be in pleasing poetic
combination?

how
can it be,
two bonded,
distinct spheres
contoured with crossover
bordered blended boundaries
exceed aligned,
beyond merest connecting,
overlapping,
intersecting

two circles
electronically collide,
venn diagrammed
to share,
programmed unknowingly for creating
a big bang
of a harmonious, simultaneous
new star creation

this mystery,
this poem,
its
resolution~solution,
comes to the poet
late in life,
yet contented, believing,
it is a far, far
better
thing that he does
now,
than never

life and love
living in unison,
transforming, deserving
of a unique discrete,
le nom est
l'unite

perhaps you are thinking,
this poem, a failed attempt,
neither the best or the worst
of any written anywhere
upon this green globe,
this day

yet he smiles
as it composes itself,
for though without its own sustaining merit,
it is a poem
regarding the best work
he
have ever done,
and the unity
it portrait paints,
is a
nova
worthy surely
of a thousand millennia

and yet, the poet is content
with its
content*

~~~

for you

Never have I seen you,
or touched thy breeze-smoothed skin,
caressed the rounded angles of thy cheekbones,
with the worn~smooth heel of my thumb

it matters not

for long and forlorn,
have I come to love you

fat or pretty,
your physicality is inconsequential,
we have bound and blind~binded
our visible connection
by oaths and contemplations,
all codified in worthy action verbs
whispered in each other ears

we have spent our nodules of time
silently caressing,
word gentling,
and falling in love

this night has brought me
no sleep,
this day has brought me
no pecuniary relief

but words embellish me with hope,
dress and drape my face with
coming attractions,
for that alone,
as if more were
even possible,*
I tell you this
straight out and unconfused,

I adore you

we are a lyric, a harmony,
an aesthetic unique,
for you have never seen my face,
yet this night,
thy comeliness has
stirred and up lifted,
thy tone and tiny gasps
my sundered parts
refilled and reattached with our own esprit de corps,
ethereal, ephemeral, yet so real,
I raise them,
to my lips,
and feel you as I do so,
gentling my cheeks
with your breathes breeze,
asking me live with joy....
tho never have I seen you

"I suspect that the way I feel now, at summer’s end, is about how I’ll feel at the end of my life, assuming I have time and mind enough to reflect: bewildered by how unexpectedly everything turned out, regretful about all the things I didn’t get around to, clutching the handful of friends and funny stories I’ve amassed, and wondering where it all went. And I’ll probably still be evading the same truth I’m evading now:
that the life I ended up with, much as I complain about it, was
pretty much
  the one I chose. And my dissatisfactions with it are really with my own character, with my hesitation and timidity."

Tim Keider^
~~~

just an ordinary Sunday newspaper feature,
on the summer's fast approaching
summing up,
an essay,
that you read and exclaim
***,
what's that you say,
Keider,
who ya kidding?

are our brains cross-wired?
am I so prototypical
that my scheming privates are presented with
better clarity, superior style, and

and you just don't know what's worse

a) that we shared the similarity of dissatisfaction
with our lives,
that a season of unexpected leisure unexpectedly
(an unforced error, I'll call it)
opportunitized
a  soul train review that time accident-afforded and
summer sweet lushness conduced
or

b) is it that you say it so much better

only one diff kid,
entire we deux,
that makes me major league,
and you still, a sorta minor,
with a career ahead

I am at
trend end
of my life,
skiing breakneck at the steepest part of the
downward ***** of time
leading to the flatline gate
knockdown finale

but I still can't let us off the hook,
as I write this
open outcry

did life's press offer us
convergent excuses,
the connivence of convenience
that let us write our own
sad, sneering, almost denying tale
that our lives were
"pretty much"
the one chosen

will that truthfully ever going to be
a genuine smithy's mark
of
a twenty four caratexcellence of
sufficiency satisfactory?

the question cannot be begged off,
when Father Time is breathing down your neck,
accepting one's character flaws,
acknowledging, not even querying,
if I am a failed diamond,
I, the cutter,
could not shape my facets
flawless, or even well enough

point passed,
now why me worry
about hesitating,
timidity,
so no evasion,
instead ****** head-on 
invasion

the life chosen
was oft the product of
wrong fork chosen,
lazy and safe courses that
cuckolded me into a
blindsided acceptance

last verse I swear!

going outside to
come back in
pervaded

let this declining season,
be not
seen as an ending
but a fresh bloom of a flower,
an all-year-long bloom
that opens up every morning
of every day,
readying us both
for the
and to
fall,
open to  
setting the pushed, not pulled,
record straight

"good enough"
is no longer
good enough
when  answering

my life, was it any good?
was it what I desired?

when I took the wrong fork
almost every time,
though purposely chosen,
was it cowardice complete,
laziness course of least resistance?

for if that's the case,

no matter how late we linger at this bad food table,
of inactive actions,
choices taken but not accepted,
I need to change
the diet
that creates
who I am
and eat truth,
raw,
and keep it down

for V,
who commissioned me,
Nay,
Dared Me,
sometime ago
to write a ***** poem

You know V?

The one poet who wrote:

         The anxious tide within my head
           was put there by the moon,
           the ocean too, its waves of blue,
           respond to what she says

Or
          The moon is alive and effeminate,
            pulls on us, pushes on us,
            at least on us who call her mother,
            and though she shines her sweet shine
            her soul is as cold and indifferent as
            the belly of a black hole,
            and we will war with her influence
            all the days of our life.


well compared to that,
writing something shat
should be
Easy


well I'm sorta sure
something can be
found easy enough
to fill the bill,
such a command
inherent demands
careful consideration,
a ***** poem,
not easy to come by,
every fiber resistant,
but you judge,
as you always do

Option #1

What makes a good poem?

what makes me so
succumbed to my own surety,
my bold audacity to dare judge
is simple rooted:

slapped and gasped,
verbal issuance of ooh's and aah's
from eyes, my utter everything,
teared and torn, cleansed and aroused,
into a poetry world,
this my one my house of worship,
my real religion

when I read good works,
like those of the moon's misbegotten,
Mr. V,

then I am grounded,
kneed in the groin of the head,
and I thank god really,
for gifting me the body
prepared and ready
to say I love those
who love words
with ready ease
and let this be my
simplest, cleanest, beloved
tribute poem ever I writ,
my claim to a
PhD in poetry criticism


Option #2

I am mad
cause I am sad
my roller coaster ride brain
is all ****** up

don't  know why I am sad.
it might be better
by sharing how I am feeling

in between
texting my friends
and ***** yes!
gonna post those texts
as my next terrific poem
awesome,
call it
#asstag
and gonna give it
to my
English Teqcher

when you poem me,
and the sudden tumble
into a mesmerizing moment,
is a felling of a tree, that
everyone can hear, anywhere,
forest everywhere,
suddenly, I will know you,
no introduction required...
to be with you, and save my
day, my heart stolen, and to my
captor, I hereby surrender,
capitulate completely, quick quiet,
and we are three thrilled together, a triumphant triumvirate,
for each other and a unity of
1 + 1= 3

is a new counting,
a unique
formulation
a formidable forming

a mutual following,
a fellowship

nml
Weds.
June 18 3025
In the sunroom

The Level of Uncertainty, This Yellow Star

“Even though I’m OK right now,
there’s a sense it could all go
away in a second.”  

<>
foreboding,
a disease well known to me,
not “as if,” but in fact
been Cain-marked at
birth to be wary, be watchful,
ever alert, never inert in the
realm of possibilities,
the king
in my universe’s galaxy is the
randomness of existence,

microsecond, milligram minuscule,
muscular instability that even if
unspoke,

danger!
it’s bespoke nature, customized
just for me, lurks, prepared to ****
me into a hard fall, loss of balance

yes,
I prepare with subtleties, minute
measures, discrete and indiscreet,
measured steps, slow-wide turns,
“hands on the railing down the stairs we go”
motto~attitudinal, antithesis~carefree,
for this birthmark was forehead installed
from birth, as a reminder that
reckless abandon
is a countervailing force,
and there are whales in the ocean
and whole coteries of fish in the sea,
waiting, wanting to swallow me whole,

lions across the ocean faraway continents
eager for a nibble of my tender heart,
round ****, and
thousands of people
who hate me and my kind, for no reason,
other than my birth mark,
this foreheaded
yellow star,
notifying all eyes, that I am to be dreaded,
feared, for reasons no matter,
just but unjustly

because, I am a Jew

who prays thrice
times daily for peace
for the whole world.

Sat Feb 10
8:35am

~for bd~

there is a well in our backyard,
a cooperative well of sorts,
for the water source is a
earth stream deep, an east-west latitudinal,
attitudinal canal,
well traversed, intercontinental and interoceanic,
belonging to no one, free to those who
drink with their eyes

given its diversity,
it's salty sweet earthy soiled provenance,
strike me strange, strikes me well,
its fiercest flavor is its
mundanity,
the plainest cool of tasteless, clear, fresh water,
so easy taken for granted

but therein lies the rub,
for the mundane is the gold vein,
from which we mine our greatest stories,
the best crumbs,
the mineral origins of our words,
to capture the gift of needed inspirational,
for our daily living hymnal
songbook

the aging parental care-taking
wisely and sadly seceded,
the golden child learns lessons of
illness and passing, renewal and replacement,
how to mourn and how to love anew,
when one pet goes, and another comes to
roost and roam in his youthful heart,
and a lover ages and so does she,
for tandem is the ever-changing, graying color of their
fierce attached tenacity

a professor supervises the household management,
grading student papers, grading life,
secretly writing love paeans to celebrate
what it's all about, the visible so oft ignored,
recorded, recored, reordered,
in the observatory of
bed crumb starry words

I,
a stranger never to be seen,
a million miles from the scene,
smile and weep, loving the shallow for its deep,
finding amazement in the complexity
that only humans have the capacity to commit,
all of us captains of the capital we store,
in the small hallmarks of every day living,
and in an overdue,
catchup e-transmission,
a well wish comes true,
a poem born,
a kindness to myself,
the best gift of and to,
those who are both,
well,
friends and strangers

who remind us that hope too,
is a
well

~~~~~
The Message

Hello Natty man....we are all well...but it has been a busy and difficult year, Mum finally went into residentail care, very busy at work, the golden boy grows in leaps and bounds, my surfer dude grows more grey hairs as do I....sadly there has been a shift change in the demigods of the house the little blue cat, got sick (bowel cancer)...and after much heartache..we made the decision to let him go with dignity and he was put to sleep...We are now presided over by a little tuxedo boy (still a devon rex)....whose energy is sometimes insurmountable....he and the golden boy have bonded....*

hope all is well your end
Take care...and be kind to you

~~

First & Foremost

~~~
a friendly competition,
not of erudition,
more a contest of
speedy eruption

who will be first,
for quenching their thirst,
on not any but only
every,
day of their togetherness,
to declare, swear, affirm,
that their love for the other
is the greater

a race
where both win,
by crossing the
ever-moving forward,
the unfinished line

a never static series,
much more than merely being
a claimant of a trite first place,
more akin
to momentarily being
at the head of an unending
mathematical
progression,
(1 + 1 > 2)
solvable if and when
leap frogging
over each other,
extending their combined reach

when one is
first
to pronounce
this daily blessing
at the
beginning of the
new awakening twenty four,
of their joint custodied
imprimatur,
silently implied,
I love you
with a simple syrup summary


first and foremost

one, if by pillowed whisper
two, if by text

a succint messag to the other,
their love is coming fresh direct,
with an invading intensio,
deserving recognition
that a new edition will be
published
on this very day,
with the
same exact
freshly steaming coffee'd,
bannered headline,
that my love for you,
my darling sweetheart is

first and foremost

condensing with a
yellowing smiley face,
in these illiterate days of emoticons,
unacceptable,
yellow carded,
though summarizing acceptable as

F & F
or
1st/most

formats
that have been adjudged
to be
an A-Ok entry,
in the contest
without a foreseeable ending
and

that no one,
but only both,
can possess
the winning record

~~~

and anyone who finds solace in the company of poets


Adorn us
with you writing,
run from the smug,
the pretentious non-believers
into the arms of poets
who awaiting
your new words
with the hard panting hunger
of true lovers

this is my simplest invitation,
Grace us with you grace,
with subtle signs kiss our heart places,
for poetry,
good and bad
has never turned anyone away

and never will**

accept this write
with permanence of ink on paper,
cannot be erased or taken back
mine, yours, ours,
ink invulnerable to
delete

here here, are the preeminent
awaiting all your attentions,
feed us, you poets,
rivers, railway stations, unfamiliar gods,
Missouri to Malaysia,
the images
we neglected,
too far away for our limited vision,
but that you saved,
as gifts of touching lips,
miners in the crevices of the soul

I thank god for the company of poets and the kindness daily,
they bring to hearts,
all I ask is,
more...

you kinda cute

just kinda?
she objects,
oops,
clearly, a misspoken misadventure,
a middling-compliment

only, kinda?

she kinda further harrumphs
and goes back to a game of solitaire

“oh yes, everyone has their own cute,
yours, is kinda yours,
in a kinda cutie way,
don’t ask me to kinda define it,
that!
would be kinda impossible”

she drops the sujet and I
pat nat on the back
for his slick escape,
not realizing that he been played,
when she, informed a poem been writ,
said, oh is the kinda poem done then?

kinda
****
1/17/19 900am

for H*

let us write for one,
one another
~~~~~~~~
let us premise.
we are much the same.

despite the fact that we are all genetically
different,
we come with the same equipage.

this is the miracle.
this is the strange.

at the intersection
at the corners of
Strange St. and Beauty Avenue,
the street poets slam,
drawers chalk paint Chagalls
upon the sidewalk,
street musicians sing songs of
Beethoven and Billy Joel,

let us agree.
we see with eyes, we hear with ears, we tongue taste,
voices, make swears and tunes.
soldiers with a standard, life-issued backpack.

you have vocal chords, but can you sing?

some see a village.
some see a fiddler.
the artist see the fiddler on the roof,
sees the strange in the ordinary,
and from this makes the beauty,
that in its differing is its uniting.

we all know words.
then we unite them in different combinations,
and A Tale of Two Cities sits on shelves,
in different alphabets, even dots and dashes,
wherever, readers read.

it is always,
the best of times, the worst of times.
it will always be that way.

it will be the strange among us,
that see the music,
taste the words,
dance the paint,
sharing it with us,
purging the the common, the ordinary,
yet making the common, the ordinary,
extraordinary,
giving us beauty of art,
in an uncommon but shared vision.

~
for T.M.R.
~

We find our poems in many different ways.  Of late,
I keep finding inspiration in the public and private messages that many of you send to me, regarding poems I choose to publish here.

So I repeat my disclaimer,
"any message you send, can and will be used as a poem."
~

instant recognition at levels so deep within,
what are the odds, given the enormous differentials,
that the kin in kindred, would blossom across two lives,
where the oppositional factoids are exceptional

as if seeded in the fertile soil of the blank spaces,
between each of our poem's words and verses,
there secreted for each other, but gleaming visible
for all to see and uncover, even join in,
uncovering semi-hidden insertions and assertions of affinity

I confess

she stands behind me ofttimes in my mind, silently,
suggesting, reflecting, critiquing a word choice,
a nuanced pressure upon the hand redirecting,
with infiltrating suggestions imaginary

oh wordy me, four stanzas excised,
abstracted from the memories contained within my fingertips,
this, an accolade to the pleasuring of humanizing mystery connectivity,
when she, in the depth of her stylized brevity,
captures more than I, after hours of exercised trying,
in the succinct excalibur of her comprehension

*"We are an unstated understood"

the clock nears three AM,
and the "five minutes to" alert
pops up,
long overdue,
uh oh,
a task in need of completion,
a guilty conscience,
a simple love poem
needs to be written!

more than most,
perhaps, best,
can't be sure,
but more than most
is holy satisfying
for me

more than most,
a standard met,
perhaps understated
yet, highly realistic

for is real
not
the edge that love needs
to transcend long beyond,
far after,
initial heated intimations,
the noisy, now ancient,
initiations

real,
that place where
fantasy connects
skin and hair,
bare shoulders,
that more than most,
I kiss with simple pleasure,
best described as,
sustained, sustainable,
better than
better

real,
is that not totally,
more than most?

I love you
more than most,
for to claim,
more than anyone,
who can tell?

so now
you sleep,
your blonde tresses messes
my damp pillow,
and i am satisfied,
content to claim,
that to love you more,
more than most,
is ample, profound,
real,
and by that,
indeed,
for that alone,
is excellence unsurpassed,
a measurable measure,
that satisfies my task
well

now can rightfully
deactivate that alert,
that "to do,"
done,
unto and until
some sleepless night,
when again,
it self-actualizes,
self-activates

while smiling down upon you,
more than most,
certain,
almost positive,
but never sure,
come morn,
that you will love,

this poem,
*more than most...

“but you Nat,
are a grown *** Hebrew man
so I shall not attempt 
to advise you to do otherwise.”

<>
been notified, identified, blessed and cursed, alotta of different ways,
but late at night, arrives a new coronation forthright,
about my all grownup ageist stay-tus & my ancient birthright

and I’m-athinking that as compliments go, that’s quite a
right-on complementary to my actuality, so not bad, tho
all-I’d-add is maybe, old school fool too, & do appreciate

that this observation comes with added cherry on top,
I’m finally old enough to make it ok to make mistakes,
and a hardy thanks that the words hard and lard din’t appear

when mentioning my cheekiest feature...

10:28pm nyc
in downtown lockdown

for the sey-hey man

word bird droppings
scattershot sent
disguised neath flora,
a name by any other,
sally sent forth,
never looked back upon

untenable pursuit
GMO words planted in an
untended garden,
man-made wild sent seeds

purée of amputated lesions,
a divorcées convention,
bon mote note comparison,
freely shared, plagiarized,
by-product of a man's waste,
bidding adieu,
but never
au revoir

*let them spawn
more and others,
will love them
better just for knowing
even never
seeing them again,
still and always,
whatever wherever
they ride~write on,
still and always,
I'm in them,
unflinchingly personal,
even if signed by
another's name...