My eyes smell sleepy, he, refusing to depart,
But there is coffee on the nightstand,
The odor, infiltrating the dozy brain's heart.

Annoyed with each other,
They shout and fight
Like teenage siblings Commissioners at the SEC,
Arguing over bathroom monopolization,
The tongue stays sidelined, feigning net neutrality.

The bed smells empty,
For the **** has crowed,
Yogi David commands your presence
At Saturday morning Eight O'clock yoga services.

To get to his Sinai on time,
Early departure, an FAA requirement,
Car, ferry and foot you will deploy,
In the winter, special skis and snowshoes,
That blessed by his mantra,
Enable you to walk on water.

In the kitchen there is sisterly conversation,
Yes, puttering and muttering and discussing,
Sister's grown child texting, he's making the pilgrimage
To see Mama, alone, unexpectedly,
Six hours driving.

Friends and countryman,
That is how you spell t-r-o-u-b-l-e

Sleepy master dwarf refuses to concede,
Says when kitchen noises retreat,
Back to him you will supplicate,
They (the other dwarfs and body parts),
Have a big convention to better communicate..

Departure comes without a kiss,
But not without complaint,
She always says I love you first,
Which is natural,
She being a girl.

Now the bladder starts to whiny~chatter,
What about me, what about me,
Don't you love me, and me rhymes with P!
While the stomach quietly snores
Have been well-fed
but a few hours before,
He dreams of some more....macadamia crusted s'mores...

I could verse you more,
No problem that's for sure,
But you got the point:
**The morning smells.

Fresh Direct

Exit

I used to sleep
With pen and paper on my nighttime table.
Nowadays, my iPad tablet rests upon my chest,
Not only does it keep me warn,
It takes my poems from within, Fresh Direct,^
Edits, credits, and delivers them to your door,
While I'm still sleeping.

Which is why they come at all hours.
It is also why they call them,
Love's Labour's Lost saving devices.

Refill

My woman, my number one fan,
Grabs her pillow, mashes her face
Into my iPad warmed chest,
Without asking permission,
Thus fulfilling her mission critical.

Restoring the balance, refilling the tank
With high octane mystical, thru skin umbilical,
A first edition of the day blended mix named,
All's Well That Ends Well.



7:45 am
July 14th, 2013

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

Jan. 14. 3025
~For vb~

******* watery eyes and haven’t even
gotten even got started, even though you may
have noticed, I’m even reusing the same words over the over/under line again cause I’m thinking, nah, believin’, my words running out is a definite possibility

wait! your
words are fine,
quality ✅,
quantity ✅,
maybe baby, you’ve just run out,
of vision vitamin supplements or your insights, dinted by overexposure to winter
sunlight are inside, festering and pestering to un chill,

and baby, it’s cold gray blustery days and they just want hang out on the inside,
where the lake of caffeine perking, kerning, keeping you, you,

ain’t looking for
a partner, serious loving, even flirtatious
flings don’t mean a thing cause they ain't got that swing, and *** you are unconsciously
borrowing old song lyrics, because the good
stuff is overused, overrated and let’s face it,
fret-tingly overlooked  and worst,
overu s e d

me-being an antique, don’t mean value ain’t necessarily so, just old and all told, and
user up, and the space between lurches,
hits and misses, torrid + horrid, is tiresome,

and maybe,
you’re a waste of space of valuable interpet real estate, that should be chilling in reserve like that last bottle of nouveau Beaujolais from France  circa 1985
or just sinked inked to a stainless steel
grave in a kitchen sink

<^>the possible implications
of such a condition,
beyond complex
volcanic volatility,
as a final
spewing,
until then
I’m stink~eyed,
until
you
ex~stinked
me

a major feat, considering I managed to continue a meagered existence,
the prehumous perilous voyage, with many signs and symbols pointing
in reverse, negatory signs & symbols, readings of a launchpad failure, bode
poorly for my current trajctory, and a crash landing probability is assayed
at >1.00,  bas and the statistical fat tail portion of my curvaceous expectancies, extended bye the body count of my toes & fingers, so this mean & minor feat, is indeed, is no feat at all and worse here it is Friday, end of the week, and my sparring partner, Life, who knocked me down repeatedly is demanding a rematch of our outoutmatching, and I will agree if the ten count is abbreviated to maybe a five count, and mysteriously falling down, well, qualifies!
                                   yeah made it to Wed-nes-day which is a wierd name for a weekday, lacking the poetical syntax and symmetry of a Fried~day, which connotes the end of the byzantine workweek, and my goose is still
under cooked; so that wraps up & rates an almost full green emoji checkmark beside my 3,884th week

and I know, you know exactly what this tidbit means, donch ya!

Twelve twelve Friday morn.
Soon bay breathe, hallelujah .
Nookery rebirthed..

A-awoke to a fear, succumbing,
The where and when, verities of my existence were gone, in absentia, les disparu,
Could not place the day nor name it,
Or prepare myself for  whatever
Were its unique responsibilities

I hate that you are thinking no biggie, consult your watch ~ your phone, go to another room, turn on the screens, the screen instantly in will advise, such they areprogrammed

I too thought, so I was programmed,
But not well enough, or my circuitry or software, we, are not up-to-date

Yes, this was a terrorizing, flailing in the dark,
Refusing to admit that I had lost myself,
No surety, no satisfaction, and the dark room
Suffocated or sedated any thoughts of reassurance

The resolution was swift, but not satisfactory,
For now, I am aware, that I can lose my sense
Of self, of place, the end of time and have become dependent on the artifice electronic mechanisms to keep me stable, like the
The corner of the night table

I tell you but no one else, keep my secret
Close, in case I should ashamedly trouble
You for the information I’ll been be needing

Unless you too suffer from this malady

how I got here, what to do,
frozen like a banana, brown,
curved in a bad posture, and
melting aint an available cure

every turn defeats me, too many choices
leads me into more drowing in uncertainty,
the new~ow!~now~word of external tumult,
that wraps me me bound in a blankety submission

talk to walls white and their answers come
pre~whitewashed, reverb off my skin, and
the echo chambers of my heart resist only
because they're already 98% clogged and

very choosy 'bout which truths got left
out
or newbies get let
in
sad sack sanctum

Mine own selfish cares distract.
Perhaps making me, too late

I hear, I see you are in a place,
where questioning is the new normal.
You know there here be,
legions, armies of people,
whom you have touched, cored.
I am one,, who has floated on your river,
And was bettered for its cleansing.

Whatever it takes,
whatever I have,
beseech you,
beseech me!

You Are Appropriately Named
    (But did your parents ***** you?)*

parental fortune tellers we be,
when in  the task of
appellation speculation
(a/k/a name that baby!)
we engage

we tongue taste old vintages,
and some new varietals,
look to the ancient biblical, Greek Gods,
a naming to affix and let it be
the reddest of good luck omens.

baby's future unforeseen and yet,
foretold, perhaps molded?

do we have any clue
of what we do
when, our children, we name?

Foolishly, we plot, we plan,
minor items, woman or man,
we leave in God's hand,
all the rest, content to accept
product of our cooking ***,
recipe of genetic seasoning,

but

when we christen them,
when we nominally oil
and anoint tiny foreheads,
we are choosing for them
whether they will be
annointers or annointed,
Samuels or Davids,
prophet or king

O irony!
'tis no *child's game,
or wordplay fun,
nor a zero sum decision elected,
is it construct, or destruct
the nominal we have selected?

the Oscar envelope is
star-delivered, and unsealed,
futures altered,
determined, revealed,
and for these tiny ones,
there is no appeal!

Think on it.

Endlessly debated, or not,
sources from a list infinite,
grandparent, novel, imagination,
origin indeterminate,
no matter,
we make them sweet or salt,
nuanced, threaded, gruff, plain,
confirmed, or perhaps condemned

do you honestly think there is
no alteration in their fate,
their course not rejiggered
when upon a suspicious world
we emanate them as
Ian or Nate,
Adolf or Shylock,
Jason or Jakob,
argonaut or patriarch,
Scarlet or Abigail:

we have chosen the
color of their visage,
color coded the A
of their alphabet unique,
the one they will speak
a hundred years on

the world's greatest rivers,
are mere droplets at inception,
a trickle upon Mt. Marcy,
becomes my beloved Hudson magnificent

explorers, through peril,
search jungles, risk all,
to find the "source,"
they comprehend,
it does too matter!

so too with human "conception,"
it's all, in the name,
genes be ****** and
habitat may alter animals in
a science laboratory a tad,
tho your heart you will consult,
best hire an ad agency,
for you have, a brand, created!

therein is the rub,
debate no more
tween nurture or nature,
what you nominate, rules,
for better or worse
for shock or awe,
for them, and alas,
for you

This then is the parental sin most original:

you need to believe in
open architecture,
but the first will be last
your selection is a
a table set,
upon which,
you will "re-past,"
many meals in your future
equal parts of joy and regret,
Parents, there is no substitution,
you, the menu have, selected and set





-

not many of us try
trying to master tossing
***** rhythmically over and over
into the upper atmosphere
successfully

but life,
shoot, that’s another thing,
making juggling a life skill
that comes with the hard
crash of a ball dropped
and all the glue,
can’t return pristine
to what now is an
edgy
design
of a flawed life
cracked up to
be a mis~fortune telling
as
*a map of cracks run rampant
rampaging, ramp aging,

ominously

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

from whence wisdom comes
of the wisdom of the child, from whence it comes

she comes to me a
recognized believer,
a poetry rising star,
in private whispers,
to true confess,
a sixteen year old girl,
born to the role of
high poetry priestess

not asked but offered
to an old man
whose wisdom now
leaves his temples
with the scheduled departure
of each breath

she tenders
her secrets, her heritage,
her impositions, the sources
of her belief, and by and from
the vibrations of wall wisdom,
and inspiration retransmitted,
she is made even more tender

"the source of
what I know,
comes not from within,
but from without"

before she writes
she listens

she recites the histories
of her ancestors
stored in the walls

in the walls of every room,
whether painted flat white,
or fire-breathing breathless beige,
or good luck red,
cracked, stucco'd or spackled bare
even if in fabric dressed,
no matter, all whisper
to the child woman

of this, I speak,
of this, thee tell

the living and the dead,
their words recorded, deposited,
in a banque of brick
from past to future
given to her,
to be wise,
to be and by,
to share

in the train car,
in the hotel room,
all that ere spoke,
every predecessor passenger,
their words customized, bespoke,
she hears, she knows

this secret shared,
this greatest revelation,
the old man shakes his head,
weighted down with
grief and sorrow,
thinking silently to himself,
lest his walls' eavesdropping ears hear,

*poor child, she is wise
yet, she is cursed,
in exactly,
the same manner as me...

On a bunch of poems 2~3 years old.   Very different style.   Hohoho Merry Chanukah to me,   Most very long, will fire at will;  long so not suitable for the 10W crowd....sigh. Oh yeah, one more thing, I wrote them on my cell phone, usually in the bathtub, yes, I went thru a lot of  corporate phones...

A true story of a chance gathering of strangers in the back room of a Gelato Parlor *** restaurant, two years ago, in a little village near the bay, on a land surrounded by vineyards. Come visit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gelato Nation

There is a place,
location secret,
mine to keep,
mine with which
you to tease,
make you envious,
a back room 'office'
jealous guarded
by a barkeep,
whose chosen invites sweeps
you into a reality that is
what you will it to be.

But nota bene, note well,
remembrances of things swell
from your past be the
only tongue spoken here.  

Code word entry only,
a shared whisper.
Perhaps One Woman,
may reveal its pleasures,
if she so chooses,
which are:

gelato laughs, poetry snaps,
Beatle songs sung ensemble,
by rag tag strangers
self-collected accidentally,
sung de rigeur off key
by voices lubricated by
cognac, laughter, and
the coldest of white wines,
issue of the very soil
upon which we sit.  

Words to value properly,
not in my possess to capture
the few moments in time when;

Strangers transform themselves
into a triple A nation united,
that will never be
S&P; downgraded.

A holy alliance
celebrating July 4th
all night long,
all participants
signatory witnesses to
its gelato conception,
as well as pallbearers
to its last drink dissolution,
the fullness of its lifetime
a vintage of a few hours extant,
a vintage, once drunk, is
a history, forever gone.

Mixologists please record:

One playwright, a psychologist, bond trader and a social scientist
with a dash of museum director,
and do not forget the
Hundred Year Old Woman,
whose Dowager Princess Daughter
(she, a mere eighty)'
from Central Park West
clarifies all of life dilemmas with
the singular analytical tool of:

But is it good for the Jews?

But t'is the barkeep
who is the leavening
in this evenings human
pastry-petrie dish.

He makes the pastiche,        
the ions of personalities,
coalesce best,
guitar strummer,
singer of songs that were our
multiple national anthems
when we were pseudo-rebels
starting out on our
long and winding roads.  

Long the King of the Keep!
Long live the memory of our
Gelato Nation,
may it stay sweet in
our antique collection of
the best moments of
our intersecting lives.

July 2011

In a resounding answer to the abiding question of whether genius is born or made, Emerson writes:

There is no choice to genius. A great man does not wake up on some fine morning, and say, “I am full of life, I will go to sea, and find an Antarctic continent: to-day I will square the circle: I will ransack botany, and find a new food for man: I have a new architecture in my mind: I foresee a new mechanic power:” no, but he finds himself in the river of the thoughts and events, forced onward by the ideas and necessities of his contemporaries.
In a sentiment James Baldwin would echo in his own superb meditation on Shakespeare, in which he observed that “the greatest poet in the English language found his poetry where poetry is found: in the lives of the people,”

"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood"
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)


~~~


perhaps.

can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?

my voice poetic keener, age-softened,
grows less popular
for it
no longer reaches for
christmas ornament words and creamy cake-in-the-rain imagery

leave that to the better ones.

cherish simplest:
coming home to fresh sheets,
plumped pillows,
music,
tousled hair on pillowed histories,
river walks,
the lightest hand touch that rouses
the fireplace of contentment to glow briefly,
from logs that are more embered ash moments
than substance
capable of more flaming

the rumpled strivings of the young poets,
creativity of the masters of
voice and dancings bodies,
shopping lists of life~items that
reshape, restore my old~ness,
the revelations of the historians,
inducements to believe
in yet, more.

these exteriors are comprehendable.

don't forget the orange juice,
the first chilled swig from the plastic,
confirms I am breath-yet-capable,
one more poem-mission ready,
the mission objectives still not published.

Sun east welcomes me,
woman puttering kitchen coffee noises
it is neither spring yet or winter gone,
in-between like me,
in-between naissance and history remnant

question thy fiat,
Mr. Eliot,
cannot frame myself,
my who-I-am
six decades of myself.

can it then ere be said,
his poetry communicated
or ere contained ever a single
genuine word?

can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?

Poem Analysis

1st read, I thought gibberish,
2nd I thought Hmmm,
3rd I thought interesting,
4th I felt genius.  billy


your poem comment-dissects my poem
my process,
a marathon interview for a new poem pole position,
limb by limb, word by word,
chewed and re-chewed,
like a tiring piece of bubble gum,
the flavor remaining ebbs, but is not extinguished,
and can live in your mouth,
forever

and the praise and this poem,
not a rodomontade,
for your comment dear Billy,
is the process description of a poet’s labor,
from word first to a baby’s birth,

gibberish into genius

emergent from first pain, then pushing, then tilled, at long last,
the dirtiest immaculate conception beautiful

billy reads my rambling, silly abstruse^ & wrote me:
1st read I thought gibberish,
2nd I thought Hmmm,
3rd I thought interesting,
4th I felt genius

this is a much loved critique
for I well recall each step of creation,
a summarizing parallel
that your words+genes replicated so well,
forgiving you a minor typo, Billy,

it was genus, not genius that you meant

(but then again, why quibble over a miscellaneous, harmless, delighting, tiny little  extra i...not me, said he, my muse ego )

Billy has gone gray dotted, but his dot, his comment,
with gratitude,
in me, he,
lives for ever

I feel gibberish coming on...

~for Joel M Frye~*

give me your blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the genome human

give me rough, toughened words,
wizened savvy by caress and punch

what use angels ethereal pinheaded,
inexperienced in the vocabulary of the maddening crowd

give me anger, rage, envy-jealousy,
the burnt ashes of the remainder of real

give me perspective of eyes facedown on concrete,
feel of flesh hands pounding the soft spots of the skull

In return for? What bargain struck?  What consideration exchanged?

for your blunt, stunted words,
I give you this:

the homage of inspiration
the honor of no questions asked

one day of my life
poured into your vase

Glint

Reflecting mirrors,
Each leaf glints,
An illuminated individual
In a stadium pool of
Waving faces.

Paying homage by shining,
Mutuality of existence,
Chlorophyll for oxygen
Light for life,
A fair bargain.

glowing under the comforter,
that's high tucked under chin,
but white glow
escaping from underneath it

his electronic tablet,
in multiple ways, charging,
on his chesting, resting,
like a hot water bottle,
the screen warmth,
welcome and dual-purposed

for the poems,
he dream~writes,
now, directly from his chest
nightly transposed from tablet,
passed onto you
raw unedited no disclaimer
revoking writes of rights

when he wakes,
he reads
what he did not know
he wrote

stray thoughts stay
some become old friends
some become farewells,
as he bids and wishes,

fare~thee~well

he knows he
no longer needed,
his matter grey,
no longer matters

Past the green copper bell-ed,
Thru the the single trees, un-felled.

Do you see that solitary-sentinel chair,
Empty? No, not.
Can you not see the sweep,
The vista, the poems hanging about,
Ripe for the plucking from the quiet,
Nestled in the soil, on the wings of gulls,
Who do not fly, but let the wind keep them
And their cargo, standing-still, in place,
Awaiting my attention, my need.

You read less and less,
The more and more I write.
It's ok, I understand that.
Blessed to have found the spot,
Where the poems make a crowd,
And the giving is good and healing, easy.

A long as there be ten righteous,
The Lord acceded to Abraham's plea,
***** would not be destroyed.
I am less demanding,
For I am just human.

As long as but five,
Acknowledge the caring,
Lick my wounded words like vanilla,
Is that too much to ask?

If but one finger points and marks it
Read, is that not sufficient to let this
Battle be ended, tween ego and truth,
Pride of craft, and, weak craving for attention-no-deficit?

If it be, that only the sea grasses, rooted deep, sway,
On the beach, a few feet from where, the chair spends its days,
Clap their hands silently to
Acknowledging the harvesting of the words,
That too will be noise enough to satisfy
The Lord who tendered them, all this, to me
For safe keeping, and giving me no choice but to write,
If but to honor all words, and their creators,
Each and every one.


See my photo, to better undertstand...

Past the green copper bell-ed,
Thru the the single trees, un-felled.

Do you see that solitary-sentinel chair,
Empty? No, not.
Can you not see the sweep,
The vista, the poems hanging about,
Ripe for the plucking from the quiet,
Nestled in the soil, on the wings of gulls,
Who do not fly, but let the wind keep them
And their cargo, standing-still, in place,
Awaiting my attention, my need.

You read less and less,
The more and more I write.
It's ok, I understand that.
Blessed to have found the spot,
Where the poems make a crowd,
And the giving is good and healing, easy.

A long as there be ten righteous,
The Lord acceded to Abraham's plea,
***** would not be destroyed.
I am less demanding,
For I am just human.

As long as but five,
Acknowledge the caring,
Lick my wounded words like vanilla,
Is that too much to ask?

If but one finger points and marks it
Read, is that not sufficient to let this
Battle be ended, tween ego and truth,
Pride of craft, and, weak craving for attention-no-deficit?

If it be, that only the sea grasses, rooted deep, sway,
On the beach, a few feet from where, the chair spends its days,
Clap their hands silently to
Acknowledging the harvesting of the words,
That too will be noise enough to satisfy
The Lord who tendered them, all this, to me
For safe keeping, and giving me no choice but to write,
If but to honor all words, and their creators,
Each and every one.

God took my soul

This morning.

In the poet's nook,
Ye old adirondacke chair, turned about face!
My back to the bay,
In order to feel the early morn sun kisses
Excavate the approaching fall chills.

I don't possess any more the skills,
Making images, that take your breath away.

All my poetry plain spoke, another trademark.

Simple verse what I feel, what I see,
What I know,
Like Jason sings,
Almost out of words.

So the sun rays enveloped,
Speaking in tones dulcet,
Thru them into my pores,
He spoke, a song for the soul,
Is simple words, just like mine,
Oil and spices of passing over,
They, his troupe, poured,
Cinnamon and myrrh, oil of balsam,
Upon my tired head.

Child of mine,
Needy for you,
Needy for a poet
To sit besides my throne,
On my right,

In need for someone who sees
Just like me, the extraordinary,
In the everyday things that populate
The earth, the kindness of loving,
The planets, the loving of kindness.

You, yeoman job done and done.
Poems drip from your eyes,
Glory, Glory, Glory,
To man to woman, their
Shapes unique, their foibles, amusing,
Understanding that the pieces
Do all fit.

Needy for your-perspective to give to
Another.

It's time,
Close your eyes,
For your journey,
To new places,
Where you will lyre us, we-who await you,
Our daily poet-writer.

Your love is now
Our responsibility.
Your responsibilities, now
Our love to tend.

Just bring alone those
Pocket tissues, used and new,
That you always carry,
To wipe the tears yet to arrive,
And the ones you shed,
Even now,
As we begin
All over again.

~~~
8:36am
August 24 2013

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!

Have you noticed here

Each poet declaims his fellow
The better one, his teacher,
From whom they shall learn and gather up
Inspiration

Gonna run for Congress,
My first bill, Poetry-care,
Will make it a requirement that
All citizens must contribute,
Exchange once a day
To this peaceful place,
Even just a syllable, a single letter,

K?

Wherever, whenever,
Good night,
Good man.
Ship to shore,
Send out the message,
Never complain,
Never explain.
Keep the demons private.

Sometimes, impatience is a virtue.
We, your circle, await the horn blast,
Announcing your return.

It is ok to be impatient,
Awaiting for the return
Of a virtuous man.

Good on You (a love poem),
this one, is, good, on you.  

phrase uttered, measured, apace,
each comma,
a paused breath of:

admiration, enveloped by
a secret pleasure coating,
saucier prepared,
the base, the pleasured secret in this
mans minds eye unseen.

each comma,
precisely the carbon copy of the
comma curve of dark hair that
falls from a forehead down to the chin,
in a museum quality photograph,
as if it was intended to hold, contain,
your sly blunt moody,
and full plated whimsy,
when that half-smile poesy is in place.

good on you,
slow please,
not
goodonyou.

did you think, I did not have, a special bottle,
a Grand Cru,
a pinot noir, in the reserve,
inside the locked cellar of me,
to be used to anoint mine own
English Duchess of Burgundy?

well and proper aged,
but unlabelled,
till you provided
the appelation, the domaine,
good, on, you.  

the bottle dusty, the feelings, not.
if we never meet, matters not,
the gentility, tous les bons mots,
good in you,
hid in in all of the
astounding incredible poems
I well-addicted need,
those archeological mounds of a life,
I excavate and well heed,
going from one to the next,
me, the bumbling bee,
pollenating, following the path of the
watermarked tracks of
the King's Cross,
alas, they do not offer a couchette,
from Terminal 4 to London Bridge

unlike a teenager
happy to confess,
I am even younger,
an old fool, a geezer,
in love with a museum quality smile,
as he totters down to the Tottenham Hale station,
to catch the blue colored line, to the station after Vauxhall)
(oh dear, what's it called again?)
walking 10 to 2, saying ta to all
who assist his
two hands on an old man's bent feet,
steering the wheelhouse heart through its tubes

this is an undedicated poem,
retuned and returned,
addressee unknown, yet I know
by the greening dew droplets decorating faces,
that come so easy,
not a one wrung out,
you know
the who's of the true ownership,
the clarification,
in the bread crumbs,
fully disclosed,
left by me,
but for me,
in order to retrace my steps,
to find the railing,
when the steady on need arises

some Tuesday next,
will disembark from a riverboat,
at the old Tate,
spending my afternoon,
staring at an imaginary museum quality photograph,
till the guard surly reminds the pesky Yank,
its past closing time,
the man who will not be moved,
for already he, past overcome,
so why be thinking on why leaving,
for he will only be back again tomorrow.

so different.

mine, simple declarative sentences,
typically matter of fact,
so **** presumptuous,
those ill mannered,
know it all Ameddicans.

yours, lace doilles,
in a pub, with Hilda and Bill,
drinking pale ale,
from a porcelain cup,
and I am laughing,
Why?

It is all,
Good on Us,
a, love, poem,
indeed,
no kidding kid.

Got A Sunburn On My Belly Button

Yup. Thought I had it covered.
The lesson learned,
When they say they got your back,
Ask 'em,
Why not the front too?

“Great is the art of beginning, but greater the art is of ending”

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
                                                      ­  <?>

how we age is both simultaneously
conscious and unconscious,
uncontrolled and uncomfortable

we never fail to recognize the mirror image, yet,
always thinking out loud in our brain that’s not me!

some remember their successes; others, do not,
perhaps they cannot recall the few, or more likely
acknowledge them as triumphs, as the scale is a
canon always in flux by time grinding us fine

we readily admit, or do not deny, the lines upon our bodies
are highway markers of journeys, yet we know not
who built these signposts, how they came to be here,
but that they ours, unique and accumulated, undeniable

Longfellow’s observation above hits me
with the  fullness of a wet washcloth;
intemperate and stinging,
but not unpleasantly so.

each of our beginnings are artful;
full of promise and worthy tales;
we think this. is normative,
the way a young life is proscribed,
meant to be enjoyed.

of course, this is not necessarily so;
indeed, the exiting is a violent decay,
unrelenting and foisted upon us and
we try, to amend it, our transient departure,
so that we remove the artifice, keep only the art,
the skilled communication of what we valued,
the things that are progeny, living or material,
those clues to whom we are, to whom it may concern, 
we were…

Dec. 25, 2021

Used to tell 'em not to cut my hair too short,
When I was young-old,
Nowadays I just tell him cut it short,
so it
Spikes...Yikes!

Makes me realize,
Vanity is one of my
Oldest friends,
And also, one of my
Oldest enemies.

I like Bob Dylan's songs,
Like him better these days,
When younger voices cover him,
And I hear his word-songs differently.

Oh I love to laugh,
Especially at myself,
Silly boy in the mirror,
Who the heck are you Grandpa?
I am,
The Times They Are-A-Changin'
Nowadays, I'm  growing down

A dance lesson at 900AM,
she sets her alarm for Seven Am(?)
<>
restless. as you know too well,
a nite time house haunter, checking doors,
windows, rumbling noises from deep
inside the basement and his gut,
knowing in advance he has done
all this a few hours before…
what else should he do?

write your **** poetry!

ok

I will.

exhausted after diving into unplumbed
depths of love and death, friendship and
hatred, the angst of lost children, some dead,
some living but who have made him dead to them…

tired from debating god about the correct
way to spell hallelujah in English, as they
usually converse in the original Hebrew…

now you ask impatiently, what the hll does
this have to do with what time she sets her alarm?

growling, I reply, so glad you asked…

after a longest night of wrestling with angels,
reviewing the highs and the despondent lows,
of a life lived, mixed up, at best, he returns to
the bed stealthy~like, with much practice, she
does not even stir, when he steals back the half
of the coverlet and top sheet she stole in his
absence…rearranges the pillows, and thus
entirely exhausted, tumbles immédiatement,
into a sleep restful, a short battery charge,
to give himself a fighting chance, to recoup
the poetry they (Him and god,😉) composed
ensemble…

now, some addled add’l info you require:

the Apple offers multitudinous alarm sounds,
and she has chosen the aggravating ringing
of that old fashion alarm clock you bought in
Switzerland forty! years ago, and with great
bravery put out the back door for anyone who
was truly desperate for self-torture…anyway,

in throes, of a clasped embrace, a holy restful
cuddle of a dreamless sleep so desperately needed,
her A L A R M refunds at 7, for a trip to the studio
that is maybe , Google Map, has affirmed with
glee, is but a ******* NINE MINUTE drive away…

you think this is not  poem worthy?

WELL, YOU ARE WRONG, DING ****!

for what you do not know, that I am kicked &
injured awake from my last chance saloon of
sleep, with a shocking stillness of heart and
mind, by that jingle jangle *gringging, and then,
she stirs & confirms the time is indeed 700AM,

AND GOES BACK TO SLEEP AGAIN…


WHILST(always wanted to try that word out),
I am groggy~angry, highly dangerous for having
been cheated on, of and by a sound that was invented
by masochists who overslept for Noah’s Ark’s departure,
and have never for~given those creatures, like me,
who made a timely aboard…

And so the day begins and if you are angry at me, for having decomposed my hissy fit into your so very important existence,
well, too bad!

so, awake, I return to unlock every window and all the
doors aplenty, for they who built this home fifty years ago,
insisted that no one should be no more than ten steps
from entry and egress, in case the Puritans come to
burn we witches alive…

so now you are aware, fully informed, why the
adjectives of choix, in describing moi in the morning,
are whiny, growly, and grumbly and any another word
ending in “ly” that you should feel free to add to the
equation..

You are too? ** ** **! welcome to the club chump!
feel free to post nasty, natty notes below,which will
be accepted with roaring laughter and good graces
at having made your & you
coffee, by now, icy cold😉😫😜😛



p.s. good morning

9:01AM
S U N D A Y(grrrr)