sometime before sunrise,
when the morn world is
still a dusky daylight, unclassified blue, me slip-slide out
of the communal bed,  where I have been up all night,
draw-drafting poems for manufacture, sale, & gift wrapping,
to await the sunrise, the sunrise, in the famous sunroom,
in a vainglorious attempt to salvage forty winks, full knowing,
that even if I'm successful, the risen eye poking rays of
one the most glorious sights which we earthlings
have been privileged and entrusted,
the sun coming with a clarification of life renewal,
will stab me into consciousness

there I lay with eyes closed, either noisy napping dreaming
like baby wendy, gurgling or emitting contentment noises,
or perfectly still, having slipped a fiver to some tenors,
to entertain me while I slide lie still on the composing continuum

the sun round seven
is maximus glorious and cannot be
looked upon by the audience in direct prayer askance,
so my eyes closed in pleasured servitude, me,
my lumpen proletariat rubenesque carcass corps is

bath burnished in sun glow so warm, so living,
that the warming words are causing a major traffic jam
in the ventricle where the love poems are formed and stored,
but fervency disguised by an unmoving, close lidded human shape

shortly after seven,
the slip soft padding feet of her rumbling noisily,
knowing where to look for him from
much practice, beginning her experimentation to determine
if me-he still among the breathing, or gone to poem heaven

since she aware, the poet in his possess, a
Masters Degree in Pretend Sleeping, must eventually
take drastic measures including kissing my keppy,
then climbing aboard my fetal incongruently angled body
with no warning other than a grunting of deep satisfaction, when,
with all her modest weight in a single swoop, intended to fell,
causing me to emit a volcanic exclamation of

you're killing me*

satisfied, nah, more sated, with a sense of
feminist goddess power ranger satisfaction,
she prepares coffee, grinding the beans, just in case,
I return to my sleep fakery status,
literally, a literary impossibility, as now
the compelling transfusing heat from sun and coffee
impel me to write this pas de deux ballet down in words, a/k/a,
only a love poem

8:32am

<?>

god gave us little toes so when we are rushing our socks on,
the little toe has something to cling to, and a way to say, hey!
slow down

god gave us powerful pinkies, the littlest of the five fingers,
to give us balance, and reflection, that being upright
is a good thing

god did not give us eyes in the back of the head,
because he forgot to order the integrated circuitry
and was too embarrassed to admit it, but if you look closely,
you can see where they were supposed to go...oops,
no can do

<?>

she, a voracious vicarious, reads a new book almost daily
when I dismissed the time spent as an investment
with a finality of no return, she demurred, purred,
au contraire, my dove, every book expands the who of me
and with so many ahead, yet unread, I'll live forever

<?>

she inquires why I write so many poems, easy comes reply:
It gives me a fantastic living, it makes and gives, each poem,
a calculation, a reconciliation of who I am...a miner of the wealth in my veins

for Tascha

deep in the pond of unhappy, swimming,
drowning the next contemporaneous
depression thought quickly swallowed,
desperation in quick glances everywhere,
dawn is no consolation but just another
daily drawing tighter of twine cutting
disillusionment


dear god, commences every thought,
delayed answers have yet to arrive,
**** the deity's non-responsivness,
dare not say out loud lest,
deserved fates be worse, be realized,
didn't know? how can that be?
disguiser par excellent, I am the original
deceiver

But I never think about

death or dying, for that would be
defeat finale, a statute to, a status of none, a
destiny some wick spark, still insists can be
deferred

differed always,
diffidently, but grasping yet at the
double entendre that is my
dark vision of a future already past

May 2015

haggard and black eye circled,
I stood before her,
(in the special silence of the shocked
"I can't believe what I'm seeing")

The Goddess Witch of the Bathroom Magic Mirror,

in my awoken normal deplorable e-state,
taking a poll of the the toll
the working years had blessed me with,
crow's feet nests, red eye eggs, and forehead furrows
colloquially called the Mississip-pis,
saggy used as a compliment,
rotunda my unsupine fecund shape,
as in,
"what a nice generous cowling^ you have!"

a nose that looked clown-borrowed and improperly affixed,
looking like the wreckage of a ship
that accidentally crashed
into a harmless oil tanker
a three-times-my-size destroyer
named Life

the bathroom mirror looked upon me
with haughty askance,
imputing and impugning my
raggedy Andy human exterior,
until it at last
laughed so hard,
it cracked into a 1000 pieces

as shards bloodied my hands
and now, in addition,
checker-boarded my scraggled unshaven cheeks,
a voice from the bedroom screeched:

did you ask again the mirror
who's the fairest
in all the land
*******?

Warned you,
she hates when you take
advantage of her,
with your white male privilege,
calling her,

The Goddess ***** of the Bathroom Magic Mirror

clearly a simple case of mistaken identity,
upon looking in the mirror at myself
all I growled was
"you one ugly pasty white *******"

<•>
8-22-17
1:11am

When at the peak voltage
streetlights **** the stars
and behind closed doors
rumbling slumbers
down the cries of the nocturne
awakes a world of opened windows.

Home from the last show
eyes colored with screen idols
shadows huddling over supper
talk of the length and worth
the plot intrigues and intricacies
the creator's whims and fantasies
while unbeknownst the night lengthens
tiring the shadows
that excavate the trash bin's bottom
for living through the morrow.

The filaments feel lonelier
as those last windows shut down
starlight wasted
on an enveloped town.