Aging Poetry Well (proving the valor of writing poetry)

no more write, post, establish
to your immediate satisfaction,
what you are
what you think
is an amazing piece of
just you,
plus+comprehending
the world needs it, you,
ASAP!

needy for the
cosplay contemporaneous sharing,
curse of our
instantaneous time

from now on
deep down, gonna let it
casket age,
let memory
of the intensity
rust sufficiently to
get some time~plied
rusted accurate actualized
perspective

maybe trash it,
maybe tinker and
spot-check edit,
but if it is going
to stand
time testing,
let it pass a
first Herculean
examination of
fire and forget,
returning later
to collect it,
the wounded
that,
refusing to die,
thus proving proof,
the valor of
red badged courage of
writing poetry

is it worthy long after
the internal commotion
has passed,
just like
an ordinary
but very first

"I love you"

forming and reforming
then blurted in  
a wunderkind awkwardness,
that can't be
taken back,
well, *** and all that

put me aside,
could be weeks,
months,
researching
the thing I love most,
waiting for the day I
need it worse,
a lot less,
so I can
do it better

maybe even go back
look up them
odd old folks,
written in
longing ago high passion,
and come at them
differently
or wistfully,
not
and like me,
age
for better
or
for worse

every day we make rules
for ourselves, gonna do this,
never eat that, drink less,
write shorter (ha!),
write
less, more, better, so as I edit
the preponderance and infiltration
of that word,
(that shall remain nameless),

it
plague my scripts, diminishes my
verbal acuity, curses my perpetuity,
inserts itself without asking, is a
rudeness to your host, an intolerable
sin that cannot be abided,
know now
that it shall be banished from speech,
daily conversation, a heretic, born to
die in The Void, spent superhero,
a place languages send there superfluous
constituents, to live, hopefully disappearing
via the Ark of Archaic…

weirdly, my writing pointer tips sudden
drained of blood, my composure and
composition disabled, when I hear a
sumptuous sobering voice declare:

Sit down and shut up

to which authoritative declarative
I reply:

“Yes, God, Roger that,”
adding,

“over and out”

partly cloudy,
partly sunny,
clearly an indecisively
partly day,
bored, the heavens organized
a garden party, sky above,
eclectic crowd,
minted mixed,
party of partly
clouds, wind, sun rays,
summer showers and somehow,
I got partly invited...

but not partly windy,
no, entirely gusty

a workingman's breeze,
all grown up, full strength
has driven the good folk inside,
tho sailboats are entouraging fully,
just me and them in
Red Sea parting, a full blow,
unmistakably encouraging partying,
while under the influence
of white line snorting poetry

what is this partly poem doing?

receiving or bringing,
like the swirly gusts,
empowered but direction unknown,
I am partly confused,
I am partly clarified

lacking the metaphor skill,
he says to himself,
and to the over-hearers,
part with me not!

for I am partly this and that,
looking for reconciliation
of my accounts in full,
and will rely on your guidance
to seal the beams, patch the cracks,
write the parts of me that
you shall connect and declare
in one voice, unified

Will you?

so many people on
the city streets
on a fine spring Saturday

how can I,
her *** grab,
in a gesture of
genuine admiration,
for its balletic pas de deux
a perfect gyration elation
within a tight jeans artistic
framing

with all these impolite people occupying our space
in the Q train subway station


on the isle of Manhattan

a thousand poems stronger,
write in freedom flowing,
rhyming, sashaying, gingers flying,
an exercise in 15 minute segments,
18 hours daily, easy peasy,
I’ll have my thousand in a mere
13.8888888888888 days, then
what the heck am I do with those now
superfluous 6 hours a weekly wastrels?

drink.

~as promised~

bejeweled words

no reason you should know,
that one of my peculiarities
is buying jewelry for women

premise: it is one thing man can do
than improves upon nature’s rough cuts

the refractions remind me of those within
the human heart where light of love resides

so I am neither insane,
nor a complaint in a criminal conspiracy,
of which I am criminal, the accused,
the victimized, both of us co-conspirators,
defrauding no one

this weakness is a silliness,
that came about as an accident,
a story not worth telling for its truth yet accurate,
that fool man looks at  his works and over jewels purchased,
prefers his poems,
and those that loved them more

so, in conclusion, be unafraid, be available,
be affected, happily infected, give the jewels you can afford,
to the deserving
give them away, away...away on 10/23/19

the Webster's, the Merriam's,
residents of the Oxford
say not,
an exclamation or a noun,
but an action,
a doing word,
not so much...

as a poet~sorcerer
digressing rules,
is my input
appetizer,
poems, my exported
entrées
all posted to be
dessert
for all the sweet tooth
parts of you

all to
feast on this
process,
when I
hallelujah you...

"Praise the Lord"
the translation literal

but sojourn herewith me
for a few extants,
together, let's
invigorate, expand the
understanding of an ever expansive
definition...

if I ever fall out of love,
with natural words,
can no longer
hallelujah/scribe
to memorialize
why we claim,
we are alive....

hallelujah's
praises
for you all the
master designers'
praiseworthy creations,
an extension of themselves,
they said
in each human
godlike spark
hallelujah installed

there is nothing more
godlike
than being
human,
so when I
hallelujah
I praise each and everyone

it is a mixologist's dream,
some of it a
thank you,
some of it a
your welcome,
all of it a
celebratory exercise,
in appreciation,
of the finery of what we can
be
come
greater
through
the words
of our blood
transfused

Oh!
act out Hallelujah,
write it as if you must
urgent do
Hallelujah,
do it
not just now but,
Selah!

daily provisioning

wallet  watch  testicles  spectacles
cash (single bills) cell phone
bottle of water   hairbrush with vanity attached,
personal technology baggie
(earbuds, variety of charging cords etc.)
loose change in order to fall from pockets & annoy yourself
sunglasses (idiot! summers half over) and something else...

pocket tissues!

skin and bone, muscle, all flavors and multilayers,
a language of music only you hear,
the pumping station internal, the gaga motion
product of the palette of body following souled emotions,
the antacid pills after that burrito;
and that strangely named thang called

libido?

your teeth  your smile, your shyest guile,
to catch that lady’s hopefully.        
reciprocated pearly whites delight,
pen and pad to record being a sad and mad good lad,
a Swiss Army knife if the tube or bus
should (will) breakdown,
your tiny little bottles of
inspiration  perspiration and perspective,
that you forgot to

label

the list to do and the list
to add to the to do list
and good heavens,
a serious writing utensil
to fool yourself when
thinking serious thoughts like

these

the last but should be first,
the house keys!!
keys just an enabler
to do it all again

tomorrow  




July 11, 2018  10:22pm

******. Blondie,
the weather idiot predicted
rain and thunderstorms.

planned extensively a day
of inside activities,
that are time sensitive.

Yes, of course,
the sun is shining
causing my ladies to question
my witticisms,
cautionary tales,
my type “A” personnalité,
worse!  
mocking my
key bulge (see nose above)
as a signal sign of my
increasing decreasing,
procreative masculinity,
due to lead metallica poisoning.

**** those blondes,
gorgeous weather persons,
never forget,
look out the window!
or in other words,
trust Clairol but verify
it’s “natural” sheening
ain’t just a monkeyshining!

June 2020

ever since seven ate eight,
cannot expect much
too much return on
my in-vestments,
given the hole in
my accounting.

five, six, seven, nine
is most unsatisfying,
like brunch.

brunch?

neither breakfast or supper,
assuredly not lunch,
pointedly ridiculous
if you don’t know
what time it is
by the meal’s
nomenclature

nothing sensible rhymes
with supper
except for
crupper
and scupper,
both of which
like brunch,
leave me confused,
wholey unsatisfied,
as I’m clueless
as to what each means,
just like,
brunch.

by the way,
do have the time?

exactly how white do I want to be?

came to terms with my whiteness sometime ago,
the dentist mixes in, an offer to refresh my yellowed
pearls, who’ve served admirably long, sure footed,
long in the tooth…

surprisingly, this puts me off guard, uncharacteristically
unprepared,

exactly how white do I want them to be?

mmm…

the scale is as follows (intermediary levels are complicated)

1. Taylor Swift Bright







10. Cowardly Lion Old Yeller

and shades in between, I’ve grown accustomed to to my smile, which is closest to the Lion’s accreted usage and
wear and tear, and decide to stay as is, to keep my body
in a state of synchronicity

Doctor puzzled, “why do I smile?”

Why Doktor!
you’ve commissioned a poem,
and now know why your License Plate
declare you as Dentist so boldly,
You have the power to end racial strife,
uniform the populace with bright headlights,
and clearly should be allowed to proceed
posthaste to any and all life threatening
emergencies

but my preference is to display many decades
of failure, irregular brushes, periodic flossed,
my natural color my god-given grace, and who
am I
OR ANYONE ELSE
be empowered
to disturb the natural order of  human
perfectionism schematics, for
to every season, every human being,
**there is a color unique!

exactly how white do I want to be?

came to terms with my whiteness sometime ago,
the dentist mixes in, an offer to refresh my yellowed
pearls, who’ve served admirably long, sure footed,
long in the tooth…

surprisingly, this puts me off guard, uncharacteristically
unprepared,

exactly how white do I want them to be?

mmm…

the scale is as follows (intermediary levels are complicated)

1. Taylor Swift Bright







10. Cowardly Lion Old Yeller

and shades in between, I’ve grown accustomed to to my smile, which is closest to the Lion’s accreted usage and
wear and tear, and decide to stay as is, to keep my body
in a state of synchronicity

Doctor puzzled, “why do I smile?”

Why Doktor!
you’ve commissioned a poem,
and now know why your License Plate
declare you as Dentist so boldly,
You have the power to end racial strife,
uniform the populace with bright headlights,
and clearly should be allowed to proceed
posthaste to any and all life threatening
emergencies

but my preference is to display many decades
of failure, irregular brushes, periodic flossed,
my natural color my god-given grace, and who
am I
OR ANYONE ELSE
be empowered
to disturb the natural order of  human
perfectionism schematics, for
to every season, every human being,
**there is a color unique!

exactly how white do I want to be?*


came to terms with my whiteness some(many)times ago,
yet, the dentist mixes in, an offer to refresh my yellowed
pearlys who’ve served admirably long, so sure footed,
long in the tooth…so to speak

surprisingly, this puts me off guard, uncharacteristically
unprepared,

exactly how white do I want them to be?

mmm…

the scale is as follows (intermediary levels are complicated)

1. Taylor Swift Bright







10. Cowardly Lion Old Yeller

and shades in between, I’ve grown accustomed to to my smile, which is closest to the Lion’s accreted usage and
wear and tear, and decide to stay as is, to keep my body
in a state of synchronicity

Doctor puzzled, “why do I smile?”

Why Doktor!
you’ve commissioned a poem,
and now know why your License Plate
declare you as Dentist so boldly,
You have the power to end racial strife,
uniform the populace with bright headlights,
and clearly should be allowed to proceed
posthaste to any and all life threatening
emergencies

but my preference is to display many decades
of failure, irregular brushes, periodic flosses,
my natural color, my god-given grace, and who
am I
OR ANYONE ELSE
be empowered
to disturb the natural order of human
perfectionism schematics, for
to every season, every human being,

is a color unique!

four.
chernobyl on peoples mind.
mine too, pretty clear,
humanity intent
on destroying itself.

good to know!

I can put off my
my perpetual idea of getting even by suicide,
no need to cease my puffing,
waiting now until my very last moment,
cause I won’t be cheated out
of course,
by god and his central committee
of what they have being planning for me,
all my life

~
Gumby, Wood Woodpecker and Me
~


somewhere in the mother lode
of a thousand poems scripted,
lies a pen-pained tribulation, an old ode,
to the taming of the shrew,
the shock and awe of my new born,
slept-on hair mode

Ogdiddy,
she says,
rise up quick!
thy self to the mirror dispatch,
see what god hath wrought
upon thy head this brand new morn

blessed am I,
at this late stage,
in posses of a
goodly and shocking amount
of hair au naturel

each of my body's parts has a mind of its own,
my hairs, each one a different opinion and resultantly
an amazing new creation born come dawn

sometimes straight up like Gumby
she quips,
sometimes a shocking tail to one side
in the style of one Woody Woodpecker,
she mockingly cries!

and on and on each daily
a new cartoon characterization proposition,
until one day in feigned wrath I do reply

*just you wait Mrs. Higgins, just you wait,
you will rue the day my do
will be best described and descried by you
as akin to that of one known as
SpongeBob SquarePants

•helping the kids with homework•


no one told you,
was part of the job description
paycheck earner a-ok,
gruff but tender lover,
knowing her special places,
building a tree swing,
a tree house safe and satisfactory,
one the neighbors envy

taking them to the hospital for
broken arms and chemotherapy,
part two of the non-routine but a very possible foreseeable,
going to school to give that principal a look
that will make him think twice before suspending
one of his for defending himself

you remember your daddy doing the same for you,
forgetting to repeat the tar and hiding that came later

the tucking in, the pretense ouch
when your end of day
scratchy beard ruffling the skin of babies,
carrying tissues in a toolbox,
never heard of, nevertheless done,
tho not a memory defining the future inclusive,
definitely a learning ability, a likeability

doing homework, nuh uh,
no way jose, don’t dare let them
know how you never got a gold star,
always sat in the back row, outta sight,
all day dreaming, chemistry rhymes with mystery,
and poetry is rhymes needing a big vocabulary
which means lots of words for a man who don’t talk much

ain’t exactly his strong suit

sure, heard of Shakespeare but never met him,
know where the on/off computer button hides,
the rest is up to them;
got no email address, but taught them sir and ma’am,
how to address humans with respect,

i’ll promise them anything
but not doing any homework,
unless it the kind that that makes

“a home work”

How to Cook Everything

the secret is in the human spices...

all dishes require clear cool scented breaths blown of pure lung oxygen,

hot dishes need heated, thrumming,
heartbeats,

stir with skin cells of a clean
finger,

stir with skin cells of a garden soil digging
finger,

to taste, a dash of salted directly dropped eye
tears,

a sprig of mind
mint,

spring water to clarify
the recipe,

the sweat of love and joyful


did you think of the kitchen speaking?

nay, the prep of the human mind
swollen with the possibilties of love.
the touch taste of two
bodies

how I love to cook!

I would rather write one good poem
and have it lost
to you and you,
among the waterfall crushing
of trite and rushing verbal droppings
and the infrequent masterpieces

years from now
mediocre and facing  myself,
mirror-wincing,
at a dyed and dying
vanity,
years from now

admission: confession:
my goal was
glory and fame,
to be celebrated,
recalled and retained,
if only
by myself,
with smidgened satisfaction

my Cain mark,
is not a celebration
of a brother's birthright
usurped,
Frailty
thy name
literary adulation

like so, too many
other failures recorded
lost to lol but me,
but one,
perhaps
this one(?)
to enfold
in my
withering, neatly-voiceless
hands
saying and believing,
perhaps!
with this one,

I have justified
my existence

majestic adjectives of contrary harmonies
adverbs in adversity that modify our satisfying actions,
gut punch in our eyes, scrambling the taste buds,
now inoperable, incapacitated to differentiate
what is disturbed - what is sweet - what is impossible.

my days ending is nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of what I’ve got left,
stale panko crumbs,
come they in 1000 radium-tipped can-nisters  of
seriously humorous self-destruction,
gifted to you by a few itinerant followers,
brave enough to follow me into the depths
majestic, disordered by radioactive incomprehension,
contrary harmonies, of no particular disorder,
a thousand times, a thousand lines, but none
as perfect poetic as a landmark hallelujah

~~~

early Saturday morn marked,
looks as if it will be a as-scheduled,
chill fall brisk one, a November blend,
sun wants in, but clouds say,
uh-uh, no way Jose,
yet the yellow star insists, persists

the bed so coy, suggests a ploy

stay with me, stay with her,
ready steady in this hearts hearth,
let this Saturday be an Ogdiddynasherday

*the blonde deep sleeps,
covers up to the nose,
she doesn't know
and never will

that the edges of my eyes filled with tears,
watery from amniotic fluid,
a byproducts of this days first time ever
birthday

a moment morning marked, colored by
early morn re-readings of prior poems,
of darling love mended with tender,
writ expressly for her,
over the years of being
together~tethered

soon that other pair (of eyes) will open,
in a new way,
anew the day,
a whole new world,
a seventh day resting,
unaware of my steadfast guardian,
over-watching protection

will inform her of the Saturday menu,
stay in bed with her obedient server-man,
performing continual catch up
on who we are and why we be a we,
with out ever thinking
that's a good idea,
just like this poem came unplanned,
just an unscheduled day in bed,
woman and man,
with a new poem snuggling
in between

Mr. Condiment Man

he arrives around 10:30am,
after the morning rushers and multiple malingerers
have surrendered to the clocker's red glare stare,
the little dictator of time that rules lands far and wide,
and the lunch crush is but a restauranteur's faraway dream

most days, to the last counter stool, he beelines,
the most least desirable seat in all of diner-land,
adjacent to the noise of kitchen,
and its associated higher risks perilous,
a two way swinging door "entera-ance,"
a residency to be avoided most studiously

though hardly a corner for one to go unnoticed,
by virtue of its iffy existence,
unless one likes the increased chance of
being a  victim of a crashing accident,
Mr. Condiment Man goes in and out, silently unremarked
but very noticed

in our land of spacious skies and amber waves of plastic,
customarily any "regular" is happily accorded a
rousing Sousa welcome, but that mistake now twice made,
is a historical hurry up-to-be-please-be-forgotten incident,
and the Condiment Man's cloaking invisibility second only to the
NYC's Famous Actors seeking breakfast amidst the common people

no words are passed, no pleasantries are planted,
the rule of incommunicado silence, for both sides now,
most happily observed, like a UN peacekeeping boundary

quick appears Cream of Tomato soup accompanied by
ever multiplying handfuls of packages of Nabisco
crackered packets, freshly fracked, with a ketchup Heinz handy,
a soupçon of five iodized salt shakes in the soup then interred,
salt released from the prototypical glass shaker whose universality usage seems to be a Federal law o' the land

the meal in silence arrives,
silently but oh-so-slowly-consumed,
it's extenuating circumstances lengthily enhanced by intermittent deliveries of additional cracking crackers,
and an occasional lip smacking,
and an unrequited unrequested unremarked
  "topping off" soup refillament,
this one act play presented daily
with a free tall glass of water in red plastic also refillable,
as needed

a play with no official ending,
no white topped, green lined, ripped from the ubiquitous diner pad, scribbled, billing ever presented,
but the loose change precisely, scrupulously counted then
upon the counter left, materializes by the hands
of the unacclaimed Mr.  Condiment Man,
which he sources from pockets various
in places where no pocket rightfully  belongs

you can set you watch by his timed departure
at five minutes of Twelve, he is no longer,
the play thus ended, the audience to feet leaps,
relieved and appreciative of the quiet man's drama
and his most excellent silent soliloquy

some strange human need satisfied and pleased
for all parties concerned, when the New York Times
revealed that this C.C. man left a 50 million dollar estate donated
to Meals-on-Wheels,
a fortune amassed by speculation in
condo's (ha!),

there was no shocked groaning,
only some perfunctory observing that frugality has its place,
and that this fantastick show, now closed, would be
sorely missed, for it had become a
condiment itself
a spice in the lives of so many


~
O.G.D.N.

“Remember when we used to pour our own milk in Starbucks? I miss those days,” one patron wrote nostalgically on X earlier this month... Now in the process of  getting reinstatement…
<>
oddity sujet for a poeme. and it begs with
hidden overtones even, for an overture, please,
even the babes&big babies among us with barely a decade to call their own,
long for the un~
complicated places, days, even the moments
momentous that will resonate evermore,

even the most favored nation of that stuffed
animal, that cannot be dismissed, discarded,
who will join them in their no loco parenting of a
snug single of  a freshman doormroom,
with no shame, when the hungry boys are
permitted entry to the chamber, blushing from the hopefulness's of potency of
getting first  lucky,
foolishly sarcastic remarking on
this sad sacred animal presence, and being subsequently serviley, quick dismissed,
with a stupid,wry twisty, puzzled squared landing on their mouth, where the just sensed
passionate kisses  will  ow/now
never arrive

yes, nostalgic
commences amidst the multiple in ~ puts
from early days, ever on,
sorted, filed, systematically,
in a system greater than the
dewey decimal of our libraries

and we experimented with
numerous pours of variable quantities
of
various “milks”
lesson taught when the station is unbusy,
and cute yong men offer helpful hints,
calorically, nutrient-wise, taste varietals,
and leaving a phone number
on the wax container of the
trialed oat milk
which is so a
thing
hard to miss, hard to lose


perhaps this instant of rapture rappore
will lead to a long life,
maybe till spring semester when
you,
a saturated years older
slightly more cautious,
*and yet^
after a hundred nyets,
in a San Fran Starbucks,
near the first job,
it happens, and memories are
rejiggered, restoring priorities
andy
don’t tell nobody
that stuffed animal
is resting comfortably
on her bedroom
in an apt.
Shared with two others,

To all entering, holy of holies,
as a prescreening no~tech
stuffed, well hugged
animal device will
assign a
pass/fail grade

“Reads at a Presidential Level”

(thanx all for the great suggestions)

<!>
women who wink

drive men to drink

together, glasses clink

tattoos follow in ink

and that ain’t the only thing

~

the tiller tied & forgot,

the slip knot jinxed

the sailboat nearly sinks

~

he cries aloud “you minx!”

I’m all done in,

you’ve got me sminked,^

you winking whilst me sailing on the oceans brink

~

she smirked and laughed that slinky mink,

“clearly you are confused - I’m a lynx,

count to cinq, don’t overthink,

join me overboard into the ****,

I’ll finish you off in the the kitchen sink

where drowning possibilities are next to nothink

promise, we’ll be quite in sync”

shock and awe, shown the light, shown the door,
by the literary muses, kings and queens,
and the royal cooks, of course,
all rouse me at 4:00 am,
to salute those who can cook,
knowing how to summer simmer a simple broth of love
with richest, tasty, succinct, succulent brevity
that
keeps this wordy would be poet,
honest

all the varied spices,
artful adjectives, verbose verbs, numbing, never-heard-of nouns
are humbled in joy, all join this poet,
to honor the
curried simplicity
of  
the Bengali cook of love
from India
who says it reverently,
all
in
one
simple sentence,
sourced locally
love is his staple,
love is rice
~


5/31/17

4:10am