my best poems came:

in months, days of desperation,
hours, moments of elation, it was the
always imbalance that just was, that
was/when the karma-was in-balance

my best poems always, always,
came accompanied by tears, many,
before, during, certainly after, even
twice, when a later returning stumble,
brought the sentries to open old gates

never, at any time, was a man with many
friends, reasons plenty, reasons mine,
it was an imbalance that just was, that
of the karma-when-in-balance, except,
the creative offsprings became children,
painful to raise, coming to visit occasionally

hear no quiet trumpet moaning, nor a violin
shed the human cries that only a man-made
instrument can be forgiven for being better at
than their own creators.  Much by choice, or
criminal laziness, all tinged by a fear so subtle,
don’t think anyone knew it existed, yet, always
humming “see the man running against the wind”

there you have it. no summing up necessitated,
because how the numbers add up, the total is
just the total, and know, you can finish this one,
the total is just a rose by any other name, it’s a
number that by definition was the of, the when,
“when an imbalanced karma-was-in-balance.”

them creaky noises:

many
years ago wrote of meandering this old house,
in the creaky hours of-should-be-sleeping,
listening to the varietals of noises old houses speaking,
how the floorboards talk among themselves when
no human about to trod them, to elicit their groaning,
solicit their tales of who, when and memorizing the ending,
where.

nowadays
I wander same as before, same house, same wee hours,
no direction home, as I am technically “at home,” but still
directionless, still crazy after all these years, but that’s not
the only still, still left unheard, now new creaks demand a
hearing.

the house
still talks to me in its language peculiar, but now,
my body, of its own free will, in its poetry of groans in bones,
creaking, two dialects of getting old, always being cold,
sleeping with your socks on, your twisty back named Jack,
who hijacked your invincible good health and getting up is a
hysterical funny musical of snap, crackle and pop, coming from
places inside your body, that supposedly don’t posses the skill of
speech.

nowadays,
kept awake by a united nations assembly of them creaky noises,
whirring motors turning me and things on and off all night, what
a racket, only early dawn calls them to order, to quiet down please,
everybody shush, the old house and it’s content, an old poet, needing
some winks cause soon enough the sun and the fog will arrive to
commandeer his overnight recollections, write them up, & write them
down, still crazy.



like the one about them creaky-sounds, coming-from god-knows
where?

not even, your doubting Jill-from-the-hill voice,
asking, are you sure? really confident?

you desire me
to seize up,
cease the finger pointing
and begin the fingernails
scratching glass, agonizing

what I propose,
why I came here,
to defend and protect

women

demands I, we,
answer to no one.

especially
the little voices implanted

to erode our con-fidence.

indeed, they are the con.

what color is hate?

think hard, answer, not easily up-conjured,
obvious choices, careful be, exclude not, some voices,
no rush, think upon it careful, after all, hate hates variations,
it, as old original as the Garden of Eden

you desire answer, something quick, *****,
look to very nature of hate, so easy spewed,
after centuries of construction, yet, there is
nothing quick about hating, tho learnt early on

some variants of millennium length, eons short,
oh weep, at this great irony of ironies, hate is so
innate engrained, is it in the red blood, cells of the
white colored brain apparatus we all share?

unnatural impossibly genetic. don’t believe it.

hate is colorless like air, like clear water.
how else could it be so easy given, taken.
innocent innocuous is the color of hate,
easy transmitted, and never to be a vaccine

until it can be seen how we implant it within ourselves.


11:40pm
Sat Jul 11

one word. one thing
shows up on my face.

everybody knows it is a
keepsake:
keep away from me today,
for fks sake!

certain peculiarmornings
wake with a cross on forehead.

days when you certain,
everything worth saying
has been written, sung,
not a **** thing left to
contribute, except whining.

no way to purge, the compulsion
welling up, coursing down.
this overwhelms, my outlet store,
permanent closed, sign says
don’t ya know it’s a recession.

a one man recession.
no government intervention
gonna come my way.

the notion that I’ll never just
once more, feel the thrill of a
first love, a new born progeny,
woman, baby, poem, no diff,
wrecks me badly, worried sun consults
my animal friends, what’s to be done?

knowing the answer to my curse is,
not one wiling to courage to curettage
the lining of my decrepitude,
the end then, of no more next time.

though there is a first here. ever.
first time, every stanza writ,
closed off, finally ended, with a flourish,
a puncture of a period.

~~~~~~~~

postscript:


the closing scheduled for now,
have to change the name, says York,
it’s the common law, I’m legal bound,
gonna sign the documents as
no more love poetry.

919am Wed Jul 22 2020