once more II:
I want to make her cry, one more time…

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5130169/once-more-i-i-want-to-make-her-cry-

&

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5129196/once-more-ii-i-want-to-make-her-cry-one-more-time/

''How wondrous it is to be read by someone
who appreciates this gift given,
A kiss, a tear, a poet's religion.
A friend made, words displayed, a song, a poem, hello, goodbye, or maybe Shalom"
patty m
<>
look, it's not like I lack for inspiration.
138 butterscotch chips
already exist,
full poems, titles, couplets, bare naked (ladies) notions,
(men, women, children, asordid genders ageless-survivors)
all demanding rescue,
their cry of SOS, undeniable, but their
lamentations defied, asided, when miz patty m writes,
and oblivious to all else,
attention must be paid!
even when it is 2:55am
even on a Tuesday! (1)
<.>
to the meet, to the mess, to the beating heart that refuses to keep,
a doctor's orders of de minimus seven hours sleep,
when commissioned, when ordered without permission,
you drift into the sunroom, where the night outside
is holy dark, the silence raucous and overwhelming,
and utter inaudibly in his mind,
and piety and poet repeats:
"Yes Ma'am, Yes Ma'am, sir!
<.>
we write for no one in particular
for there is no one who is not particular,
all!
special, sharp edged, distinctive,

and there is no limit, yet,
to how many poems
can be created in a day,
except for the foolish delimiting, irritating
science of 24/7/365+1;
but mercy and insight is demanded,
when miz patty m
does not insist, but commands it
<.>
''A kiss, a tear, a poet's religion..."

indeed, in deed, in deep,
these the elementals of the one true religion,
perhaps the shortest excerpt that ever summarized
the humanist's
faith and the One Commandment,
that summons us & Grace to the table
where we compose and create,
not by fate tempted, but by a fate commanded,
by a faith so grounded & profound,
that every human
regardless of identity or language
each has in their possession, a heaven sent
something important to say,
which is why,
''A kiss, a tear, a poet's religion..."
is the largest tent ever constructed
after the Tower of Babel
where languages were created (4)

a half hour has passed,
a period of absolute measured time,
that cannot be recreated, recsptured,
but like energy,
nor can it be destroyed,
for this
poem, this kiss, this tear,
marks the moment, the neuronic iconic synapse (2)
of our interactive minds believing and breathing
as one,
and even the atheist  among us
must to no one in particular
(well, maybe to the Angel Leonard)
must whisper most utterly,
hallelujah

'''''''''''''
poem dispatched
at 3:44 am EST,
from the
current latitude and longitude for where natty is,
approximately 41.05° North latitude and -72.33° West longitude.

back in the day. when I knew better,
the hows and whys of only love poetry,
was rewarded by her tears free flowing,
sniffling and slip~sliding from ducts to lips,
perhaps it was just the newness, of a man, just,
writing to just her, love poetry, like to be thinking,
skill and insight feelings peculiar inserted, may have helped

but even poems grow worn weary from too many readings,
and emotions exposed grow protective armor, containers,
that hold back emotional response au naturel, willing
suppression of the freedom to expose the infinite
capacity to let the guard down, show the raw,
the impulsed, the unguarded emotive we
become more expert markswomen to

coverup with makeup, polite words,
find/inside the superfine letters that unlock
the immediate, contemporaneous, pure unguarded,
freely released, stored weaknesses of the heart, eyes, leaking,
the physical evidence that the boundaries breeched, the fortress
penetrated, overcome, the inescapable captured realized
emotions unvarnished, getting away, just a little
embarrassing that just once more I, poet,
touched her in a way my fingertips
know all too well, with words,
kissing the back of her neck.
weak kneed, pleased,
distressed, letting go,
one mo' time,
making her cry again, pleasured tears, released,
her will power surrenders to what she must confess,
that only love poetry is a force undeniably that must be
surrendered to freely, willingly, and confessing by her lips
why not?

way, way back, head messed, life stabbing you in the chest,
but you come back from the nearly dead, even
gob~kissed by sudden entrance of fame and
small fortune's effing effortless fortitudinal
attitudinal shifting sands

now you're the dude, and you create the
frost~sting on the cake, and everyone wants
to be your lover
and taste your paste

you're thin and tall, walking the streets
of Midtown like a lanky cowboy, thumbs
hooked tucked behind the extra wide leather belt,
proving your
upper east side cred,
two if by day,
east village
one if by night,
and
you even write poetry, when
riding high, and on low down
when you're
down low,
and sometimes
back then, it even
made her cry

nowadays it often doesn't play,
maybe get a "nice" or an emoji 👍,
but often ignored like she's heard it
all once too many times before,
really, how many ways can you
praise the women who saved you
from yourself, doctored your ***,
who cut conceit from your brain,
with a surgical silver steak knife,  
and
who shed real live tears
when you wrote just for
her,
only love poetry…

though deep he sleeps sometimes,
combining this exhaustive restorative
of old age, that alternates with a restlessness
rest of old age ~ the brain's nightly self-cleansing,
both necessities absolute

so he be unsurprised, by a parallel process,
occurring beside him, as woman rumbles, mumbles,
all the while reenacting the things we dare not acknowledge
in the waking  hours, much too painful, much to fearfully real unreal,
but, best unrealized

she bolts upright, looks around, attempting to cross back,
looking, investigating, ascertaining time and place, localizing
her orientation, while assessing external+imagined dreamt threats,
till satisfied sufficient that whatever dreamt, realized or dreamisized,
before, going prone once-more

the watch man observes, the critical threat level, doesn't
approach the red line, not requiring hands-on interventions,
and relieved, that she has expunged and expelled the mind's many
molecules of memories, true or false, real or revisionary, making clean
white tissued neuron+cell for the morrow

and thus he reminds himself, that he be watch man, observing, uninterfering, is too, is also, a definitive infinite
only love poetry

this combo presents itself
inexplicably demanding a
poem~all~its~own by gum, (1)
though the brain refrains from
providing any clues where/what
might be inside the intersection of
the Ven diagrams of cross pollination and enervation

but as an only love poet,
he thinks he is brilliant,
and visualizes the intersexual
excitement of two insects (bees)
recombinant/\recumbent after the stimulation
of cross pollination as most
enervating
<>
said the Queen bee to a worker bee:


"Honey, be a dear and pass me a cigarette,
all that pollinating and wing flapping is  
just so enervating, I think I'll just die"(2)