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2d · 565
she wanted my soul
she wanted my soul

so I cut off a finger, noting
that this little pinky
came from the hand,
who went to the market
to buy you a love poem
all your own, because
it was from the same  hand
who wrote:

who, can cut a soul in half, no one!
so one will still ask you,
who, will love you
in whole poems, that are
past and future tensed composite composted,
from words overly overused, but still foolishly brand new
when referencing you,
so you can believe with fool-thinking
this is your sole composition

she wanted my heart,
applauded her determination,
gave her one eye to see instead better,
so the visions she essays,
to write, like
when I sit down to write
of women I’ve loved but!

they do not come from my heart,
but from inside insight from parts
blind to everything
but raucous untamable invisible desire

she asked me for all the world’s wisdom,
while standing on one legging,
simply said, here I am, telling you
to love me the way you wanted to be
loved in return

so with one eye on one leg,
you will observe, two is not more than
the sum of the parts of one love,
when counting to ten on my nine fingers
that wrote of love not enough,
no matter how man he gave up

she wanted my brainiac left hemisphere, said, sure,
the left side of me is where the baby poems
are created, and then angel-released when ready,
to be needed, now see you’re needy for pieces,
but mistaken that pieces can be reconstructed into
a whole with spit and spirit and an overarching imagination -
no! the whole comes from only a holy place extracted
from the hole-in-one that is my entirety

give me then your utter essence,
the place of you
I only know exists, must,
but cannot touch to see
where you keep it hidden
from all the women who love you,
better than you even love yourself

if you want that, then collect it,
for it exists and lives on
in every woman that asked for nothing,
but was rewarded with more
than a thousand poems,
stored in stars, for her,
to be creamed and cleansed,
when she plucked them
from the night in the galaxy where exist
love poems, only
to she-one shone-shine
at present i’m present on a small isle
which is so green genteel to the eyes
you might include among it in
the as of yet unmastered possibilities,
living here forever.

indeed, the crescent beach so welcoming that
francais et l'anglais des anglaise is spoke here,
but actuality has a way of intruding, like
Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Bleu, saying i know you, even if I don’t.

this breeze bearing load suggests your name
as a candidate for future, honours, an MBE,
a practiced curtsy for a queen, whatever is he babbling about?
why I am presenting an outline for a screenplay that
will make your a little rich and somewhat fameuse
so you buy a house on the water, party all night,
write in the miracle wonder of the late afternoon

say where is this isle so sheltered,
where nooks are set aside for poets and drunks
to pub crawl, to stand on tables and Irish sing of
those things that the Irish poets endlessly babble

so add me in to come here and let us listen to all your possibilities
it is done differently - more is not necessary - more of this -
is too much;
the kissing is an exploration - to a polar destination of
virtual whiteness -
to discover more than this.  the kissing is not an end in and of itself - but a fjord unexplored leading to what? yes there are many different kinds of kisses - adaptations to a changing terrain - but the face, the face, the face (not just the lips),
the head entire -
is the first battle in a world war where the
opponents strengths and weakness are
literally uncovered and shape the nature of the war of the worlds
yet to come.

more than kissing, it is a speech and an interrogation;
an ******* revelation
of fine lines and small scars, a writing of a history, a history that existed  unbeknownst to the explorer and thus interesting and dangerous - a history composed in a different time and place and almost in a vacuum - for kissing is impactful - outlines of footsteps on never before trodden lanes - but who prepared these paths in advance of my arrival, and was my arrival forecast or just imagined?

first time kissing oft portrayed as excited glee - but this is a grievous error - a wild display of wasted resources - it is not to meant to be pesky single shots of damp I was here where next? it is a drawing, nay, a sculpting of map to be reproduced in limited quantity for only the map rooms of the greatest museums.

each individual kiss is more than an act, but a marker
connecting the previous
to the future next -
exactly a map drawn by an explorer - meant to be shared with others who love history, discovery and women creatures.

be wary of unmarked crevasses and pools where
no one has measured the depth -
novice sailors without proper charts upon unfamiliar faces -
too oft drown or are somehow sail as lost forever.

but the notion of being the first, even if you are not the first,
is so intoxicating
for the brainstorming it provokes - the envisioning of
more than kissing but of unlocking
a new nature, creating a creation born in the intersection of two waters - where fresh waters joint the brine of the ocean -
and there are untold different kinds of waters and no two terrains though similar - are ever exactly the same.

here does my entry in my log - my journal - end - though the notation of than
is comparative and therefore unending.
head to toe kissing

I   the mundane

moonlight madnesses, a possessive noun,
commissions gravitational pulls that disobey and obey
laws of interstellar loving. The antique modalities once and forever, forever laying still, stilled in places of antiquities and historical need, are thundershower and hail rudely reawakened, the undertow of
pull and push, the yanking hands  of need for others, for others,
it’s the explosive-knowledge, the opening of the old kitbag of perpetual principles, that crazy head to toe kissing is no less necessary, more so, than the computation of the total breaths mundane, unnoticed even now as I write of them, that we will count from that very first, in deed, they are one and the same, like the same
kisses given from head to toe

II   the profane

at the first, the body insists, I am but a long haul trailer, no taxi me,
cargo and passengers, are my quatrain accompaniments,
traveling companions boon, my own toons, too soon disembarked,
songs of parents and lovers, children and others, your visage passed
without your permission, but with your happy encouragement,
to generations that will see things that futurists dare not
even mention, but the profane urge to warn them all, kisses from head to toe, elevates, and when most of my names dusted with forgetfulness, lost in the waves, my scorching soft lips will be recalled just as an airy flight of light brushing upon a newborn’s eyelids just at the moment of birth.  A rustling more felt than heard, the ****** and bruised carrying body will sensate and instantly forget, but nonetheless transmit genetically, that the profane of birth and life renewing can be only washed away, when past and future, recalled and recreated, kisses from head to toes, dripping with softening saltwater tears, a chemical organic reagent of creation,
inside the histories of head to toe kissing

III  the insane

so when, somewhere, some place, a man’s body prepares  
tous ses adieux, his memory foolishly sane and strong,
his wasted paper bag container ship, rust bucketed,
crinkled and wrinkled, skin folding in on itself, hanging to bones
by stretched sinews and tendons that no longer tend to business,
loosened and gangly, they hang on barely to the bare nakedness of
evolutionary processes, mostly not, offset, by the tenderizing effects of kisses, from invisible attendees,  unconscious they,
willingly and unwillingly, offering farewells in actuality...
head to toes, noses to belly buttons, tatted, tattered, and still tasted by dying cells.  It’s insane to think it’s even possible  one retains each and all, but he does, those few given, those few  millions he gave away for cheap belly laughs and poems, decade upon decade accumulated are the totality of him, all of them free and sealed in kisses from head to toes
a perfect fare thee well love poem to add to the pastures lying fallow on mountain ranges of kisses from heads to toes...June 3, 2019
upping the umami, the fifth taste

Umami is the last-to-be discovered fifth basic taste, along with sweet, sour, bitter, and salty, and triggers a distinct class of taste receptors on the tongue. ... The most notorious (and often unjustifiably maligned) source of umami is monosodium glutamate (MSG), the sodium salt of a naturally-occurring amino acid.”

a chicken soup recipe^ says it’s time,
time to up the umami,
me-the-no-cook is sidelined and intrigued,
then taken to another place

sweet, sour, bitter and salty
are the tastes of you life,
but it’s time to up the game
release the amino acids of my fingers
into her body, the tasting menu scrapped,
go direct to the boardwalk hotel,
railroad her unto my jail,
teach and share the notorious
fifth perception of loves taste,
the elixir of our combinatory sensationalism


The Best Chicken Soup with Rice, Carrots, and Kale
Tomato paste and fish sauce add depth and umami to our best-ever chicken-and-rice soup studded with sweet carrots and silky kale.
2:53 pm 4/6/19
have I? answered all your questions save one?


the known’s and the unknown multinational multitudes

do you comprehend within my means
to be
the man that can be moved

the when is up to you
the why yet, a wonderful mystery

the imagery of a plucked ****
man emits an ouch
but the spring bulbs tense fragrance,
a call sign for new missions
science need answers,
now, that I can no longer hide
in black holes

you can stall till the fall
more questions to pair the man against himself,
poetry by command
for the curious possibilities
of dear,

save one

7:12am 4-11-19
my pointer finger
caresses her knuckles,
intervening between her fingers,
soft shell teasing,
sliding off her manicured fingernails,
in order that I return here
to lay down copious notes

I re-land inside the palm of her hand,
warm, a Caribbean beach smooth breezy sensation,
she wraps up my instrument of exploration
with a four finger grip, a signal fire
to escape, travel north up her arm
to the pause point of her bare shoulders,
where her body finally speaks,

why oh why, stop here,
skip, skip to my lou, lips,
my *******, jealous,
the ******* no less, now restless,
the rest of me requires
two hands, if, you can,
still caress with the best,
while typing with the pointy tip of your nose?
May 7 · 375
stroking and stoking
stoking and stroking

very, very often, but not every day,
she wakes me with a tonguing
on my clean shaven heart,
I ask not why, lest it break the over ten year,
she be magic spelling, a hexagonal licking put on me

ten  years she gets cat curiosity bitten,
   asks me if I want to know the wherefore,
      pretend not to hear, re-awarded with an elbow
        between the ribs five and six, grunting me a ‘sure’
          (that’s a surly unsurely, no  not really)

“you don’t take care anymore enough of the body I embrace,
so I am my own your health plan, licking your chest cavern,
one of a defensive medley of many medical techniques,
stroking the heartstrings vibrato, stoking the hearth fire,
purely selfish you see, all I ask is you purr as you do,
lay still, accept my pill of vitae min no-calorie surgery,
for ten more years, let your heart be stirred,
keep the bad stuff excised, and let the desire of returning fire
of your taste buds, be forever for me...”
don’t kiss and tell,

do kiss, go crazy, let passion rule, give in, take out,

kiss but don’t tell

the real telling is in the kissing
where your heart gives way,
avalanches into frenzied chain of signal fires,
smoked, clouded eyes, with only one exception made;

the shining, sheer veil see-through when
the other is on the room and the  green spring coverlet felled,
all to see the glow, see all the the blush,
the pretense, aversion skins natural makeup, a liberty beacon

laughing, how it cannot be hid for what’s inside
climbs so fast, blushes blue blood redder, the inside reaction reagent,
the weakening composure, the intense beating from heart to head,
the joyous tearing, the silent swearing, the stupid grinning,
the step skipping, the happy dance springing  spontaneous,
no control, might as well just let it go biology in chemistry class

all these tells that you have kissed beyond reason,
these hidden kisses might as well be on
billboards on the highway into town,
a P.A. announcement in high school,
a hearty button attached to your backpack,
the incessant text checking, all dogs nighttime barking all day

go ahead kiss and tell
go ahead tell and kiss harder,
in the kisses, a million tellings
every body part red swelling,
the tearing of every body part,
concentric circles extended from a pebbled heart

9:01am wed Apr 24

P.S. another way of knowing
is the signaling typology of the hugging variety,
which if the hugs maitresse don’t do it herself,
soon enough, I’ll just do myself,
cause how you hug is more than
merely everything, it two comets crashing,
smithereens becoming a new galaxy...
don’t leave me!
(the leaving is in the writing)

she whispers in his ear,
after they’ve climbed into bed,
their tiring bodies both embraced,
soft sunken into, by, a familiar mattress,
after a sophisticates city night out seeing stars,
stars, human and astral,
city lights dusk heightened the vocal sparking,
singers singing songs of love from
radio days long ago

don’t leave me

she intones, a prayerful demand,
equally a command and a begging behest,
puzzling what prompted this pressed request,
spoken with urgency born in her breast

don’t leave me
drifting off and into his thin place,
but tugged back by this cri du coeur,
unsponsored and unwarranted,
nothing recalled that justly provoked,
a statement topping of anguish and fear

don’t leave me
he repeats in a rising questioning inflecting
puzzling riddling unbefitting a mellow-toning sleepy ingredient,
whatever do you mean, I leave you only
to dream, to purify, refresh and deep rest reset,
and return come morning with new poems,
what angst comes to stir this asking,
delaying my adventure to nightly restoration?

don’t leave me
repeated and repeated, dressed in urgency,
for I see the little things,
the wavering walk, the slowing of the thinking,
the walls, black n’ blue, whining about your into bumping,
the instant eagerness with which your body accepts
your voyage to dream places where
one goes and gone and must go unaccompanied,
some who are chosen and some who choose, not to return

don’t leave me
for the signs are ample, a certain weariness
dresses your face and crowns thy graying mane,
the slight labored breathing from steps once
bounded and leapt, the seeing and the hearing,
each slightly weakening, two orchestral instruments,
together off key and lessened in their triumphal vigor,
these words of mine, a royal guard,
keep them in your dreams

don’t leave me
minor missteps in the elongated negated of dying gracefully,
my tuning forks are sensitized,
and any slowing motion
both visible and hearable, and filed under inevitable

I will not leave you tonight,
my body warming as per usual,
your cold feet intruders indicate it’s you have left
for your own nightly visitors, occasional terrors,
you’ve woken me from my allotted sleep hours,
many poems now retrieving and in need of scribing,
while the fingertip digit flys across the digital keyboard,

I am more alive than I have ever been;
the leaving is in the writing,
each poem a steppingstone,

but the poems come fast and furious,
sometimes two at a time, the muses are bemused,
the prognosis is for thousands more and warn:

do not wear out your olive oil anointed forefinger,
the lubricated pointer of the way, wherein is contained

through that index
your body of works in the
“yet  to arrive, yet untaxed filing station,”,
must be seen to fruition,
for it is only then that,
only love poetry
is ready for long lasting
eternal realization

5:36am 12th April, two thousand nineteen
Mar 29 · 2.1k
The Aroma of Us
first I smell myself.

the deep bass tonality of my musk,
hot, creamy, sweetness unique, of coffee and creamy,
my owned sweat oiled secretions massaged into her skin
emplaced by vigorous parts rubbing and tongue caressing,
under the fading shadows of my glancing, desirous admirings

then I smell herself.

sinking sunset glimpses of last nights parfume parfait,
scattered in random strategic locations architecturally planned,
some flavors come over me like modest waves,
others spelunking found in crevices, cracks and caves,
where humans tread in guileless search of guiltless pleasure

then I smell our sharings.

lemon and thyme, paprika, sea salt and pepper,
a basted rub laid upon animal skin consuming, and consumed,
the vinaigrette balsamic and California yellow raisins, pine nuts,
decorating leaves of red soil spinach and spicy arugula,
word salads, so miraculously ingenious, you swear off eating flesh

then I smell our combinations.

the air conditioned atmosphere that blends us properly chilled,
the olive oils pressed from two colored differing skins,
the mortal and pestle finely grinding our own fresh crumbled dirt,
appearing in places where dirt is wet panko crumbs encrusting us,
our combined liquidity, shaken and stirred, drying in martini tandem

it is 8:17am and this recipe of reciprocity,
at its most pungent peaking,
for soon raining waterfalls of potable city water
and the sophistry of French soap,
the pseudoscience of modern chemical shampoo,
together erasing, scrubbing away this poems aromatherapy tapestry,
your perplexed complexing nostrils will mock you once more,
for ever disbelieving, thinking you could no longer write of
only love poetry that crested high above the trite

Friday, March 29 2019
Aroma olp musk balsamic paprika sea salt ***** martini olp
the wisdom of your eyesight

begins with you legs that turn the body’s odyssey
away, sort of, in the general right direction

but thou stiff neck person, yet still turns away
from what the eyesight will see when the eye shadows lift

thine eyes cast down still seek escape, with last minute haste,
but my pointer finger rests easygoing beneath thy chin

where the finger meets, lifts, thy softened chin tissue,
to look directly at your proffered savior, an electric election circuitry

this head-on-collision of two pair, beat by a full house,
when the combined wisdom of caring lifts two up,
ah, the best writ we ever scripted,
the best hand we ever played

if your eyes should cloud,
upon reading this,
this is too, a kind of wisdom,

for S.B.
1:41am march 25 2019
~for Wendy ~

with my almost two years old poetry advisor,
who loves her Sunday rituals, an extra sabbath,
of waffles and Shrek, kid’s gym and artistic endeavors,
cozying up with Nana and siblings in a big old bed,
snacking and chewing on the good silk sheets

as always, she and and I go off to have an intellectual conversation,
letting the older ones to do kid stuff, while we converse and debate
topics of nature vs. nurture, the weather vs. climate change,
and the future of everything, unbeknownst to everyone else

which is greater, love or honor, she inquires,
sensing my thoughts are preoccupied with matters of honor...
as she strokes my itchy, scratchy day old face,
insuring her having my full attention, while
taking advantage of my loving weakness

honor over everything my opening gambit,
while she coyly harrumphs in response,
one can love without reason for such are
our natural souls programmed,
but honor needs concentration and contemplation,
and if done right,
then love will surely follow!

ah ha! once again you sidle up to nurture,
cause love is too inexplicable,
old man, old man, did I not love you before
any season of reason crossed my brow,
and my vocabulary consisted of just
more, no, toy and hungry

what did I know of Aristotle, logic, codes of conduct,
the definition of honor yet abstract,
while love is nature’s illogical construct,
coming first without restrictions,
while honor is malleable and
property of the eye of the beholder

wise beyond your tears, you are, and unquestionably correct,
but while coming first, love cannot last,
until cover-coated with honor,
for honor gives us the because, and locks down the why,
honor gives the insight, the rationale, the rules of how to say
yes and no, when love is tendered and an R.S.V.P. is requested

absent experience, for now will concede,
but be warned this is not over,
fo you have not brought me a definition of what truly honor be

honor is the housing of love, and though you granted me your favor,
comes the day that you will demand proofs that
what was unearthed & unearned
is now earned, a course in credit, a baccalaureate in life’s lanes,
when to heed them, when to crossover, when to say I do, I do,
no to someone else alone, and yes to your honorable self

adult double speak, I suspect, and you will rue the day
when forced to concede, with a wrenched
‘child, I do not know,’
meanwhile change my diaper
after I karate chop your knee

yes child, but know,  two of your requests/notifications are
honorable acts and/know real love can be ONLY be exchanged
tween honorable humans
see photo for her  in position preparing to strike

3/3/19 9:45 am
onlylovepoetry Aug 2018
would cry
being loved,
when even such tinkling
comes of the loving?

Grasses” by Alfred Kreymborg

we all make lots of love
in the same way as billions of others

grunting huffing noises of neural tissues torn and reborn

but the notes and noises we make, keep, unique no one else’s

the bored and the low thinkers saying “honey, you just wrong,”

the tinkling sounds are the silent mitosis of cells splitting
and then rejoicing rejoining, definable only as unique

so we both weeping, side by side, only we together can
hear the sounds of our life becoming and being,
no one else quite can be so specific
you could be there and still not hear the heat of our love making

would cry
being loved,
by the creative silences we have just written?

we would.  we do.  we are the noisiest lovers ever.  tinkling laughter. creating.

onlylovepoetry Aug 2018
[tongue taking taken prayer]

come worship in my temple.
your tongue gowned by silence,
thy teasing vibrations disperse my slack, exchanging
it for a rigidity that is even softer, looser,
an improvement possibility impossible incomprehensible

the noises of freedom from anonymity is thy silenced tongue
unleashed, teasing, speaking tongues unrelenting and unremitting  and unforgotten for they never were
learned or incapable of being self-taught

my pleasure sprouts mushrooms in my loamy foam,
thy rainfall nourishment, seed plant growing life morning borne,
thy tricked up sonnets played within my hearts harp,
tunes never known but come from the land of plenty,
my new promised land

teach me where the apostrophe goes, the comma and
why the question mark is curved and dotted like my body,
why we need punctuation to separate the first from the next

trees weep as if every dry rain petal is instantly imbibed,
wanting more for my swollen by thy ministrations,
I cry out
my ice storm, my thunder, embalm me within the
electric spreading in my veins shocking steady constant

thy name thy name I beg to give thee a name
to understand what has befallen me

you can call me by my favorite of
all my seventy two,^
your first baby squeals and
even now in human manufactured agreed upon symbols, (words),
every utterance a prayer heard and answered

my name is a heated and unbroken
I am thy god, and you, darling you,
my beloved
onlylovepoetry Jul 2018
Friday Night K-nulcking Under III


it is a (my) three day weekend
it is now
Saturday late morning

Friday night we went to Joe’s Pub,
you could look it up,
to hear marvelous stories and marvelous singing

full stop

homeward bound (apologies Paul),
we swap Lulus for p.j.’s,
and alliterative alternatives

after having bathed and showered
alternatively alternatingly debatingly
the meritocratic merits of bathing methodologies
and our respective but not respectable
technological techniques and sundry technicalities
are peaceable declared tied

we have not left the confines
of public globalist bedding since thenning,
and no plans for departeeing
not even for meals
or anythinging

(ok, barbecue chicken not cool to eat in bed)

multitasking multiplayering
music, poetry, Sunday NY Times,
action movies non-stop,
even napping,
i want,
as I am the only worker bee
celebrating a workless Mondayee

periodically and often, I kiss the
knuckles on either of her hands

and we laugh at my joking insistence
for she vociferously denies,

most badly connives,
that she is
(with a pronounced hard K)
K-nulcking under
to my every demand
as she is equally guiltily
and capable of excellent excessive
leadership in the art of slumbering parteeying,
ergo all good

we still have Monday to resolve an unraging debating,
this unurgent knuckle biting questioning

who is the K-nulcker
who is the K-nulckee


for US citizens only:

We approve this message^
onlylovepoetry Jul 2018
tempest aroused weather throws a crink in the atmospheric pressure,
sun lazy long weekend planned rejuvenation, disrupted,
all day rain and wind gusts
that whitecap/kneecap
the river-fed bay forcing a
couch-curling up, a doozey dozy,
cozy writable assessment, a
answered with

close your eyes and all that can be felt
is memorized by your
forefinger cells,
a stroking upward gesture,
your stroking. your finger.
the children you have brought
into this difficult place

and a woman’s face as she rests uneasy and needs calming

but the memory of your own cheek as a living fired thing
being stroked is a gone,
because it was not frequent enough,
is longer than long past than what matters now  

my pointer finger remembers though

pointer finger points at my chest
stoking, pushing,

  what does your artistic heart remember?
Jun 2018 · 456
if but one
onlylovepoetry Jun 2018
if but one
poem my body orders up this sabbatical Saturday

if but one more only  
leaves these orifices ever,

then this shall be the one,
that will survive

you may find yourself reciting it
tramping in New England snows,
on English moors,
Oregon rainy driving all day to a loved one
picking garlic in the Northern field,
California deserts unending,
being driven in a Delhi tuk-tuk
while blinded by darkness,
knocked to the ground by my city’s car horns honking
me me me

drowning on your knees in
church or the bedroom floor,
when you come together inside
our    one
body’s brain wavelength

spoke with and in the
urgency electric elegance,
issue of your tissue,
freed with reluctant and reckless courage,
in sync to a beating tambourine in your
moist creating organs,
this homily but a few words:

the only purpose of life is the next step
onlylovepoetry Jun 2018
dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect

no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap

me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants

which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then

morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing

over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall

with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:

forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles

blessed and cursed I thought!

too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it

and never let go

onlylovepoetry Jun 2018
you have the formula

A Love Poem Recipe:
  Fij = G(Mi x Mj)/Dij.

This formula, simplified, means that trade between two markets will equal the size of the two markets multiplied together and then divided by their distance.
(The model gets its name from its mathematical similarity to the equation in physics that describes gravitational pull.)


long ago, swore off
the love poem business.
lying that this
the last poem ever published

moan not,
statistically, for sure be
a heart-infected sick teenager
bemoaning/high fiving
their  fated status
but I don't need to add to
that smoldering pile

the excellence, the richness,
the virtuosity
of the formula
a metaphor,
for the bounty and the risk,
in any love affair, thus love needy
for a diagrammed explication

two markets, soft upon each other,
multiply their trade in love and kisses

can you kiss her (him) but once?

saying I love you
but once a day,
like it was a vitamin,

no, love expands like a gas
(a distant cousin to our formula),
filling in the empty spaces,
escaping through crevices,
spilling, oft filling up
the nearby bystanders

in love,
there is no thing as
one touch clicking
but one touch
reveals the genetic marker,
the initial intimacy injection

Let the addiction begin!

ten thousand grasps,
some soft, some hard,
upon each other,
till fingers go lifelong contented numb

desire and affection spread like a
positive infection,
the curative powers
but never prosaic and though
think more
voltaic and paradisiac

electric heaven

go forth and scribe
you got the secret

uncovered and recovered from the X file today

and found the short version  as well
The Last Poem Ever Writ
the last poem ever writ
by the dimming light of virtuality
and the laws of statistical probability,
shall surely be,
a teenager wail and bemoaning,
of a lost love yet smoldering,
a chest pain ember peaking,
then fire forever, last glow eliminated

who can weigh the greater apocalypse,
tragedy that none will remain
to glean and savor this last fling,
or that worldly existence has come to end
Apr 2018 · 8.2k
zelle ma belle
onlylovepoetry Apr 2018
zelle ma belle

(zelle is an interbank system for sending cash in an instant to someone else’s bank account)

sent her an unexpected $250,
at 4:00am, of course,
a check-plus for her life,
because she revel reviews her day at school,
as special person day, teaches them well, and
anointed, appointed unsolicited confirmation by them
“as part of our family”
how they crave her body, her touch, at scary movie parts,
her kitchens diner size menu,
her refusal to ever disappoint,
her candy drawer supreme,
her crayon color visions which they execute,
her zen sense of their moods,
and for me,
for calling them without hesitation
my grandchildren

indeed more here hers than mine
she asks me why the $$ and poet doesn’t lie
but thinks quick at 7:30 am while bed prone,
“you won Nana of the Day award”
the only (grandparent) on the floor with two kids in her lap,
for the magic show,
all the rest,
benched, chattingly adultry things

she thinks on it and says
“ok, I accept!”

p.s. also,  I have yet to inform her of the (my) elimination of a
crystal champagne flute while doing my manly cleanup  from Friday night lights dinner pink champagne celebrating  
le weekend’s arrival

Apr 2018 · 813
tapping on my breaks
onlylovepoetry Apr 2018
~ for Sara Bareilles ~

deuce driving nowhere for no reason,  
wasting time, purposely, meticulously,
Otis singing the timelessness of no time,
wasting gas, polluting the future,
should I be caring,
of coursing not,
that’s the purpose
that needs no explaining

but ya know, surely knowing,
it’s not about the going,
but tapping on the breaks,
hoping they’ll close up the painful spaces,
bandaids of near silent footfalls,
pauses of pressure,
implausible discarding the empties

cause a love story,
is now more about the
chapter breaks, heart aches
thus looking out the window
thinking-gazing you’ll spot her
knowing you won’t but
still go on driving until
you no longer can and
tapping on the breaks
is helping

and that is all that you are really doing
minding the gaps that yet gape
open them pausing breaks
so time can suture them

4/17/18 8:43pm in a Master Class with Sara B.
onlylovepoetry Apr 2018
dark and darker #2: the audio of innards weeping

some long ago scribbled and scribed and now just
a stumbled on this phrase that was then and is now again against

a sad Good Friday with plenty of spare time to review and
listening to busted love songs, the written but not imprinted,
of the anthology of good gone girl poems,
a yesteryear of a decaded decaying life recorded in poetry

my innards weep for me us her -
we were perfected as
perfect could have been
designed-dreamt by humans

this poem by design cannot rhyme
for the rhythmic audio
is gone and now it is only soundings of
my innards weeping self-condolences
of which I write

it just happens - even disney movies have to have
assorted sometimes sordid endings where people disarray

the dreaming of get away schemes where the
absence of this eroding dishing out of little cuts
seems the better of the unwell-being of being love-in-absentia

and the sad love songs blockchain seems to have no ending
and the audio of my innards weeping are the now the
only perfect chorus of human imperfections
onlylovepoetry Mar 2018
dark and darker:“my old friend”

another crack’d faint appearing, in the destruction of us,
this one of the unconscious variety, added to the angle of
my leaning tower

how we used to compete in a morning ritual of who loves
the other more, a morning game as I departed, employing
terms of trillions, googolplex, infinity and ridiculous measures
such as the Big Bang; the game now over a year or more,
the text messages just  another long forgot: and I no longer
write love poems in buses and taxis

the cracks lengthen and laugh; a mocking screech of me
and my capabilities of denying, refusing ‘that’ conversation,
one day the noise will make my hands gone from eye coverings of see-no-evil to hearing it too loud, too clarity clear

but then she slips up and wishe me a goodbye, calling me out
“my old friend”

incision unconscious
for she cannot recollect it
two days later

but I can

it is a huge cut upon my chest
where open heart surgery is
currently underway

my ny heart is a transplant candidate
its replacement, a hardy artificial utility that has no capability
to ferry love beyond mine own borders

she only cut my hair but did not stop there

and reminds me again of:
the pain dance of wreck and ruin, destruction and death
onlylovepoetry Mar 2018
cold turkey time
hid the remote in the linen closet

alicia keys ‘fallin’ on repeat and
    she ain’t got no chance

keep on fallin’ and she can’t say anything
except répétez après moi s.v.p.

and repeat we do
baby I’m crazy
in the bed is paper and pen
when inspiration says breather time

two tongues tonguing intertwine like two two headed snakes,
spilling ink and sweaty ***** and the paper is filling up fast

sleep begging and oil offshore exploration calming explosions
love her *****  poetry

how she deletes every  “and” in every poem we ever writ
“and if, you need an ‘and, ‘
the verse is weakly unclear”

we write in perfect clarity

cannot recall where the **** remote is hid

when she complains

i lover-whisper in each ear her,
turning her body over and over again,
in case I miss an ear,

"and and and and"

she sticks me with pen
"taps" the top of my head
with that yellow blue lined lady pad

saying repeat after me if you please en francais

"and and and onlylovepoetry"

sunday @ 5:13am sunday 'Sunday kind of love'
Mar 2018 · 28.6k
Friday night immodesty I
onlylovepoetry Mar 2018
Friday night immodesty

theater on East 4th street @ 8:00pm,
so the girlie stuff commences on schedule
90 minuets a-priori and the medley music
(adele+amy+alicia+ pink bach for some zing)
a harbinger, a pioneer Greek heralding of
Friday night immodesty

the clothes laid out upon the bed, the shoes,
pumps selected and already on,
(always a puzzler to me,)
the subdued lower east side jewelry possibilities,
on the dresser drawer,
indifferently hoping for selection, but
casually beaming quietly,
like those kids waiting for interviews in the waiting room
of the college Admissions Dean’s office,
all with serious smiles
and tiny tearing eyes

helloooooo, I am in a poetry polo with my best jeans ready to go
2 hours before the curtain calls out,

she sits at the makeup mirrored desk,
clad in only her underneath garments of varying utility,
when I sweep in imperially
and with one hand twist gentle her hair upwards,
her neck nape which is again
the sujet of a poem aborning

like a Greek lyre strings, pluck, the tiny hid hairs never seen,
her instant moans at the never fully expected motion poem,
beg more mercy but no quarter given despite repeated cries
of you’ll mess my makeup,
the best defense known to a lady!

god gave men two thumbs to lift up,
simultaneously stimulating,
slide down each of the thin black brasserie strap invitations,
upon each, a writ,
upon her flesh colored shoulders,
“what was she thinking!”

my lips,
now polar explorers, those power (filled) poles side by side,
(east/west for the designer was a smart
bipolar guy-person);
the lips play silent night progressive jazz,
tinkling with higher noted keys,
nape to shoulders moving down to the back’s prefrontal lobe,
the small of her back, the body’s quivering,
a con-federate flag of surrender

her last defense swept aside, we drink honey and milk,
celebrate the week’s mellifluous finish with immodest touching,
the lower east side will belong tonite
to only the hipsters, the millennials,
as our hips are milling and  otherwise
pre-theater and post, occupado

some hours later, watching TV and eating delivered Chinese,
she laterally and literally arm punches my arm
intensely to mark her discontent,
still annoyed,
for I

1) messed up her makeup,
2) best blouse to the dry cleaner and
3) the tickets wasted, and worse,
hits me again!

after I laugh and giggle upon proffering
most modestly, most assuredly,
seconds of

9.21am Saturday
thank you all who liked this tale of
the poetry in the details
of our lives.
onlylovepoetry Feb 2018
why my existence was just one unending question?

even in the formless and endless pitch black (his Hello Poetry alias),
could hear Him smile and communicate:
if not You, then who?

love your dreams where answers run wild like an Oregon waterfall,
only you understand that the whole world encapsulates into:

love thy neighbor as thyself

which must be recited as a poem
standing on one left leg

then, smiling,
god extended his only finger, touching each of mine eyelids:

sleep, friend for we need your questioning dreams,
your faith unfurled unfulfilled
for in your unending inquiry
is all of our "in the beginning,"
the holy dark
2/19/18 3:06am

n the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. 2 Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.
onlylovepoetry Feb 2018
Parkland: Oh My divine, We Wrestle Over What is Yours

and what is mine

it took days for the after- shock and awe to arrive;

the bizarre tempo reversal, myself, out of order,
is my shame, after the mind’s pretense ennui of “yet another,”
had to slow seep away beneath the
firewall cutting off the pain of my the true self
and the I, of ordinary

how else, to keep the madness away?
it’s disguised in a well tended secured lockbox
chamber labeled, I, all about me,
deep hid in the rear, not too near the true self,
must keep the unseeing functioning, functioning

but bus-ted poet is triggered and the weep welling
in the eyes commencing that makes writing on a cell
on a moving vehicle an annoying frosting
on what is an inconsolable hell

everyone stares unawares that the shock,
is without awe, and the only awe is in awful awful awful awful

we sit at the Friday eve sabbath table to begin our negotiation;
but there is no negotiating though the excuses and the divine’s stumbling, flailing failings are pre-prepared,
we know this battle too well and the outcome as well,
it is mine true self’s to win, have me not
words and stanzas and music suffice
to convict the lord of the hosts, adonai

take all your seventy names in vain to crush the vanity of
omnipotence for your godliness degrades and your instant access to where the good in me resides is cutoff;
under My Contacts
you have been


we shall meet as always on the Day of Atonement
but this year no repentance to be granted, the pardons shared
with my kind only, none left for the lonely gone-gods,
no longer seek yours for me, there are 17 extra to be given out*

the left foot and the falsehoods join in the denunciation,
though some suggest reprieve and only reproach
for isn’t atonement possible for even gods?  No. not,
for a god who got human kindness installed in all his devices
but then never opened the app

my name was
but for now, till the culling of the agonies is done,
till the hollows are refilled and the curses fully final expended,
till the sudden eye tearing ceases to render me torn, messed,
you may call me nothing but this:


should you come calling
there will be no beseeching,
just the stoic bearing witness of my silence,
my finger-pointing judgement,
and my angels presence

“May the angel Michael be at my right,
and the angel Gabriel be at my left;
and in front of me the angel Uriel,
and behind me the angel Raphael...”
and above me seventeen new protectors
whose names my true self will now memorize,

for now they are mine


2/16/18 4:34pm  ~ 2/17/18  3:34am
onlylovepoetry Feb 2018
how I honor you (notes from a conversation with Patti Smith)*

~for Cné~


honor on my mind
(ran into Patti Smith last night at the Standard Hotel
in the Meatpacking District)

told her honor, 
on my mind

she said that’s
why I like you
city poet

”you, are a free range thinker,”

when you get stuck on a bubble gum word
on the sole of your shoe,
you one sticky stuck poet,
can’t let be freed~released till you get the

curve of the word,
curve of the world,
you stumble where gods get lost.  
where the divisions of the subconscious thread together,
and you got to peel the onion all the way back, while
you cry

here is what I think about honor:

there is so much added glut
in this world,
honor the reader
never write a word that
wastes a minute of their time!”*

you wrote you have only poem in you wright,
and you writ it to right the world,
thrice, and over and over in disguises.
and sometimes, I hear, even with
spaghetti sauce
the words in italics are Patti’s
onlylovepoetry Feb 2018
you can’t right the same poem twice

hell, yes I can
in pointy fact,
only got one,
which gets re-righted
morning noon and evening-tide

substitute a variant spelling
wright vs write vs right
and the meaning changes thrice

the only thing i can’t not duplicate is those **** love poems
each unique and writ for the woman specific,
each love one, custom jiggered,
each poem, crafted, to her pulse
each drafted, to her scent
none alike, and that’s why I believe
in the god who commanded "create him"
to make love poems in his way,
gave me millions of veins
of inspiration to pray to...
my heart altered, modified, daily

**** poems
**** love poems
**** love
2/2/2018   10:14pm
onlylovepoetry Jan 2018
“poetry choose you for us to sheaf through and find love among your words” (Pradip)

did you think that I forgot your message,
which is more than mere message, more a significant missive,
****** upon my shoulders, again, even more, a mission,
an owner’s responsibility that I choose to herein bare,
but a charge, too onerous, too awesome, to willingly bear

what skilled knowledge of this in my possess is narrow based,
more gained by loss or absence, or even conspicuous struggle,
than any vast success, thus, to be viewed with skepticism,
rather than any glory gained through a vanquisher’s scepter

more and better have essayed and assayed the
requisite sheafs that may give forth results useful to yourself,
this itinerant investigator’s ramblings are not to be deemed trustworthy or investable

that poetry hath chosen me, if correct, woe-betide me
this be more curse than blessing, for the secrecy of love
yields not its clear and present insights to my declining sight

the sheafs of which you speak so numerous
that a whole lifetime such engaged could not dent its
maidenhood and here do I both confess, here I do plead guilty
to trying and to failing, and in the confines of words,
honestly advance to all the proposition that I know nothing

to recognize and diagnose the symptoms almost too easy,
thus I designated myself foolishly as onlylovepoetry,
but recognition does not yield easy the cure of real cognition

nearing midnight and it is easier to pen than to sleep,
even a dreamless sleep, the great restorative,
make not the pen mightier than the wounds love inflicts;
both my scars and my many smooth, unused unpierced skin patches
speak only of the abscesses of true trials and
the too long absences of emotions that make
life unbearable, bearable and the happy exhaustion of near misses,
the try in try, try again

finding love in words a fool’s errand, though words offer us
seduction and definitions to our errant emotions, words
are just words and by definition, a hallmark of failure,
a precursor to cursing failings

only this I know, that to make love occur, do not hope to
stumble into it, or to find or mine its riches, for it requires of you,
both somber preparation and wild optimism,
and this contradiction controversy so inherently embedded,
will provoke more pain infusions and more poetry in
a human chain that came from the smithy new and yet, nearly broken

pay attention to thy surroundings and thy attitude and altitude
love is above ground though deep buried, the mystery scent
so faint it missed by most, myself a chief of mistaken mistook

meanwhile the pile of sheaves grows deeper and despairing

what I thought I knew I mistook and what I thought I felt,
well, let it suffice to say love can n’ere be found in thought
but lives in deed and actions and happy disbelief

put down the pen, gown thyself in coats of many riotous colors,
banish ‘never’ and ‘hope’ from thy lexicon, and begin with a smile always a smile as you walk the streets as if to say
open open says me, open sesame and let the
good works begin, for having found your captains of the muses,
your Calliope, your rosebud, lucky you,
you will need not write another word

11:37pm  January 14
onlylovepoetry Jan 2018
the Leukocytes, white blood cells, mass for attack,
shock and awe is the plan,
find, incinerate the
splinter inside me

but when at the GPS coordinates inside the heart’s marrow,
all is quiet functioning and no contamination source uncovered

the alert false, the Hawaii of my body is still standing


the absence of love is an invisible infection that can be
heard (groaning), tasted (raw horseradish),
touched (wet cheeks), smelled (perfumed hope in secret spots)

but cannot be seen and therefore, thereof, destroyed,
so toxic, it can eradicate the fleshy soul, and no
phoenix resurrection possible for you cannot erase
what never was

or can you?

the splinter of losing hope is so real it is unreal
except only you know where it’s hid,
and the false alarms are your revelatory reminders,
you need*

to believe in onlylovepoetry
Jan 2018 · 947
from now on
onlylovepoetry Jan 2018
from now on,
all poems will,
that yet reside inside,
shall be here inscribed


the line between music, song, lustrous life and love is indifferent

do not misunderstand - indifferent is not meant as uncaring but more as undifferentiated and interwoven into a singularly

so oft lives de-track, de-tract as threads become frayed and
the dye color fades, but once loved, cold is an excised word
from life’s Merriam Webster rulebook

in all my pain and sadness the embrued, embered kernel
yet faint glows
off and on, even a glance somehow brings it back, for of all
life’s lessons learned in everything, loss and grief,
the single thread snakes back, and there is love in everything
and in every unborn scream and script

so a journey ends and commences
in the same locus and locale,

the quest;
search and seek that love seed*

for there is only love poetry
onlylovepoetry Jan 2018
make the reader/lover gasp for the reasoning for breathing

first order of the day, dreamer-reader,
shock the consciousness from stillborn to newborn and gasp
at what it takes to grasp the physical self
into a riotous state of alertness

recite sweet nothings in one ear,
newly writ lover tricks,
while nibbling on the other,
or perhaps
conducting a general physical examination,

a concerto of seasoning reasoning

your advisory on the human state,
the reasoning for breathing well received
1/7/17 9:59M
onlylovepoetry Dec 2017
the simplest song (seek your prime)

the one that likely never finishes the course

tune that never ceases though it knows well stilling quietude,
one passenger verse in a lean vessel that reveals, declares,
anoints the outwards atmospheric condition with the conditions
of what’s within,
compulsively, incessantly demanding- seek your prime

write yourself a poem, be a poem, write of your becoming

bring the simmering sauce to a furious boil,
the words placed in your soil by your own five,
reap the fruit even if wormed, bruised, overripe
or trite

this is your song

breathe it into my mouth
until the last one,
making me glad to know you
and your becoming,
prime music

yes, this is a love poem

12/10/17 8:38am
onlylovepoetry Nov 2017
(the gate is a crowded mess, please no special requests, be thankful you got a seat, this flight is sold out and I’m beat.  
I get up and stand on my chair and say)

I give thanks for:

the uncommon greatness of common sense

for the steady approach of that wondrous day when
kindness is neither random or unexpected,
but the rule, not the exception

for our opinions and deeds, that are our own,
derived without coercion, born from our thoughts and observations and that
we are equal to both
owning them and to
changing them

that we live in a time that friendships can grow just through the quick exchange of words leaping bounds

for eyes that see deep deeper than skin,
ears that hear
what those ashamed wish you didn’t, hands that grasp regardless of distance,
the taste of  kisses that come easy sweet  

for the  day when I at last knew,
the pleasure of giving
so far exceeded receiving,
that giving and receiving became

that I learned that the best skill to possess  is
to anticipate
the needs of others

that my lucky position in this world permits me
to act on the things for
which I am thankful

that someday I will need no longer inquire,
are you my poem,
for the answer will be self-evident to us both
LGA 11/22/17 1:00pm
onlylovepoetry Nov 2017
The Physics of Love: The Equivalency Fallacy

the poet places his Sunday porcelain coffee mug  
upon his bare chest, purposed to heat the heart to a
higher degree, equal to hers, next door, three feet away,
in their communal bed

two identical alarm clocks, one on each nightstand,
confirms the degree differential, for far beyond time-telling,
it informs on me, providing the room temperature,
and her side of the bed, 5 degrees warmer

the collegial scientists posit theoretical excuses,
the rooms wind currents, proximity to the A/C, body mass,
all refuted after visual and mechanical inspection,
all indelible proofs of the Equivalency Fallacy

despite the visual evidence abounding all around,
despite the surrounding starlike quantity of busted,
love songs, poems and the other artistic churn,
depicting the principle, one requires love physics to validate the
living principle for the living, that love is rarely identical
in quantitative quality, typology, representation and
manifestations measurable

each greets the other with morning declarations of
mutuality, trying to find those hundred different ways
to love her/him today, employing imaginative artifice to proof
the impossibility, that in every aspect your living love ability
is precious capital precision equal
and ha! each love is the greater...

you knew this?
then you knew, his coffee spills (intentionally?) and the
Fighting Fallacy rules,
every thing is fair in love and war, for they too, are
identical and equal, in so many ways,
but never quantifiable exactly

8:33am, 73 degrees, on my side
Oct 2017 · 1.2k
3 hands
onlylovepoetry Oct 2017
3 hands

kidding hands,
an autocorrection title,
was supposed to be
kissing hands but either works

man overcome with an elixir of Sunday bed warming/charming/chilling, lukewarm "hot" coffee,
melodious love songs inducing
languorously hand-to-mouth,
five finger fore play love making

a potpourri of knuckle gnawing and gentling kisses
upon a hand borrowed from the a tablet holder,
while she reads the paper bemoaning the sorry state
of the world, the government permissions bad guys...
and weeps for the world we are leaving behind

a mood changer with 100% effectiveness

newspapers- a safe *** condiment

think I'll reheat my coffee


my hand

she cant sleep knows that I'm up at 2:08am composing.  
and showed her earlier today
the kidding hands poem
just as the lights were going down, downtown on
William's Measure For Measure

so at 2:09am her hand snakes over and wrap itself
around my thumb as if she was weaning an infant from
what infants like doing, or weaning grownup old men like me from doing at 2:09am, what they should be best leaving alone,
like writing poetry or it could just be the woman
pseudo-******* a poets thumb as a way of saying
can't sleep head buzzing and in between I love the
livening lying of living with your hands thumb in me

the facement of your hands*

dr. mandy is handy with a needling drink of boo boo bo-toxin
that auto corrects the face's reflecting times drawing upon it,
our bodies facement; an effacement I suppose, or maybe a

very little to be done to keep the *hands
couture covering
from revealing what devolutionary year it is for you: why I write of the facement of your hands and why I kiss them, your hands,
lovingly, hoping the natural  toxins on my lips can ****** their aging,
and if they can't, then it is a great way of saying
I love you

Oct 2017 · 1.7k
Who writes poems like these?
onlylovepoetry Oct 2017
"Who writes poems like these?"

She, Miss Patty,
from Missouree? Missouruh?
asks me this question
round about a year ago,
after eavesdropping on an open poem line,
about a conversation,
a dialectic chat between me and the big guy in the sky^

(yeah, him, the magic marker Maker, who graffitis our lives only in
ink that just never goes away, cannot be erased,
talkin' bout this 'n that, ending, in a request from him for a
love poem personal (denied, fyi))

my answer:

come, sit for awhile, in poet's nook, upon soft pillows for our
tired sighs born in chests with a different kind
of breast cancer.
and upon these tough worn Adirondack chairs hard,
by the bay, we shall coverse in alternating verses

if too hot, the poetry's temperature.
we'll slow drift to the sun room of lace curtains and
heated suicide poems,
and after cool drinks
we'll observe the water, the rabbits, the cacophony low
of all the noisier creatures asking the trees and the
shuckling cappuccino frothy leaves
where did all those poets come from?
so to the question at hand and heart,

Who writes poems like these?

answers scarce, confessions plenty,
evasions conjured,
but tried, tired, and true, indeed
always ask myself, my sole troop,
that very same question every time,
the brain chimes poem time

'tis a truth, sort of, for the question is
asked by me, so oft,
should I, would I,
dare deflect the inflect of the eyes who cannot lie
and write a poem like this,
knowing it ends always only in tears,
or quit while ahead,
while my heart is slow beating,
and the pounding is temporarily,
halftime shelved

I ride the bus, open the kitbag,
find messages so privy
with and from the other poets,
(it is a privilege to be so councillor entrusted,)
picking up the gleaming gleanings of
fellow earth-extraordinaires,
reading the tales of the mad lunar lovers,
each of whom believe the moon has been following
only, each of them individually,
from childhood

exercising the muscle memories of love and ache
when watching the little gestures of my babies, my loved ones,
clues to who they are,
clues to who they will be.
after I am not

but let me be measured for measure by this:
Who writes poems like these?

well, after every writ complete,
weep and weep, if not laugh uproariously,
for though the question earnest, and I too,
never ever let adulthood interfere
with actions of my eyes, my mouth, my gut,
they all, masters now of me,
forcing me to write with abandon reckless and yet,
slicing off choicer cuts of me, carefully crafted, into
word etchings, painted water colors coming from the body's oils,
for my ration of rationality
has left town
for the summer, following the little drummer
perhaps, for the (double meaning) good

this each, a parcel of me, writing beguiling amuse bouches
of cache and cant, of poodles who speak human,
long legs in bed, high heels attached, conversations with moons,
crying to my lovers, I am a little boy, so needy,
and then the left foot turns to face
any and all gods who permit their names to be abused
for muddying murdering purposes,
as if we, all humans, all poets, were playthings,
bowling pins and not poets of some, any, the, way,
coming from the place
to where we all speak words, in our differing dialects,
accepting the blessings & curses thereof,
words but never fists

have I answered the question?

suspect not,
cause I am the suspect prime
in the crime
of low poetry
and high mis-demeanors,
and the authorities have been asking me the question for a lot longer than you, but no longer than one peculiar man,
Who writes poems like these?*
and they haven't caught me yet
and I haven't quite caught
the plain answer
Oct 2017 · 1.4k
easier, someday. easy never.
onlylovepoetry Oct 2017
for L. J.


first time my heart crushed, and
pieces broke off,
and rode the interstates of my body,
the very real kind,
was somewhere
in my later teens.  

many breakings came
all life long later.
remember each face.
different kinds of breakings.
some mean and ****,
but the ones,
that made me weak and mournful,
those hurts are in a steel case kept
near my left ventricle, with copies in
my sewing box
full of handwritten poems.

you want to know if there was  (like yours)
that one, that still sneak peeks
into your eye's fantasy
when you lie next to
your woman of the last decade?

thankfully, no.
but the flavors of the regret,
the highs of
pain so awful, never forgot,
are ensconced, recalled, memorialized
only in my love poetry.

touchstone ribbons and knickknacks,
I have hid so well, don't remember where,
but not the who or the when.

hear your ask, the answer plain
the title encapsulated.
but when I accidentally hear
Johnny Rivers sing
"Baby, I need your lovin'"
strangers do not understand
why this man who has
seven decades and a day of poems kept,
walks down the street weepin' and smilin',
but you will ken, as I well ken your askin'.

amend my title.  

easier, someday. easy never.  

Johnny Rivers Lyrics


"Baby, I Need Your Loving"
(originally by Four Tops)

Baby, I need your lovin'
Baby, I need your lovin'

Although you're never near
Your voice I often hear
Another day, another night
I long to hold you tight
'Cause I'm so lonely

Baby, I need your lovin'
I got to have all your lovin'
Baby, I need your lovin'
Got to have all your lovin'

Some say it's a sign of weakness
For a man to beg
Then weak I'd rather be
If it means havin' you to keep
'Cause lately I've been losin' sleep

Baby, I need your lovin'
I got to have all your lovin'
Baby, I need your lovin'
Got to have all your lovin'

Empty nights
Echo your name
Sometimes I wonder
Will I ever be the same

Oh yeah, when you see me smile
You know
Things have gotten worse
Any smile you might see
Has all been rehearsed

Darlin', I can't go on without you
This emptiness won't let me live without you
This loneliness inside me, darlin'
Makes me feel not alive, honey

Baby, I need your lovin'
I got to have all your lovin'
Baby, I need your lovin'
Got to have all your lovin'

Baby, I need your lovin'
I got to have all your lovin'
Baby, I need your lovin'
Got to have all your lovin'

Writer(s): Brian Holland, Lamont Dozier, EdwardHolland Jr
AZLyrics J Johnny Rivers Lyrics
"Rewind" (1967)
onlylovepoetry Sep 2017
a plain poem (the first time I came in you)*

a plain poem, light and effervescent, a flim-flan tasting,
plein de absurde rimes, full of nonsensical rhymes,
a lattice of criss crossing pastry sugary lines, the ones,
cannot, struggle to deduce, induce, reduce
from my constipated vocabulary

oh well
the first time I came in you,
entered, bidden welcome,
suffused a bridge between
the party of the first part,
the party of the second part,
sugar lightness airy nonsense,
two spirits dancing the singular
pas de deux of their finite lives,
a performance unbeatable,
lost to the perfection annals

Shockingly, Surprisingly, Summarily,
did not compose an ode,
don't mine a new vein of ore,
even write a plain poe poem

as best can recall,
at the candle melting of the
sealing wax of the deal,
gave an honest speech,
instantly falling fast asleep
with nary a grunted word

ever since l,
cannot write of plain love plainly,
so she makes me pay with a
new living elegant elegy daily,
a quatrain, what a pain,
this iambic panting meter
love poem writing

jeez louise,
how I wish could write of
roses red and violets blue,
get back to sleep,
oh well then,
back to work

got to make those sad moans,
hers, go away,
so please excuse me

near ten years later,
still paying the dues of the
initializing error of my way

she rumbles-mumbles in her
pre-awakening dream state,
so please excuse, got to go, think up
some implicated complicated  
verses to soothe away
her simple poorly hidden anxieties

you see,
I am happy paying
on and on,
writing like the devil furious,
she is stirring, coffee soon,
cafe au lait
if you get my meaning,
but still cannot beat,
repeat, re-alive
that simple plain living poem notated,
when first I came in her*


9/24/17 6:49am ~7:17am
onlylovepoetry Sep 2017
the grit courage of trust**

still too young and now, too old, to comprehend,
love~trust and all its secondary derivatives,
not extant on a plane of new bed sheets of
silk~linen tablecloth rectangularity

go into the park's garden;
black soil fingernail coating
awaiting, impatiently for you,
dig in direct hands ungloved

is it not,
sensual and yet gritty,
two coextensive sensations?

slip inside (you/me, me/you),
there is a razor's edge duality duty,
trust, serve and protect,
take and
handle with rough-care, for this our state of beauty
au naturel, the rush and the fall,
the climb and the conquering,
only to start again, each step, each rung,
coated with the
the grit courage of trust -
                                          do you begin to comprehend?

trust is a bumpy landing on a glide path that is strewn
with potholes that can grow into sinkholes without
the grit of trust

the soles of my feet are a message,
gritty from walking
all-life, not just the edges,
is a two act play of roughening,
upon the limbs the things,  
that carries us *****
but bares the wearing of
unkind touches of reality
working us over

why the soothing,
but not the smoothing
daily twice is the cream that
emerges from the grit courage of trust

even the vinery's progeny of great love,
grapes that must
embrace the wind and rain,
the wearing down tools of
the exterior that brings an acknowledgement -
                                                            do you begin to comprehend?

this is not an algebraic formulaic solution solvable problem,
this derived from dirt, access to accidental, the tongue and the nail,
the cracks upon the skin, that grow wonderful deeper, unfillable,
where the love gets in,
were the words are written and stored,
rough to the touch,
under the grit courage of trust -
                                                       do you begin to comprehend?

this grit is unbelievable beautiful  
only a love po-em.      

Sep 2017 · 1.7k
inconsolability ability
onlylovepoetry Sep 2017
too oft, so oft, the absence, the imagining, that
no such comfort exists, that remorse may n'ere complete its course,
when a time for love is beyond beyond, is a bridge too far,
a notion so fraught, a vision unwrought, that we do not
recognize the why and the wherefore to step forward
even for for the next breath small, the in of inconsolability,
a deeper welling
so consequential there is no seeing a piercing light

then come to me, come to me then, when words can be
a symphony of violins, an orchestrating examination of
thy wounded chest, and caressing slow repetition
deep moaning, understanding waves upon the shores of my arms, my shoulder, my chest, any piece that can be yours,
a shoreline of relief, and listen with great care as the subtleties change, the pastoral comes in an ever ascending
crescendo of lifting, a stabbing, resurrecting but not fully repairing,
restoring but replacing sensation, for inconsolability is a disease
difficult to defeat, deserving of being memory-recalled,
but the ability, the cure, the rhyme of
hope and upward ***** of open eyes will ******* surely as the potion of the music of my words lay you down and rise you up,
and that is enough, to begin the renewal,
the campaign of commencement, the possibility of clarity,
it is the journey,

the changeling we call the
destiny of our designation,
which is forever the next destination


a cab driver told me of his life's up and downs,
and that he drove on weekends for one must never cease earning hope
and cabbing reminded him weekly
that it was the journey, not the destination.
onlylovepoetry Sep 2017
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

p.s. not only a true story,  repeated each week from June thru September,
I have signed confessions frim the serial killer.
onlylovepoetry Sep 2017

Good Acts are like Good Poems

"Good acts are like good poems.
One may easily get their drift,
but they are not rationally understood"

Albert  Einstein

Ach, mein guter Kumpel!
Ach, mein bester Freund!

how could I not have known,
the syncopation, the synchronization,
between what I write, and the impetuous impetus within,
that caustic sense that burns words
from my chest
directly onto the paper
are more than correlated,
even causation-ally related
after all, you, naturally, the master of relativity

but you know me Al,^
I, the quibbler from  NYC*
have to have a slightly different take,
in my gemeinschaft city of eight million strangers,
we always must have eight million and one

true dat, when I am on the fifth or sixth stanza,
realizing got no clue what the poem is rambling about,
but it sounds so good, lovely, pretty words,
why ***** it up with scientific rationality?

but good acts are easy, uber understood,
rationally we live to survive and
do what we to
make the species survive, common sense triumphs,
disguised as sacrifice, forgetting to roll the dice,
doing what comes like a good poem,
and what needs doing or writing
is so intuitively obvious,
just love poetry,
a global necessity

so check out Houston in two thousand and seventeen

here's hoping life in heaven ain't boring  
know that you've seen, peeked, peaked,
at the theory of everything,

resolving the contradictions
between general laws of physics
and those pesky tiny quantum mechanicals,
even solving that 'other' equation

" you know me Al" by Ring Lardner
Sept. 6th

onlylovepoetry Aug 2017
~for Pradip~

these words,
a blessing bestowed
upon me, by you,
about us

say kiss me write love me
for all the contextual hints that lie
within and between them ~
"gloriously adhesive"

a monument to our five years
of living together,
the friction of our grip upon each other,
under one roof, in a land of
no matter
what the language,
what the alphabet,
we are the prime,
a living example,
of the human~poem,
a glorious adhesion**

from only love poetry,
I rename you here,
only love Pradip

Pradip Chattopadhyay ›
whisper me a title (you, the acquired taste):

Acquired taste,
for a habit sweetly indulgent,
gloriously adhesive.

onlylovepoetry Aug 2017
I ask of her, when drowsy, pre-sleep,
as my eye lids,
elusively and gravitationally, pulled ever lower,
a desperate last chance request by
my vast audience of too few,
give the poet's subconscious a fair shot,
a morning poem delivery,
you've requested, route assigned,
to the front door stoop steps of your lips,
for me to deliver, and earn my keep

if only a title you will provision?

she says:

lights out honey chile,
as she kisses the poodle good night,
you know you are quite
the acquired taste,
showing me such a fine time tonight,
ordering in vegetable lo mein,
won ton soup and a
spring roll in the summer time

washed down with an icy-white Bordeaux,
watching Guardians of the Galaxy (Part Two) on the telly
so all you and
your bonnie idea of showing a girl a good time,
quite an expropriation of a foreign cultural potpourri

a thank you yawn provided, a positive confirmation
of her appreciation + an acknowledgement of her AM order,
morning cafe au lait requested
in a big cup with no handles,
a croissant with French butter,
avec un poème exceptionnel

the title tithed,
poet-this, "you, an acquired taste"
please deliver it at seven o'clock sharp,
so I may be first to give it a like,
read it with my cafe,
tho you are an acquired taste,
you have already
acquired my heart*


onlylovepoetry Aug 2017
these words are a paraphrasing of the famous words from
Martin Niemöller,
an anti-******, German Christian pastor:

"First, they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I wasn’t a trade unionist, so I didn’t speak out.

Then they came for the Jews.
I wasn’t a Jew so I didn’t speak out.

Then they came for me,
and there was no one to speak for me.”



A Love Poem?

Oh yes, surely, is not written, love thy neighbor as you love thyself

17[a] You must not hate your brother in your heart.
/ [17b] You must surely reprove your fellow citizen
/ [17c] so that you do not incur sin on account of him.
18[a] You must not take vengeance or bear a grudge against the children of your people,
/ [18b] but you must love your neighbor as yourself.
/ [18c] I am the LORD.

— Leviticus 19:17-18
onlylovepoetry Aug 2017
the isle meets us gruffly,
ferry over rough seas, meaner winds,
bay size puddling lakes
a/k/a local  flooding,
roads littered with tree debris,
all saying an uncoded message:

"see humans, you come to stay only with my forbearance"

But I know that familiar voice, disguised as nature,
a first derivative of the alpha of that god who comes,
torturing me with requests for forgiveness

I am nature too, I am human nature,
and I too,
am not in a forgiving mood, and one-word reply:


the **** skies ease off and
next morn,
an August beauty provided

but I am neither assuaged, bought off, forgetting,
address the hiding-in-disguise master of the universe:

"you trifle with us as if we could not count, keep tabs,
and weary be at the newest sabbath carnage never ending

give me storms, keep your glories,
fell trees, drown us, if it pleases,
we are neither perfect nor innocent
but take impotent responsibility

set us not one against the other,
there, here, Charlottesville,
keep your false free choice that
always comes with a wink and nod,
a little nudge, and exclaims of humans doing your work

I light a candle
not to you,
but for you
and be terrified
when I no longer do

Aug. 19, 2017
12:14 pm
onlylovepoetry Aug 2017
it was a heated race, and
man I mean
it was broiling,
a 100 meter dash
turned into
a 400 meter relay

we barely stopped to strip,
but our feet were
like a thousand feet away
requiring two hands
that really wanted to be
otherwise occupied,
so to busy to remove

when we were good,
when we were done,
our dark socks were
looking at us,
like a couple of
two eyed voyeurs

eww, she said, I
forgetting to take them off

with this poem,
earning me a snack of a smack on the head

by chasing my screaming ny woman
throughout the entire house,
my choice weapon,
puppet hands inside my smelliest,
those insane black socks

by god,
she was fast,
till she hid in the shower,
and trapped,
in our laughter,
we did not
come out for
one hour

not the end
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