wondrous words,
shades of colorations,
this pain,
artfully slow, steady stalking,
finale staking into
my hardened heart

with tireless twinges
of loss and constant regret,
painstakingly plinking away,
leaving pockmarks of bullets shot
at the concrete ring-fencing,
failing to protect me from just another,

oh god not again,
have no mo' time
for jes one mo' time

love's aftermath regret,
bitter acid wash,
that cleanses nothing,
for you are already nothing
when love loss wrenches/rents your
soul's garments with knotholes of
unfashionable distressed
distress

better not to have loved,
better, better, better,
than this battering silent hurricane
invisible thunderstorm internally,
than respects no seasonality,
for which the meteorologists
can predict neither its path or its
final cessation

painstakingly,
did I build my walled shelter,
only to fail-fall to the siege machines
of beauty and desire,
and
once conquered,
with fire and heat,
they burnt me
from the outward edges inward,
and I am not a
Phoenix

see the stooped slow white walker
more than dead, yet alive enough
existing to be witness to
his own devouring,
his hands wrapped round
the stake in his chest stuck,
painstakingly
protecting it,
lest its removal
be one more undoing of the
painstaking man

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
11/12/17

when you love,
you’re a country,
pierced by daily border
exchanged crossings,
to your closest neighbor
and though,
one rerun~returns home by night,
to your prior defining borderlines,

somehow
the externals of the container has
had its internality's modified

for the lines that prior defined
have altered
by passing the
point of prior,
now by thousands of
tiny holes breaching the
thickened protective lining,
by love punches ‘n kisses of
pinprick punctures
the resistance,
pulverized
<>
you are changed,
new language combos spoken,
embrace another with a
bilingual tonguing,
a real treat
to entreat each other and
that hyphen,
that little tiny
linear
~
punctuation mark is
reflecting your creativity of a
Singular Duality

it is mark that
speaks to a new
U~no individuality,
blended and connected

somehow a duo of
someone’s pulverized lines
forms a single stronger
chord

first a puncture
then a patching
finally
an adhesion pleasuring
and a new working word:

composite

the opposite
of
opposite

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

The Smell of Honey,  Coffee and Apples and Messes of Words, but
No Love Poetry

<^>

my poetry suffers from a literately literacy,
the adjectivally of imagery wears away with
time and age eroding the imagination, when one’s
days are numbered, being serious is an natural
unpleasant hazardous haze, never in doubt

The morning meal of cooked oatmeal, steel cut,
laced with wildflower honey, slices of honey crisp
apples and Hawaiian coffee brewed,  
singes the
Tropical Storm Ophelia thrumming humidity
that overhangs the ugly grays of NYC sky-paths,

one tickles me awake with contradictory impulses:
sweet and sour,
a robust stimulative, competing with the smothering of
grayling clouded weather weariness of
48 hours of rainy continuity,
a spirit suffocate

you see!

give you myself, my environment, in précis,
unimaginative exactly as it occurs to me, sensually, yes,
but cannot shake my disappointment that no,
can’t combine visionary notions that spin your swivel
chair around, powered by your exclamations of
ooh, ahh, and little stabs of weeee punctuating
our shared atmosphere
and bring forth
only love poetry

but no mas,
the love poetry doesn’t comes to the fore,
the forehead stuffed with words best listed as
basic, observable, factual,
Miley Cyrus, accuses me of being jaded,
but not with accuracy, more straight jacketed,
way past that half-way point of no return,
turning back is not a listed menu option

love poetry
demands, requires and requests
envisioning, precursor to dreaming,
but I am choking on matters-of-fact,
questions of survivability,
that do not
shed love poetry words,
I
love exclaiming
to any and all within hailing distance,
my loving firmament, but the damp atmosphere
swallows my hopes and sounds, even though
still can smell the lingering nearness odor of honey and apple,
yet, other hints of memory beg to differ,
and I sadly and easy confess,
this is not a lovely poem…
- * -

All,, everything stretches, even paradise, love affairs,
the poetic intervals lengthen-but but not the interstices,
they do not require filling but the occasional hug, hair~
tousling, the unexpected hand holding to refresh the bonds
that sag with ages, worn to forlorn, by so much to remember…

I promise myself to keep this short, for the spaces themselves,
sag longer, wider, and need not words overbearing, but the
occasional tightening of the screws of connection, the markers
of a precise precious pulling that gravity may wear but never
ever break…

olp

~


smile and weep,
love the shallow for its deep,
finding amazement in the complexity of life

this prior script-thought
re-arrives but this time,
tonal differences,
a spoken aloud cascading cacophony,
no  protective cocoon of silent email,
jus plainest pain masquerading beneath a tensile casual remark

and how you wish you could poetry, write, torrentially in simple lines,
to match the transverse and reverse
the only two gears,
so overcome with anger worry and pain no killer can
****,
so deep and swift
its haphazard rambling rambunctious
cursing coursing

and all she said was this:

this is going to be the end of us

and you, charged to interpret this sentence,
like your namesake Daniel
the invisible handwriting on the
Babylonian wall
that is under construction for which
you will both pay

equally

light

<>

~yes, for you~

you never knew that you have burdened me,
informing an old fool that,
you meditating in the morning, after waking up
to a poem in your inbox from a person you’ve
never met, but whom you thank with a kindness
that wets my face, trembling with thankful shivering
from the places
left in me that
crave giving thanks

one day I will come unannounced with tapes
of a hundred romcom movies that have caused
my heart to erupt and always will, for thank god
my old curmudgeon heart is still weak enough
to cry in private
at old movies in
a youthful man~boy way,
now grizzled gray
that yet needs
nay, requires, reminders
that giving thanks
is a variant of giving
love in its very
own way

a craving that satisfies
in its own way
that giving is
gifting love
to yourself
as well

the raw confusion of the nucleotide fusion,
the great concoction of recombinant DNA,
when we cross over our own boundaries
and subsume, integrate, reformulate our
very selves, with inhalation complete of
another human being; the danger’s inherent,
absorbing a foreign body totally is the creation of a new being entire, vulnerable
despite the new totality of the resources of
two hearts acquired for mergence

and the rush of two different bloodstreams
now circulating, stronger by far, and equally
vulnerable to diseases never prior considered,
these tissues patches, interwoven skins, two
fabrics, silk and wool, a smooth itchy, that
makes us stronger with yet unknowns of weaknesses, and then we encounter what
cannot easily be digested, comprehended,
for even new cells split apart, and the terrible
terror of dividing division that is the side effect of integration, new subdivisions never
ever forever foreseen cause volcanic tremors
and trusting your other half is awful,
until the fear subsides

this is the why
I write of
only love poetry,
the study of this process
so poorly and powerfully
misunderstood
is the atom bomb
of the human psyche

in rivers dark we travel,
oars with cotton muffled,
for there are dangers on each bank,
and in the waters beneath
the salt and the fresh
excitingly & violently blending,
different weights
somethings fall to the bottom,
others rise to the top

and when the process is nearly resolved
(for never ending,
by default defined,
for end is a conflict
constant
interrupted by truces fraught,
fragrant and vulnerable)

this then
is living,
this physic of the
bio-il-logic process
called love,
and the endlessness
that it requires

the inconstancy
of the
constancy
of the
deepening well,
and the
redemption of
redefinition
of what is
well

<>

2:10pm
nyc
10/21/24

[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 impossibly incomprehensible

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

my pleasure sprouts mushrooms in thy loamy foam,
thy rainfall nourishment, seed plant growing life morning borne,
thy tricked up sonnets played within my hearts harp,
tunes never known but coming 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
hallelujah,
I am thy god, and you, darling you,
my beloved

Too much sanity may be madness…


“When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams this may be madness. Too - much sanity may be madness and maddest of all: to see life as it is, and not as it should be!"

DON QUIXOTE by MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA

<

who among us does not wonder daily,
admit it!
am I mad, where does this malady madness lie within me?

wandering along the raggedy meandering linear ledge,
a tempting rock strewn divide of a tempestuous world unbidden,
a me-version struggling to keep a kind sanity
that is ugly, undesirable, undeserving and just “und”

I drown;
suffocated by a realized spring rainfall showering,
there is no thing as sanity,
we are all mad,
gone from, on the way to,
the epicenter
of where north meets south,
east greets west,
all differences are sublimated
the glint in our eyes confesses:

mutually cognizant
there is no division
not to be mad
is in-sane…

for Richard Shepherd who wrote to tell me
one of my babies, (1) made him:
“Oh my, speechless”

my stated aim, my purposed gain,
is to write of only love poetry,
oh too human am I, going astray
the most human contributory trick,
is when “she,” temptation,
oft cajoles,
“this way please” and I easygoing
and submit obligingly

your words spontaneous, mark &
make me, likewise spit out gratitude
of words simple, informing you that
you are too, too kind, then pause reflective
does such a thing even exist?

bemusedly, smiling silent at my silliness,
as I debate~contemplate, the potent notion if kindness can ever be measured as in excess, by what  measuring cup system could we
contrive to ascertain if there be lines drawn,
for the most best of human attributes?

it is Monday Morning and such silly peculiarities have no busily business populating my gray matter, but compulsory
demands state forthright you cannot retreat
from this windrowed wonderland hedgerow,
for when seeing these deep waters,
can easy sink a poet
for a funking, dunking, nay, a drowning!

but I am only dancing around the edges
of a fire upon the beach, and gingerly admit
that there is no limitation to this conceptual,
can we be too human, could one ever not say

your loving, your essences~senses fragrant,
are airborne and therefore unlimited,
beneath this shared sky~sphere.
yet never my intent
to rob a human of
the power of speech

but this statement of de~unlimited awe
too much,
and therefore my understanding deepens,
when and what a heart feels
is without definition,
without lineage,
every time reborn,
and my loving of your kind words,
overflowing will be my
principled purpose
this day

that every person whose path
intersects mine,
shall be greeted with
the tools in my possession,
which thanks to you,
are identified as an undefined
unlimited
too, too much
kindness
and my one job is to
be a proof
of this
raison d'être
for all ofour
existences

this hen issue
now resolved,
be a lovely
au naturel love poem
and obedient
to my
only truest mission

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
tempting
answered with
positivity

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?

she knows. I'm sure she knows.

every day of the week,
I'm there for her, so to speak.
my order consistent, my appearance reliably persistent.
her compatriots behind the counter
even made up a name for me and my order!

"senor dos cubanos, por favor,"

i wait till she is free, always, before ordering.
they all sly smile at the foolish old man,
who requires only a certain young lady from Cuba,
to make his daily shots, just so, so fussy he.

please! no sugar needed,
her demure mouth,
sweet plenty.  

they know.  i'm sure they all know.

the olive complexion,
the hair pulled back so tight,
beneath a ridiculous uniform hat,
the slender frame radiating pride
all of which she wears so well,  
with a modest hint of self made pride.  

working her way up in America.

two coffees, extra milk, in a plastic bag
to travel with me, back to my imprisoning day desk.

she hands me the bag oh so carefully.
our fingers touch.  our fingers much touch,
with the oft, quick but sensitive precision
of a baton passing
in an Olympic relay race.  
she smiles.  always.  

it's ridiculous.   i'm ridiculous.  who cares.  
that one contactual second is a gift,
the thrill is not gone.*

and that is why he writes
only love poetry

two white coffee cups*

reveal every sip,
mark every drip,
the metaphorical  staining
of the man and the woman
in bed
on a Sunday morn,
each sipping and drip drinking
from white mismatched coffee cups

unleashes his tear ducts;
he sips the tear drips

now the coffee tear-infused tastes
just like a stained life,
a metaphor realized

"unconditional love dinner-dance"

so names the advert for an evening of a
big shot, posh charitable event,
which the glossy Gatsby East Egg magazine implies,
if you fail to attend said soirée, you nobody, will have no way to claim truly understanding the composition of an
unconditional love dinner dance

laugh internally, swirling,
riffing on eat love pray,
this ditty is what I instantaneously say...

what do these swells,
with their self-appointed importance,
know to probe/defame my claim,
to this poem's title?

these are the factors,
the stepping stones from
my minute to the minute next

love

am I not oathed, bound
unconditionally
by my very own name,
which life bestowed upon me at birth,
to compose of this love
in every etching lineage, signed verse kissed upon our faces,
then, as well, oh so well, so swell,
to kiss our babies
whose smooth skin has no familiarity with
time and all my love
all my love,
uncritically makes no distinction

dinner

she loves me through the silence
of my oohing and ahhing,
these sounds,
escaping willingly,
unconditionally,
as delight unconstrained at the delicate deliciousness her love
has implanted in the dishes she preps,
with which she
preserves us

dance

she love to dine upon
her laughter at
my akimbo'd imitation of
'so idiot, you think you can dance'
hip hop
begging me between crinkling boisterous hardy laughter,
please, not to hurt myself

she, a Martha Graham educated,
Argentine Tango ballet mistress,
a life long dancer whose genes forbid her
to pass by the sound of music
without breaking out, breaking into dance,
in perfect synchronicity
to whatever the composer calls upon her,
to present the music, to inform us,
in body graphic form,
unconditionally
what they intended us to
see within and between each note

I need no tuxedo,
no fancy dress,
no permissions to comprehend
the meaning, the actuality,
the unconditionally of

unconditional love dinner dance

I dine and dance with love daily,
and yes, to be very sure,
unconditionally
for is there any other kind?

“People say they don’t understand [my songs], but I never believe that.
It’s like understanding an embrace…”Leonard Cohen

<>for cj<>

perhaps, there is someone in this world, who does not
understand an embrace; something physical no doubt.

perhaps, you thought that first kiss was the portal to
shedding the inhibitors, lobes stings, first arousal aroma.

but you’ve been practicing embracing from toddler age,
but someday, it traverses from hugs to all-encompassing,

the sensory adaptors, go wild from shock; and you think
to yourself, dear god, you’ve been holding back on me!

   <>

two hands,
smooth the shoulders, slide down, elbows grasp,
you’ve been taken unawares, while fully aware you’ve been,
taken, taken, and need to take, more and back, take again,
and you can’t decide between reciprocation or incantation
breaking separation, if only to start over from the last lingering...

touching vibration and every sense erupting, and you think
I’ve never been fully  embraced, and now I understand the
music and muscle of your poetry, and will add my verses,
lay on my stanzas,
ocean crossings, seafaring voyages, exploring hands on hips,
then encapsulating another’s face, stroke, not squeezing

arms come to rest on a pacific neck, the hairs tensile teasing,
and you can’t believe this newly formed addiction and why
everyone simply doesn’t go about constant craving embracing,
racingoverloading uncomprehending, it’s fulsome fulfilling, quenching
a new thirst, a new taste, extending your ******* reach everywhere

you clear the catch, the cache, and your voice now begs, announces,
commands, whispers, screams, so many things that all emerge as
simply a guttural exclamation raw and needy, again, again, again,
you say it as if that was your vocabulary entire, a one word language
because it is, it is, the language of insatiable, the speech of
only love poetry*
embracing.

75°F & Alive & Minding the Perfection

morning mindfulness,
surrounded by perfect,
once again, may it be
forever this-a-way

I have no idea what
I’ve done to be so
blessed; and I repay
with gratitude in this
psalm hymnal, poor
though it may be,
it is genuine, poured
from within the open
confines of all I have
learned, earned, & burned;

75°F & Alive  & Minding the Perfection,
the color contrast is  an overwhelming,
an all encompassed scheme
makes neighbors,
even,
total strangers greet each
other like beloved brothers & sisters,
this heaven is infecting,
an infectious breeze of the
stillness of early morn
born and carried in our cell’s walls,
strong are the nuclei, and this
memory, this poem devotion,
this ttributary of words
flows with slowed ease,
and the
troubles are banished to the
back of the pack,
tho the line be long,
the golden oldies music
banishes them to a temporary oblivion
and within a totality of solitude alone,  
momentarily,
my heart,
fulsome,
yes trite but true, is crazy
overflowing,
I’m in danger of loving everyone,
for to not,
would be
criminal
if it were even a
possibility

if i could snap my genie fingers,
beware, I’d summon y’all,
a global contraction perfect,
to convent/sit beside me, your presence
welcomed with a hot beverage,
a cooling drink, for every one
always get what they w a n t

*and
yea, yeah, yeah
this is a forever & always,
only  a
love poem…

how is the weather today,
the inquiry semi-formally, mumbly delivered
(in pj's, eyes closed, body turned away)

and I softly smile for somewhere here
the poet-boy once wrote
"all my poems begin with weather"

and the composing begins, which of course,
is the decomposing of me-pieces
into nanosecond emotions
that each becomes a verses
until a certain voice
wise whispers "no mas"

my reply, nano bytes of me,
is a forecast personal and tailored
to our GPS location,
the bedroom

"Swami says
looking inside, outside too,
report and retort
it appears quite nice,"

(quietly semi-whispering,
100% chance of snuggling, followed by severe
love making, its arrival foreshadowed by lighting biting and
foot rubbing, and licking winds of heaving breathing,
conditions, we explorers of the caves and local mounts
so oft encounter on our Atlantic captive isle,
and bravely sally forth to face its bullets of kicks 'n kisses)

from under the covers,
we hear swarming,
warning bolts of
snorting derision
but this fire eating ,
most fearsome
nostrillian, reptilian morning beastie noise,
we hardy sailors hardily choose to ignore

but lack of detail is unappreciated so our response amended:

"looking outside, report and retort
it appears quite nice, with 100% chance
of showers of coffee and kisses"

which earns me a sweetie kick

all my poems, the poet-man once wrote,

"all my poems end with whether"

apparently, this one as well.  
oh well, oh well!

7/8/17 8:14am

this accidental status, we are all very busy
to be on the lookout for, the odds are not
terrible compared to the lottery, a modest
1 in 300 million, but it’s an easy buy and bust, just a two dollar bill, two lousy singles,
for a legal purchased fantasy that’s
cheaper than a cup of coffee

but finding love is miserable murderous
murmuring mess, can be very expensive, and
exhausting too, physically and mentally,you’re swimming in shallow waters tween razor rocky coral, begging for a slice of your double sized portion of anguish

And yet,
can’t be that hard,
it is a mega billion busyness,
with no cure or satisfactory vaccine,
and the randomness can drive you
mad, make panting to-pack it in,
until your spidey sensnses tingling,
a ketchup and bitter herbs mixture,
and you’re sweating, and it’s 100% anticipation of the well known (!)
unknown risks, this easy
walkway~path in the woods,
leads you on, with marvelous views,
even babbling brooks, till you find
you’ve climbed halfway way up a mountain and to make it to the top,
it’s a rocky boulder strewn,
ankle and heart twisting road that
takes you to the grandest place and plan

oh but, boy,
where the view of the worldscape is only
fantastico, but the only way back down involves throwing yourself into a
quarry pit, full of dangerous chemicals,
that burn scars into your inside parts, invisible wounds so untreatedbly unspeakably bad and incurable
again and again,

and you say stupid things like
I can’t help myself,
what’s a matter daddy,
just want some sugar in my bowl,
and when your neck gets broke,
and it’ll take incredible processing
to just get you to walk again,
and yet
the single
odiferous scent, that amuse bouche on
your lips, and you’ll do it all again for
once monte carlo throw of the dice,
because the odds ain’t that bad,
everbody lives somebody
and given the billions of opportunities walking in just this planet,
even one in a million sounds
pretty good,
even,


very…fair

went to the doc for
my birthday suit check up,
usual barrage of tests,
withdrew 8 vials of blood red, and
pronounced me to be
officially
in his win column,
all good ‘cept for my

general deterioration
that is an unscheduled, indeterminate
process of time's steady determination,
for which there are tests
but no cure,
so he says,
don’t bother

after the routine is completed,
he asks with a twinkle,
for he knows this man
too X two
well,
“son, what really ails ya?”

Doc -
“don’t know whatI I am made for”

have not tasted the
excitations
of
falling in love in so long,
I’m purposeless

it’s the falling
that is
the inttiation intricate
that makes my
HR skyrocket to
130, even 150,
where the stress
is an exertion that
benefits and strengthens
heart muscles?

at a higher level
of stress
for intense but brief,
a necessity for long term
heart health

the diagnosis was simplified,
dear boy
( he is younger than me)
you have
ED

nope doc not the issue in hand,
he smiled at my savvy,

it is of
emotional disability
that I speak of

your life devoted
to loving the loving process,

This is your red engine
that can and could,
and would still,
but at your stature and age,
it is not as easy as
back in the day
when you smiled at the pretty girls,
and they un hesitatingly,
smiled back,
and you were on the road to
the inflation of infatuation,
highs and lows of an
incumbent incurable
you~humanist,
a valuation expert
of the human connection

there isn’t a cure
but to try
and fail fairly
repeatedly,

never give in,
never give up,

for the paths to
where you seek,
everywhere,
and I await happily
you next report
why you
stand before me,
with heart palpitations
for the very best
of reasons,
for my human friend,

**that is what you are made for!”

what does her true voice sound like?*

going on seven, maybe eight years,
know the thumbprint of her stylish,
at twenty paces, her tower recognizable,
leaning in, she is the garden, can’t tell
where the garden ends and she begins

she opens the pages and lets slip out the
exposed flora+fauna of of her heart’s eyes observatory,
revelation unintended but wanted, she can’t be helped,
for she, both a revealer, reveler, party girl, beat poet

know her
in the bursting:  of the spring welcoming festival
in the bursting:                     of the season of loves busted unhappiness,
I know her well enough but not at all

in the sparse, frozen soil, and in the contra-blooming,
in every season, she warps my judgement,
with words unheard, unknown, the dictionary my accompanist,
what she says is a language purportedly in common, maybe not,
she takes me on a tour of her symphonic insights,
as my foreign tour guide

enwrapped, entrapped, I am, as she crooks her hair, in the
curved shape of a question mark top,
unknowing what does her voice sound like?

try different versions, a tasting menu of mellifluous, and
imagine myself to sleep, wondering and wandering,

what does her voice sound like?

off to sleep,
smiling, frowning
upside downing


11:51pm Tue May 5

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.

“who
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


who
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.

____________
http://academyofamericanpoets.cmail19.com/t/ViewEmail/y/8D7DB5963FD3CE00/98E58011B0AFF2EF20B193FBA00ED1DB

"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

when
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

when
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
boy,
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

”You going away with no word of farewell
Will there be not a trace left behind
Well, I could've loved you better, didn't mean to be unkind
You know that was the last thing on my mind*”
Tom Paxton
<>

the lyrics get caught in my throat,
of Tom’s guilty confessional,
so instead of voice emitted,
the letters and words
fall to the ground en-
capsulated in tears
multicolored,
the salt & &pepper
coloration of sad regret
for the multifold &
man-I-fold
mistakes
recalled in black & white graydations
of reflections of loves lost that yet haunt
and now honored, at last, 
 with their very own
words of
farewell

“it’s the time of the season
When love runs high
In this time, give it to me easy
And let me try with pleasured hands”

Time of the Season,
Song by Zombies
1 9 6 8
<~>
was 18 years young,
when first heard these words,
now in my-eighth decade,
times is both
plentiful
and yet delimited by the onsetting sunset finale,
but
and so are the
accumulated  dictionary of word’s available,
that I command,
legions, armies, corps,
all to command,
to properly say…
yes,
it is the
Time of Season

come to the. lean sheer clean paper single sheaf,
with no agenda,
perhaps to just amend an overdue,
thank you

these pleasure hands
have always been
greedy,
for the sensuality
that stroking fingers command,
the contextual sensuality
is far greater than you ordinarily
stop to think about…

but I remember
every face, every cheek,
that I have stroked,
think upon it!

the soft curvature of the skin’s mellifluous
shapely contouring to you
your pointer
finger,
thinking simple
nothing finer,
more pleasurable,
totally expressing
the emotive bonds
two human can share

mother trains her. children
with a deeper understanding
how love is simple,
enduring and stronger than
any time’s decay could contemplate
despoiling

and to those women I have
adored,
whose thieving stole my precious loving,
I
thank you,
for your taking was a giving to me,
making a whole person
understand than to be whole
was to be parted,
for two are the greatest
one,
an equation that proofs
our experience
that though solitude
inspires
our greatest creativity


is is only because my eyes are
infused with and for
love
aspired and  gained…

these hands,
more powerful than any other *****,
the eyes may have its
but will never touch
your child, your women,
your sense that giving up
yourself,
is an enehacemnt
of all you are,
a single finger
surveying the face of a beloved
is an electric shock
that soothes and satisfies
simultaneously,
unique…


keep those pleasured hands,
fully employed,
bring pleasure to the world,
so that others will understand
it is now or never,
a line drawn upon
a beloved
is
poem only you,
can write

“Words are beautiful, but emotion is divine” (patty m)

~these are the divine words of a beautiful soul, patty m~


this Missouri grandmother writes and I am willfully, duty-bound,
to comply for she commissions a poem with every insightful pithy and
ever one of her dear hugs, of which these is no limit and each one a treasure of a gratitude that flows contra-directionally, surpassing given-grace and lawful gravity, for all of her words flow simultaneously north and south, heavenwards, and earth planted, east / west, magnetic poles attracting divinity wherever it can be found
and all I can do is proffer

just one more only love poem, which is the blessing and the curse the lord blessed me with, love is  beautiful and it is divinely originated in each of our humble hearts, plucked from trees and fed to us wherever fruit of the fields grows, shaped like sweet and **** berries…not all that is divine, of necessity to be beautiful, words, them too, a mixed blessing, vulnerable and subject by the abuse of human weakness and fragility…but this much I assure myself with confidence,
and you too,
her words, well,

limitless, her every poem is hand woven, unhid, in the fooling
plain earthenware that the potter’s wheel created,
all gifts to each of us;

But my fragility mandates I speak slow and hesitantly of things beautiful that contain the white glow sparkler light of divinity, for I have attracted and deserved many failures, far greater than the rarer success, so my knowledge yet oft suspect, is mostly merely well imagined but know this:
her skill,
her expertise
her intimate comprehension
within the beautiful and divine expressions of her kind appreciation she deigns to share…words like a mighty, beautiful like a powerful Missouri river, driven by all specie of love…but none more powerful, more divine than that of a loving womanly grandmother

this, yes, only a love poem to be sure,
for the beautiful,
The Divine Miss (Patty) M.

writing love poetry in/on time of hatred

<~>

not for the absence of love, for there is sufficient out and about,
in the eyes of children who cannot hide their glee at your surprises,
tousled morning hair patted down almost into not-a-horror-show,
a shapely body in a black one piece suit, that speaks of hints and
mischievous frolic, a summer night~right of taking, reciprocation,
god’s coffee delivered bedside every morn, with kisses of tenderness

but

these are the days when hatred speaks loudest,
volume of volumes,
and the hypocrisy runs blood red in the streets and we we wonder
has the world learned nothing from the horrific history of the prior
century, the absence of easy solutions for those who reject in the
provident supply of the low humane treatment of a world where the
word
society
is a mirthless grimacing joke

maybe that’s why I I turn on the love songs and music, a soupçon
of cherishing, a wail for its absence and loss,
the thrill unique it provided,
and may yet again, and to just remember, remember, remember!

why we obsess about crazy love in the artistry of our lives

so, I will force myself…to write of tenderness, let sneaky,
much needed,
sentimental in…

oops, looks like I already did…

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?
nonsense!

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

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
elegiac,
but never prosaic and though
formulaic
think more
voltaic and paradisiac

electric heaven

go forth and scribe
you got the secret
recipe

she stood by me even when
most of my disasters
were of mine own creative actions,
but in the crises that always
unexpectedly
rose up dramatically
when driving off road,
where there were
no guardrail guarantees

so when the doc says
“sir, needed surgery right away,”
She unashamedly inquires
“ok, what about tomorrow”
making us all chuckle,
and doc a smile/responder,
“how about 6:00am the day after?”
and you accept (me observing)
with
a stern smile of pretending concession

so when recovery consists of
three ++ walks a day through
the corridors of the Unit
which morphed from an endless huge
to a
small prison courtyard,
where in a day everyone,
patients doctors and
rotating shifts of nurses
are greeted by me,
idiot extrovert,
with an intitial
giant hello and a wink,
which after first three
“shuffles around the block”
has become a
saluting exultation,
a look of surprise
with a
“You Again!”

that gets the inevitable
twinkle from everyone

somehow
this greeting came home with us
and thereafter when,
she stirred awake
to see me shuffling in with
coffee and a quarter cup
of crunchy Kashi & banana
(a/k/a nana & banana)
and a too loud
“You Again!”
which infallible makes
an AM grumpy disappear
and
soon becomes
a time honored
ritual

now that I’ve honored the oath
which was promised jokingly
by me to She,
that I be the last to depart,
cause doing it twice,
was an unbearable job,
and long enough gone
and I am back in my
own private recovery
honeyed (yellow) painted room,
The Enpty Pillow
with imaginary smiley face,
hears a mourning yellowing phrase,

and when the grandchildren
make
their obligatory dragged along
monthly visitation they be greeted
by old friends
a firm hug and an
emboldened
“You Again”
and their smile says
“you’re embarrassing us”
+++ childlike acceptance

and the rivulets ridiculousness

that accompany this scripting,
+ any accidental overhearing,
or get even getting a read,

is fresh brought out of
tears storage
and each teary one with
a Hey!
meant to be cheeryr
greet & repeat

😉us again!😉

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


olp