Cold beer,
a long necked bottle held to my forehead
and in my throat,
to my lips,
so relief comes both ways,
glad for it,
the double of the cool,
helps the day of troubled nothingness,
and the long necked bottle makes it
worth the extra second of anticipated tasty wait

can't drink in the river park,
don't cotton to brown paper bags,
do it anyway cause the East River
tides me over on its way
thru the Verrazano Narrows,
bound for the Atlantic with me low rider spirit in tow,
a devil may care attitude en contrôle

this troubadour opened the store at 700am
but not a one came looking for a song,
but the mail came reliable,
with dues due,
promises that need keeping,
and other items,
what the grownups call responsibilities

June Monday early eve and the Moran tugboats
ply their trade like reliable ****** to the sailors,
and their larger than bathtub size toys,
turning containers, freighters, into docile boys
who do as they are told on their way to ports far

there are stick figures outlined on the hexagon
paving stones that are so nyc for me,
here pedestrian! follow your designated path
here pedestrian, you must walk to be safe arrived

but I take to the railing,
where  Isaac-bound and mesmerized,
I imagine surfing the churning wakes on the surface
of the riveting tides and wonderous wanderlust for
where we are bound...

no voice heard from the heavens,
saying Abraham put down that knife,
because I have not passed the test of true belief,
perhaps the river's invitation is my test,
if I should sing another song here,
perhaps it will tale the end of this tell...

~for Dante Rocio, who shares visions~

-from where does inspiration come from?

from
intimacy with the inanimate,
the population of objects,
coarse, beauteous that provoke,
the museums, the gutter, the worn,
the just unrealized, imagined,
from
learning to speak hearts
to speak the heart language

from
from animated blood, eyes, taste buds,
when you pass thru the molecules of me,
by contact real or imagined,
desperation, satisfaction organic,

from
where do these questions arise,
the answers as well,
they are tangible, yet intangible,
even

from,
a notion indistinct,
an untraceable path,
hidden routers,
deflecting reflecting,
even a current direct,
invisible to the naked

from where?

a fair question,
answers, unreliable,
for in the forming,
the froming
is always
transfigured,
distorted

June 2014

What does this life desire of me,
that it granted and
then removed,
the knowledge of perfection?
leaving me striving,
writhing,
shivering unceasingly,
in my saddened, bursting,
hacking and hackneyed chest

“the simplest definition of our learning to count to infinity”

wrote those words
to a stranger in pain, awful pain,
asking him to count his blessings

now awful pain
no stranger to me

a pain four decades long,
that the surgeon promised was fully excised.

but today was triggered,
chest pain dagger ingredient emergency room

so I am counting for,
but not to,
counting on

infinity

when the wounding cannot be recalled,
only a minor scar to struggle from wonder whence
came it from

which is the definition of reaching the
infinity place,
where finite comes to rest

for she who loved me vainly

vainly
in a way that produced the result she undesired,
my response harsh and swift,
her fan-tasy has no place on serious battlefields

those poem are battlefronts mine,
that are the numbered chapters in
My Revelations

still, she still reads my poetry

think on it, it’s confusing,
my unkind cut that came from deep anger,
it was outed but not for her, because of her
but for me

for to love
permission must be asked and both
given

and the line is wavy but 100% solid.

but reading my poetry, is that a violation as well?

my poems are me inside out.

but if you look in me deepest,
forgiveness is there,
not seeking contact,
but hate
is inconsistent
with walking a
path humble