Stop trying to remember his scent, he smelled like summer and reminds you of the time he made you laugh so hard, you snorted out milk on that dead, hazy day.

2. Don't waste your day trying to decipher what colour his eyes were, it'll only remind you of the galaxies and constellations that you once saw in his eyes

3. Stop trying to retrace the shape of his mouth in the middle of the night, you'll choke on your tongue trying to taste the mint he devoured seconds before pulling you in for a kiss

4. Stop reliving the times you clasped hands together, the glass plate will fall off your trembling hands.

5. Burn this list, admit that the galaxies and constellations shining in his eyes were wilted, the one in yours are bursting with fire. Remember on the dead, hazy day his laugh sounded like nails running down a chalkboard. Remember when you kissed, the weeds growing from his mouth entangled the roses blooming in yours.

Realize that one day, another boy is going to come and plant daisies where he left behind thorns.

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this is my concession speech

having dabbled in the above black arts,
what needs saying, been said
and pun pardon,
not too alive,
like fav jeans,
pretty much worn to holey death,
put aside for a well needed rest

I am losing,
a real loss,
not candor, not inspiration,
but finding new ways to say new things,
well aware that Balanchine said
"there are only new combinations"

nature, I have dabbled,
but ready, easy to concede
this is Harlon's
River, his wilderness territory

he without peer,
unequaled in essaying on
this planet's essentials

as for the magic of daily grinding,
nothing could be finer,
than to see the family and the daily bread
made, fed, and put to bed,
than by the hands of
betterdays,
while
Pradip
makes me laugh,
with his wifely wisdom and jokes
and the humanity of his insights
and prods deeper,
make me a
weeper-profusely,
keeping us all
real and unplugged,
and
Bala's
journal's mysteries illuminate and spice
the places hidden,
by me, from myself

the
r
man who has got his shoes impudently railing,
cap'n never complains or whines,
but in precious few,
he rivets you to the earth,
fixing rooting you to a rooted place,
he intoxicates with
southern simple and pithy,
and makes the title poet,
a worthy one

could I go on naming names?

sure,
Mother
Maria
said, "chile, it ain't necessarily so,"
Kelly
adds beautiful,
and I agree with her rose
that grows even in her rugged soul's clime,
Simrik,
a child who writes
old wisdom from where acquired unknown,
and
Oliviaputs the
O
on my mouth smiling


anyway can't,
write so good no more (see),
finding
SJR's
voices now
in my head,
saying
careful boy,
you already wrote that
in a single consorting chorus voice

been authorized to dribble drivel,
but that don't cut for prideful fools
like yours true and truly,
tho looking at this,
what lies above,
would be doing
an inaccurate accurate,
calling this worthwhile,
feels like
a phony smile

so what to pursue?

silence not an option,
for the brain inferno'd
and the devils pitchfork
pinpricking with stabs of
visionary guilty judgements

so of what to write?

the answering simple uncomplexity,
Shauuna,
so here are the things I tell myself

forget the me in we and write
of thee, let that be my solitary
tag,
pray god don't make a hash of it,
write of new poets uncovered,
play thru ego and play hard to
recover thyself
by focusing on
uncovering
thee,
the new poets who
will lead the way,
bring this old dog~man,
way back from astray

Written by a failing hand, shaken by grief,

on a dark display board of time, perhaps distorted a bit

I 'll be just a remembrance, later, fighting an ongoing  battle

with the hands of life that constantly erase,

marked as a doleful couplet, not easily forgotten,

a sad verse that forces one to contemplate

before falling in to sleep night after night

threatened by many unsettling thoughts.


A seed carried along, by the spirit of my ancestors

from a purple dawn, in distant past

an unbroken chain in DNA strand,

which dad with a smile tied within me,

love, dreams, chants for peace, unfailing silver light

love for an immortal tune that always rings in my psyche,

a primordial sound that creates reverberations.

I am a memory my sons commune within loneliness

on a day in future and looks out through

the window, to hear the wind hum along

in an unknown land, a flash of light

that helps to move through coagulated darkness,

look! there appear few drops of tears

on the corners of those eyes.

sometimes i wonder
if the world i live in
is one i made up in my head
that exists only for me

and if that’s true
i don’t mind
because the world i’ve created
is filled with madness
but the best madness i’ve created for myself
is you