My black cat
of twelve years
pretends not to know me
following my five months of hospitalized absence.
Perhaps it is the newly acquired wheelchair,
or the motorized invalid bed?
Why should he be any different than some old friends
whose calls are now noticeably less frequent
than prior to my paralyzing accident?
Or perhaps it is I,
too cinched up in my need bag
to reach out for a pet pat
or a pal chat?

Upon reflection,
we are the source of all tears,
as if naked,
alone,
in an infinite sea,
backpedaling,
breast stroking,
with a limitless blue sky
the only encouragement,
to remain afloat.

Five years before retirement
my father in law
posted a note on the refrigerator,
"Everyday throw something away."
I have come to realize
the profound wisdom of this advice.
Letting go is the enlightened path
to contentment.

Arctic air ,
a Canadian export,
not ledgered in any book of trade,
replaced hunger as the body's sole attention.
There will be time for additional Canadian exports:
wheat, canola, eggs, bacon, beans, potatoes...
But the temperature plunge
routed the homeless last night
from their million dollar bridge encampments,
scattering their shanty collective,
into a forced survival march to heated shelters.
"Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord.  
Come in my children.
God loves you."

Were I to kiss your hand,
and I long to,
would I see my reflection
in crescent moons,
or upon dangers red?

The double chamber,
the grit,
the granular source
and collective pit
of one's corporeal time
accelerating
each instant
through
that check valve
of
now/then,
.
.
.
that
drop
zone
below
the present tense.

To know you beyond flesh,
not to be the cause,
but to swim in one of your tears,
that our silence will bind
more than the power of words.

"The wind has stopped"
Has there ever been a sillier phrase?
What gust has ever been
                            un-been?

Your scent lingers,
the shape of your body lingers
upon the linen
where we bed.
Wrinkles in time
will smooth the sheets
but I believe
we have created
a lasting perturbation
within the continuum of time 'n space.

Alice,
There are no straight shots
                                          to the moon -

        there are going
                to be
                  in-
                 ter-
               ludes.

It's in the bag
or is it?
The unmeasured liquids
that I've been drinking this morning,,
coffee, prune juice, cranberry, pill water
then the mandatory diuretic
taken at 6:00 a.m.,
a cath a ten,
lunch at twelve thirty,
and then a lap moat of **** at one!
A transfer board out of the wheelchair
onto the made bed.
Rocking 'n rolling off the wet pants,
rocking and rolling on a pair of dry slacks.
"****, ****, I hate this."

My dear,
A little matter I've failed to mention,
I'm the deposed Ruritratinate of Ruritania.
A sad story, really,
My uncle deposed me for the declaring the empire a poetic state.
I was taken to the boarder,
made to swim one of the glacial rivers isolating my country.
I live an ex-patriot's life,
each morning writing a poem,
and sending it to my loyal subjects attached to the next wind.

Were you and I
to breathe that high on alter sigh
alta volta,
you cresting that last little tremble,
and I, a little withered,
held you making us a pair of linen hills.

Am I the guy you want to hang love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you want for your last name?

Am I the belt loops for you, Darlin'
Am I the boots you'll be shinning?

Am I the rut you want your wheels in, Darlin'
Am I the Harley you want to be riding?

Am I the guy you want to hang your love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you want for your last name?

Am I the mountain you want climbing,
Am I the trail you want to be hiking

Am I the guy you want to hang love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you want for your last name?

Am I the belt loops for you, Darlin'
Am I the buckle you'll be shinning?

Am I the boots you'll be pull'in
Am I the song you'll be sing'in

Am I the guy you want to hang love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you will take your name?

I know that I'm the guy that needs your love'in
Will you take my name?
Darlin', will you take my name?

====
* I ain't no song writer, so have at it.  
Don't be bashful, you got any advice
on improving this ballad plez post,
including take that dang ditty out and bury the **** thang.

Am I the guy you want to hang love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you want for your last name?

Am I the belt loops for you, Darlin'
Am I the boots you'll be shinning?

Am I the rut you want your wheels in, Darlin'
Am I the Harley you want to be riding?

Am I the guy you want to hang your love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you want for your last name?

Am I the mountain you want climbing,
Am I the trail you want to be hiking

Am I the guy you want to hang love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you want for your last name?

Am I the belt loops for you, Darlin'
Am I the buckle you'll be shinning?

Am I the boots you'll be pull'in
Am I the song you'll be sing'in

Am I the guy you want to hang love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you will take your name?

I know that I'm the guy that needs your love'in
Will you take my name?
Darlin', will you take my name?

====
* I ain't no song writer, so have at it.  
Don't be bashful, you got any advice
on improving this ballad plez post,
including take that dang ditty out and bury the **** thang.

Am I the guy you want to hang love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you want for your last name?

Am I the belt loops for you, Darlin'
Am I the boots you'll be shinning?

Am I the rut you want your wheels in, Darlin'
Am I the Harley you want to be riding?

Am I the guy you want to hang your love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you want for your last name?

Am I the mountain you want climbing,
Am I the trail you want to be hiking

Am I the guy you want to hang love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you want for your last name?

Am I the belt loops for you, Darlin'
Am I the buckle you'll be shinning?

Am I the boots you'll be pull'in
Am I the song you'll be sing'in

Am I the guy you want to hang love on, Darlin'
Am I the guy you will take your name?

I know that I'm the guy that needs your love'in
Will you take my name?
Darlin', will you take my name?

====
* I ain't no song writer, so have at it.  
Don't be bashful, you got any advice
on improving this ballad plez post,
including take that dang ditty out and bury the **** thang.

I've never met Andy Rooney.  So I can't truthfully say I know Mr. Rooney.  But you can't help forming an opinion after watching him on 60 Minutes for more years than I care to admit.

First, Andy's opinionated.  Well, who wouldn't be if they were paid, presumably well,  given an entire week to collect and share their thoughts with millions of viewers, and on any matter that rankled you that week!

Second, Andy has Svengali eye brows that you just can't take your eyes off.  I'm sure CBS provides Andy free barbering, as sure as I am that he tells the barber, "Nothing off the brows."

Third, how many times has Andy told his audience not to send him things.  After which he dips into a cardboard box and pulls out a cheese grater, a bible printed on playing cards, or a logo baseball cap?
Andy, don't worry; I got the message.

Is my minute up yet?  

Fourth, Andy's hand shakes.  Not unusual for a man his age.  It's not likely to happen, but I wouldn't mind shaking that hand just once.

a poem is not a ***
made of potter's clay
shaped by spinning
against an artist's clever hand,
nor as useful as a fired cup or plate,
but if a poem should fall to ground
it will not break,
should it find a broken heart
it may collect the chards
and remake a loving vase.

A man that has everything
may appear to have nothing,
or like Janice said,
"Freedom is another word
for nothing left to lose."

You have become the admonition,
"DON'T THINK OF ELEPHANTS"
and of course I do,
think,
not of pachyderms
but you,
at odd and random times
during the course of a day.
Thoughts that pop in and out of existence
as if they were sourced
from a shared quantum flux
that spiritually bonds us
by means that we will never truly know..

We fool ourselves
Holding tight
With anchored
Aspirations
That one can
Walk back,
As one walked out,
With the world
Unchanged
As if time
Were a vagrant
That's been arrested.

Astronomers tell
there are no satellite moons
circling Venus,
but I am proof that they are wrong,
though my path leaves no trace that can be seen,
but you, my dear, know well,
that when I pass the dew does settle.

A thought had me
but melted away
then another
that failed
to hold my attention
then another for just a second
that promised
insight
that vapoized
into a scattered inattention.

A thought had me
but melted away
then another
that failed
to hold my attention
then another for just a second
that promised
insight
that vapoized
into a scattered inattention.

At my desk I'm reviewing
a printout of your words in red.
The larger the font size
the more times you used it.
"Love" was the first
justified left,
then in rapid success:
"like", "don't", "know", "heart",
It's the don't know that stands between us.

There's so much to learn
at the super check-out,
Oprah's last diet,
speculation that Tom might be queer,
Angelina's new tattoo, or was that baby?
And that Jennifer still has this thing for Pitt(s)

At night
when you comb your hair
you direct and cast
a lively Balinese shadow theatre
across the walls and ceiling
of our slumber room.

At dusk
I was at the bridge
scanning
the bar code backlight parade
of transpanners
and was sad to have missed you.

I have walked where
five thousand men died
on a single street before dusk,
all in the cause and behest of leaders
they were too low to ever meet.
And those leading men dined well that night
with fine wine & port and femme escorts
planning the next day's self retreats.

Being a man's man
I don't wear a locket,
but when I read your poems,
I sense I'm wearing your cameo heart.

Belching choo choo white,
Vapor clouds, shadow-skud
This Appalachian range.

I had forgotten
the brilliance
of the country night,
it's firmament crystal bright,
given all those years
blinded by the city lights,
the screen crawling marquees,
the undulating neon,
the flashing photon peep parades,
the incessant gyre of emergency beacons,
the try too hard candle dinners,
better a distant star
that reminds us who we are
than the sun unmoved
in one's back yard.

Nearly everything is possible
While remaining improbable;
certainties range between near zero & 1.0
What say our chances
We take a walk
While you reach back
For my hand on slippery rocks?

I dare to feel,
with searching fingers,
a bifurcated wish
to take the path to you
or the one that leads to me.

I dare to feel,
asking only
from you, my sweet,
your thoughtful understanding.

My naked vulnerability
to your alluring charms,
that I,
that we,
could be washed with rain,
As if lust and sin
Could be so easily entertained.

I dare to feel,
I dare to feel,
the disappointment
I know will come,
will come,
as our bridge decays
with the vanity that is your way.
Or is it MY WAY?

From you the seed
to what I hold dear,
though now an old gnarled oak,
and afflicted,
you are in your final winter,
come spring
you will not leaf,
nor will a sparrow
find solace in your branches.

So much depends
On the black cat
sleeping on the red sofa
flanked by two white pillows.

Vestigial  seas
Pumped briny red
By chambered hearts
In pulsing waves
Lub dub
Dub.

serpentine river
guides my eye - snow cap mountains,
blue shawl sky - white clouds.

Though
Their bodies are benched on Church Street,
Their minds are capable
Of startling flight,
Time travel,
Trans Universe travel,
Invisible train travel
They take the blue line -
"All aboard for Valhalla, Inferno, Acadia, Hades,
Bliss, Abandon, Elysium, Pandemonia ..."
They sway clutching the overhead strap,
Eyes glazed, rheumy, vacant, or fiendishly happy,
Transfixed by the scenic whir that no one can see
But them.

set,
non-set,
Containment.

Litter
scratch,
  rustle-lated
Un-natural boxed
  cat ****
Cheshired
   grinned
With natural pride
  of being.

Can you feel the lash,
My butterfly kiss,
My little hands,
My cupid lips?
Mommy, mommy,
Wakeup!
Are you okay?
Are you sick?

This night
my mind is a homing pigeon eager to vector notes
to and from a distant
unmet,
Unconsummated
love.
It's the message content
I struggle.
Is it love when your words fillet me open
and render me carrion
in my own dreams?

Eventually all water drains to the sea,
and so to the body's waters drain to its urinary bladder.
But the bladder,
unlike the sea,
must be drained every few hours,
call it a normative ****** rhythm,
taken for granted, as it should be, by the functionally normal,
but the spine paralyzed
must be catherized
four, five six times a day.
**** breaks through an inserted tube,
to which I can personally report,
the ***** prefers piercing
then being pierced.

I pen my thoughts
upon the bottom of a hidden lake
that reflects a moon,
in the way old men shake
with quivering lips
that worry bead
each any every breath
that zoetrope lives mislead.
I too rise each day to a cellophane sun,
that tricks and flutters
vertigo dreams
upon a bed of Hazelnut wings.

the steel on steel clank
of a canal lock gating
is a lonely sound to hear,
and so too your parting words,
though wise, gentle and reassuring,
it is our channel that's closing
and I do whelm - what feels like tears.

It doesn't matter how many times I face,
a blank page,
its the yet unfilled rind
that sours my stomach.
Some of these poems write themselves.
I can never tell how long they've been molding,
no doubt some for decades,
ruminating, aging like fine cellar cheese,
while other poems are curdles of the moment,
milked from the air.

The sea to me,
Or the gulls above,
Appeared equidistant.
Decision,
Zeit, or flight,
off the cliffs at Mohr?
                                          Oh
                                                   so nevermore!

close your eyes,
settle your mind,
still your heart,
we will be one in silence.