Apr 2018
a short poem
<•>
kept women
my words are all kept women;
an old fashioned term
that has no currency today
but true for me
they but be the heart of my hearts,
when they leave my employ
keep them well, these yeowomen,
good fellows all,
for they will always be your
one true reciprocating lovers
keep ‘em
please
<•>
lie
how many gray April Saturdays are inventoried,
that we be bequeathed yet another this dull day of the 7th of the 4th month,
of errands and tax preparation and poem initiative-nationhood
the city backyard is a dulled green, energy ****** by one three too many nor’easters in March that “Sherman-through-the-south”
came marching double time,
leaving the leaves, airport-delayed
and the spring poem planting, struggling
buy milk, lie and get a refund, do stuff and
don’t forfeit forget to
do laundry and
lie
write the longest short poem in history
that green-shots nature won’t provide,
so Me absinthe wills into existence
<•>
this English Woman
tomfoolery’d me continuously,
nature comes to her on knave-bended knees begging for
a verbal sword tap upon each shoulder for a knighting of a periodical glorious poem.
She provides.
Does woman live in a glen, upon the wetlands,
walk moors
in moons grasp,
or upon a table way in the back of the pub, drinking pints of imagination?
man will die disconnected for so many “reasons”
but if his passing precedes an answering to where,
wherever she locale composes,
man will haunt her residential terrain happily
<•>
Seven Hours
the clock implies that the body sleet-slept, probed deep-dark for seven hours.
disbelieving, then recalling the dues Frodo-Friday eve paid:
three and half hours with two thousand others at the Opera,
hours of Placido Domingo,
extracts from the body
emotional countenance,
homage to artistry exemplary;
the pharmacist denies having this drug among the sleep aids
so to the opera must return to earn my occasion occasional dreamland refreshment
a well worthy trade: innervation trust rest from enervation must
<•>
idiosyncratic
all my idiot life wanted to be
syncratic
unique something special different
then I realized that’s what
everyone wants and we are all idioticsyncratic
so much trying, exhausting life,
it’s wonderfully human and classically
idiotic
<•>
* Postfaces*
Postfaces are used in literary works so that non-pertinent information appears at the end, to not confuse the reader.
this very short poem was born, birthed, on a salty grey Saturday, April Seventh, Two Thousand and Eighteen,
precisely between
Eight and Nine O’clock Eastern Standard Time
The opera was Luisa Miller at the Metropolitan Opera,
Lincoln Center, New York City.
Everything Everybody is a factual fiction of your imagination.
Short Poems are copyright, copied write from the tissue of a man who is epistemologically incapacitated in a life incapable of writing a short poem, post facing forward.
(Too **** bad for you).
<•>
kept women
my words are all kept women;
an old fashioned term
that has no currency today
but true for me
they but be the heart of my hearts,
when they leave my employ
keep them well, these yeowomen,
good fellows all,
for they will always be your
one true reciprocating lovers
keep ‘em
please
<•>
lie
how many gray April Saturdays are inventoried,
that we be bequeathed yet another this dull day of the 7th of the 4th month,
of errands and tax preparation and poem initiative-nationhood
the city backyard is a dulled green, energy ****** by one three too many nor’easters in March that “Sherman-through-the-south”
came marching double time,
leaving the leaves, airport-delayed
and the spring poem planting, struggling
buy milk, lie and get a refund, do stuff and
don’t forfeit forget to
do laundry and
lie
write the longest short poem in history
that green-shots nature won’t provide,
so Me absinthe wills into existence
<•>
this English Woman
tomfoolery’d me continuously,
nature comes to her on knave-bended knees begging for
a verbal sword tap upon each shoulder for a knighting of a periodical glorious poem.
She provides.
Does woman live in a glen, upon the wetlands,
walk moors
in moons grasp,
or upon a table way in the back of the pub, drinking pints of imagination?
man will die disconnected for so many “reasons”
but if his passing precedes an answering to where,
wherever she locale composes,
man will haunt her residential terrain happily
<•>
Seven Hours
the clock implies that the body sleet-slept, probed deep-dark for seven hours.
disbelieving, then recalling the dues Frodo-Friday eve paid:
three and half hours with two thousand others at the Opera,
hours of Placido Domingo,
extracts from the body
emotional countenance,
homage to artistry exemplary;
the pharmacist denies having this drug among the sleep aids
so to the opera must return to earn my occasion occasional dreamland refreshment
a well worthy trade: innervation trust rest from enervation must
<•>
idiosyncratic
all my idiot life wanted to be
syncratic
unique something special different
then I realized that’s what
everyone wants and we are all idioticsyncratic
so much trying, exhausting life,
it’s wonderfully human and classically
idiotic
<•>
* Postfaces*
Postfaces are used in literary works so that non-pertinent information appears at the end, to not confuse the reader.
this very short poem was born, birthed, on a salty grey Saturday, April Seventh, Two Thousand and Eighteen,
precisely between
Eight and Nine O’clock Eastern Standard Time
The opera was Luisa Miller at the Metropolitan Opera,
Lincoln Center, New York City.
Everything Everybody is a factual fiction of your imagination.
Short Poems are copyright, copied write from the tissue of a man who is epistemologically incapacitated in a life incapable of writing a short poem, post facing forward.
(Too **** bad for you).
