Sep 2014
(For Sia Jane)
once he wrote:
"Writing is more important than any of the individual senses that feed this (writing) addiction. Without sound, sight, touch, smell and taste, I can (still) live quite well."
and she loved this,
for well she lived this ideation
so textual emendation
for this girl,
one of god's human poems
irony kick in the head,
truth driven home by body of late,
crossed and staked,
weeks pass, I cannot taste or smell,
eyesight distorted by streaming eyes, no matter,
sight, sees only a decrepit man lousy
repeating repetitiously older spasms of writing,
all this time he is one
who touches nothing lest he infect the world,
with something other than joy...
all thanks to some insidious bacterial invaders
and one or two Lifetime Movie Channel dramas
playing out in full color in his own sad reality
so let me amend my prior write,
for this time, I make no overly boastful claims,
for I could pen nary a verse all these hours,
that was deserved of your affection...
write I could with any one of the five,
if four were repleted, deleted, none elited,
but one is
this man's de minimus
need at least one to function,
to master the bronco impulse to create...
don't matter which one,
which orifice writes the code,
all sensory inputs end up residing
in your heart and soul
but gotta have at least one in order to
express my love for love...
and if I can't do that,
then experience shows,
no way can the being supersede its
thrumming, hum drumming, existence,
motoring along highways circularized
of watching old tv shows
if I lose my hands I will write with
elbows, nose or toes...
my tongue cut, my mind will love more,
its recollection of your taste, delicious twice over
blinded and bereft, my mind's eye
will do double shifts, get paid overtime,
for reliving connecting your birthmarks
my jesting muted, my seers closed,
my nostrils sealed, even terminated,
dare you think, that I cannot hear or
smell my thoughts,
of the pleasure of a world in which
loves existence demands we heal the sick at heart,
so we can
extend love to ourselves and others
beyond the mere limitations
of our corporeal senses....
one, but one, all I need,
any one, in order to
sense who I am,
to love, and be loved,
therefore,
to write
once he wrote:
"Writing is more important than any of the individual senses that feed this (writing) addiction. Without sound, sight, touch, smell and taste, I can (still) live quite well."
and she loved this,
for well she lived this ideation
so textual emendation
for this girl,
one of god's human poems
irony kick in the head,
truth driven home by body of late,
crossed and staked,
weeks pass, I cannot taste or smell,
eyesight distorted by streaming eyes, no matter,
sight, sees only a decrepit man lousy
repeating repetitiously older spasms of writing,
all this time he is one
who touches nothing lest he infect the world,
with something other than joy...
all thanks to some insidious bacterial invaders
and one or two Lifetime Movie Channel dramas
playing out in full color in his own sad reality
so let me amend my prior write,
for this time, I make no overly boastful claims,
for I could pen nary a verse all these hours,
that was deserved of your affection...
write I could with any one of the five,
if four were repleted, deleted, none elited,
but one is
this man's de minimus
need at least one to function,
to master the bronco impulse to create...
don't matter which one,
which orifice writes the code,
all sensory inputs end up residing
in your heart and soul
but gotta have at least one in order to
express my love for love...
and if I can't do that,
then experience shows,
no way can the being supersede its
thrumming, hum drumming, existence,
motoring along highways circularized
of watching old tv shows
if I lose my hands I will write with
elbows, nose or toes...
my tongue cut, my mind will love more,
its recollection of your taste, delicious twice over
blinded and bereft, my mind's eye
will do double shifts, get paid overtime,
for reliving connecting your birthmarks
my jesting muted, my seers closed,
my nostrils sealed, even terminated,
dare you think, that I cannot hear or
smell my thoughts,
of the pleasure of a world in which
loves existence demands we heal the sick at heart,
so we can
extend love to ourselves and others
beyond the mere limitations
of our corporeal senses....
one, but one, all I need,
any one, in order to
sense who I am,
to love, and be loved,
therefore,
to write
Sept. 7, 2014
but what if forced to choose one sense above all?
Once he wrote:
what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?
Taste
Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows, and the one that follows.
Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....
Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.
Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.
As I lay each word down, a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move as you savor my words,
my taste you share, and we are closer for it.
Deaf, dumb and blind, all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.
but what if forced to choose one sense above all?
Once he wrote:
what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?
Taste
Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows, and the one that follows.
Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....
Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.
Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.
As I lay each word down, a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move as you savor my words,
my taste you share, and we are closer for it.
Deaf, dumb and blind, all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.
(M/nyc)
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