one more for five year old Ian*

he is the little boy, on an
I-don't-want-to-go road trip,
yet inside happily,
pretense outward poutingly,
yet he is nosed pressed straining onto window,
so hard, it's window marked, stain leaving,
absorbing, being absorbed by the fresh
flowing of air currents of new scenery

little boys of beauty,
of beauty,
what do they know?

life is action figures,
videos and toons,
colors vivid but manufactured,
daddy hanging them upside down,
coloring books less than quaint,
few museums bid then enter...
how do they learn what needs
remembering, celebrating...
differentiating tween mundane profane and profound...

some say there are pleasure chems,
the brain releases when the
San Fran sun contacts all flesh,
when California coast surf
beckons claiming splashing
and attention demanding,
when nature offers up
mountain trails that insist
one of any age climb her offerings,
to make them "ours,"
if ever so briefly,.

to be map marked upon
cerebral tissues and
leave the boy and the vistas
neurally connected perpetually

of these matters, I,
no certainty possess,
though I well recall
my nose in that windowed position,
the clarity of Atlantic Rockaway
fresh salt breezes
entering, being stored inside
my five year old brain cloud,
so it could be true
what all the grandmothers
claim!

but this know with soul surety,
there are few things
more beautiful
than a five year old boy,
inhaling the passing scenery,
redding his cheeks even more rosy...

he, a painting, forever stored,
summonable with a single blink
of my mind's eye,
perhaps this is how
he will indeed learn too...

May 16, 2015

for Catherine,
who did not request this,
whose soul prospers, more than survives,
but forced me nonetheless,
this poem~quest to address

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
do not come,
turn back now,
disjoin from a
voyager to the harshest disheartening,
to the crux,
where essence oils aflame
burn smoke, stymied from being
expulsed, expelled,
through organs that have
no natural orificial cavities
allowing escape

the hell of poetry

no, paeans,
yes, pain swirls,
Greek laurel wrapped headbands
squeezing temples, give no relief,
confusion sewn together,
a mixology cocktail
of the ends and the means,
of giving up yourself
in, and to,
poetry

no tribute,
but only that which,
we must pay,
and pay on
in the coin of the realm,
which expires valueless
at the end of the day,
so you awake,
broke
in every way possible for a human to be
broke

busted bird, wing broke bent,
judiciously waiting for
a capricious time to heal thyself,
but time never healed anything,
where grievous grief knows no horizon,
from the absence of some sounds, voices,
that can never be heard again

toil (a/k/a light),
trouble (a/k/a diamonds)
double that,
then raise it again to the power
of anvil crushed chest compressions
preventing basic breathing

all this to get to
the crux,
that tormenting, familiar place,
where difficulty lives on a
one way street
with a "dead end" sign at the beginning,
a self-mocking "no outlet" at the end

this crux,
inflection point,
****** peak imploding,
*** of brains boiling over,
more crucible,
where molten metal
reformulates into words

why do you want to go there?

the heat of me cannot be measured by
any mortal thermometer,
the pressure of blood cannot be calculated,
the stained consciousness maculated
by past and future sadness

of death, no fear,
writing poetry from the places
where it's well down drawn.
terrifying,
like waking up

this is where one goes,
when your pick up the gun of pen,
in vainglorious hopes of venting
the bullets of gases that seek
an unplanned escape
from a place you have no business
visiting for business,
certainly not,
pleasure

this is here, this right here,
where existence is identified,
where the sun only burns,
word life selection, a humming curse,
and the voracious need to write
boils in your blood,
chokes the throat
with your own two hands


for their is no perfection in poetry,
there is only a voyage to the crux,
the hell of poetry...
where Faustus and I
rue the day we deemed ourselves
more knowledgable than the gods,
selling our souls
for fleeting, human skills


**why do you want to go there?

Tapping Your Heart's Savings Account

always a decision -
conscious, despairing
maybe..maybe not...
maybe just don't think about it

when the heart
fires
on only
two cylinders,
the stroke weak,
the "I love you's"
worn, not warm,
you gotta decide

tap the savings account
of good memories,
reasons for
to keep on trying,
to reviving
the investment
of loving her

dreading the drawing down,
watching the balance
wrong way creep,
but you do it
anyway
for old time's sake,
rather than forsake,
it all...

but the tap tap tap
is just a raving
drunk poetraven
from Baltimore,
saying over and over again
nevermore,*
you don't want to decide what exactly
when*
will be
nevermore
so tap tap tap

the woman surprises,
bids me an eye~closing adieu
just a tad differently,
as I fall off into easy street,
the "sleep perchance to dream" place

she whispers a parting thought,
a quiet shot cross the brow
marking up my transference,
a hole-punched in my
departure and entrance ticket,
a line crossing, a seed freshly buried,
for my sub-mind to ruminate upon

"I am very fond of you"

puzzling this, for is this
as good as,
the pro forma
"love you"?
a lesser conditional,
a solutional mystery?

a diminution, a new dialect,
a dialectical proposition,
a homework assignment,
needy for exposition, exploration,
what means this phrase,
tween long time lovers?

I have written love poems, t'is true,
but never audacious enough
to market them as
true love poems,
too many, done before, no need,
trite indeedy, what sonnet expertise
had long ago,
youth lost

but here comes a
commentaire, remarque,
answered though unasked,
on the subject of

true fond

there are many you love
just because,
just cause,
just the effect,
of being
blood kith and kin,
or kindnesses memories from long ago,
that cannot be pushed aside,
buried in fogged cemetery dirt forgetfulness

but by now,
know clear,
just where,
I'm going here...

you can be fond of someone,
and bon mot, sweet,
need not love them,
but you, hero,
stand back and
grasp this commotional notion

you can't just love,
cross over the river
from like to can do,
that other thing,
until, unless, you
ease onto the vessel of you
into the deeps of
true fond
and take away with you,
until heart and soul now veneered,
a no rust
coating,
impenetrable

that place, that feel
where and when
the affection is infectious,
the tender is unreasonable,
the cherishing downright excessive,
the savor is a favor to oneself,
the giving instinctual,
the taking victuals
not so tasty or important

where you feel
way past the point of foolishness...
and then and only then,
with this
necessary condition,
take the rudder
be the pilot

do/if you think you can  
goodnight say,
get off/get away
with the perfunctory
eroded by time,
"whatever"

then kid,
you don't ken
true fond,
the  cornerstone, the found base,
the reality of where edges blur,
where what you feel
is like first bite of
tea and morning-warm buttered toast,
making one think
this is the way it
ought to feel...every moment,
salty n' sweet, smiley-face grinning
heat,
true fondness

~

my shelter,

two arms,
a human lean-to,
a pup tent,
all with a
welcome mat,
for you,
await

with graceful patience
simpatico smiling,
always avail,
awaiting,
no life clock countdown
prematurely pushing,
come when
there is
no other place

all,
on offer,
shelter places
that become
your home,
if you so
honor them thus,
your choice,
your decision
when to come n' go

shelter you,
no questions asked,
cloak all with human warmth,
easy silences, no pressures

for when my arms 
 bear your load,
now mine,
my load,
somehow

halved!

you want what I cannot create.

you want what you want,
you utter incantations,
to harness my magic
to no avail.

long time lesson learned,
so obvious,
so human,
for trying to change
what is
given us,
our source material, life defined,
limiting us to what is visible.

creating is a coexistence warring,
but it is a closed loop,
no external input receivables acquirable,
other than thru the filters of mine own
misperceiving imperfections

you demand, insist, that I
create as in the past but

I cannot.

my needs complected, complex,
created incomplete,
you want the simplicity of raw,
scratch me for pain, surge waves
of love from tempest hurricanes

you crave the sad and the sadder badder,
I crave the exhilaration of watching a
new day's light earth birthed,
the small ironies appeal,
tiny is better than
the major battles, remembrance
of  past morning glories

you want what I cannot create.

strange.

I want what I create.