<•>
  For A:

The Pleasure of Infection

10:53 pm

our all about
is to be the whittler of our personage,
to both hold the knife with care,
but with risky, reckless artistry,
as we shape of what raw materials we are possessed,
into our own reshaped, reformed
most prized bejeweled possession

never mind the shavings and cutaways fallen,
they are fast away, castaway choices made and cannot be retrieved,
for when we whittle, whether our shape desired
which may be prior envisioned or a vision
from the discovery of performing,
they matter no more,
let them go, in their absence too,
they are part and a whit of you,
but not of you, no longer

our commonality in this: everything,
in everything else, so little

but your honesty and crafted, almost dishonesty both ring true,
and infect us with pleasure of recalling
when we
being cut designed and preparing our statue for
an unveiling, but with no date yet set,
and the loveliness of our mistakes,
were precious do-over opportunities

seek out the infection, the infection of discovery,
the risk of pleasure exposed and
your poetry may be either  
the antibiotics
when the result is red and unpleasant,
or a celebration,
an invitation to us to be a
semi-silent beholder of your artistry

infections heal after pain and discoloration
but new skin always forms,
but at a different pace for each of us

I see the faces in my carpet nodding agreement,
"always new skin"

oh boy. time to go to bed

go seek out the pleasure of infection,
sadly, happily, it is the only way

good night
from an old man who dreams and schemes of
new skin nightly
but never mind me,
my piece long ago writ
and in need of just a tweak here and there,
call it one too many close shavings,
his poem's treasure trove,
a list
of life's minor irritations
and major lifts

<•>

11:16pm

11/25/06-Fall
In Memorium, Dad

He did not pass
He did not die

He waited for me
to arrive.
The 410 Freeway mysteriously
traffic free at 5pm
An open highway on a Friday night
with Thanksgiving just passed
at that last bend.

I arrived and sat with him
His head rose, masked, heroic
Breath reaching

I gently stroked his smooth
inner arm in that game of
"tell me when my finger tip
reaches the exact spot"

His tongue went to his teeth
in gesture
whether tickle, or talk or kiss
(three times his tongue went
to his teeth)
The traffic such mysterious
coincidence.

I thanked him for waiting
and kissed his forehead

After the last breath
There is no other.

two grandkids, five pigs, six cows, 18 chickens, four cats, and a lonely male duck*
~ for my friend, a gentle man who farms certain moments~*


heard the word that a certain poet of the day
has a secret crew who aid and abet his perspective,
the precious precision to understand and retain
the flashes of color that need painting albeit in words

read that some animals develop regional dialects,
so it is with humans, we listen, like and learn subsets
of vision and that even every collective moment, nonetheless,
each speaks differently, but only the few, the very few,
have the mellifluous tongue to translate those private seconds into syllables so essential human and we learn that skill from careful listening to our heartbeat's singing response
to love and pain from all living creatures, great and small

6/24/17 5:06am
S.I.