~

old stars: the roar of no more

pop up phrase precisely previewing the status quo,
logic argues that a crisp immolation poetic appropriate,
no second chance from cosmic to earth dust risk reversal,
no sadness attaches -
the circle line day trip coming to an end

old stars are not cemetery artifacts,
no blaze of glory, no blade of heroic story, no blare of horns,
a last twinkle, a final tinkling and the soundless
roar of no more,
the star records, the citys deeds, the video feeds,
updated, amended, erased,
old star exits the stage, its light shedding nights, eclipsed,
the poet, the writer, the playwright debate the stars obit,
collude and write
a roar no more


*5/23/17 7:23am

“Pages of my life sealed inside a book
like bookends at a fairground
holding steady until the rider mounts;
Still unwritten not yet ready to wear,  
this garmented padded book of tales
isn't finished yet”
~~~
from
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4871833/sewn-to-the-pages-of-my-life/
by

Vienna's Bombardieri

~~~~~

it is not a total rarity,
but not an impossiblty,
that one of yours
scripts feels
that it has been ripped
from mine eyes,
necessitating a gasping grasping of me as
if her Vienna words,
like stout hands,
squeeze my already
constricted throat to close in entirety

near ceasing my breathing

<>
for the writing comes easy,
add a page daily, sewing neat stitches,
smooth connecting linear designs
but the book
never finishes, and Wonder
if this unending is
a knelling death mark of Cain,
that my mythology resonates,
boasts of no resolution

this possibility previous unconsidered
now seen as a likely vision
and do not comprehend how to
feel
becoming
a page in a book,
to attic directed,
boxed for the
eventuality of removal by the
1-800-GOT-JUNK
a very busy institution
and put my shriveled fingertips down
in contemplation of
my erasure

the curvaceous quality of a dreamy life,
the roller coaster, arms in the air,
screaming, I'm believing,
nah, not this time,
ain't ready yet,
dude, you just woke up!

drag a comb across my face,
getting on board,
a choice, me, ride up front,
the terror, a touch more tantalizing,
the romance, a hair more frantic,
the fullness of life, à la mode

eyes catch, I grin,
next step, bridal canopy,
but not until, she conditions,
I get me on late night tv,
me, Fallon and **** right,
together, recitating the Poem of the Day!

can't be that hard,
gonna dug up some text messages,
mush it and corn fry'em,
if that don't do the trick,
got me a twenty one gun salute,
word in reserve!

Pick me!
got picket fence,
mortgage, student loans,        
diamond ring,          
     all worthless              
unless I get me HP's

*Poem of the Day!

Poet, you wish to command?

join the navy, the army,
become a paratrooper,
command in poetry is illusory,
for it comes from the bell tower rage of madness,
from, of, what my ancestors planted and bequeathed genetically,
I have wasted the better half of a century appealing for relief,
making it clear who commands and who is the
“poetoftheway”
slave

<>

rejoindre la marine, l'armée,
devenir un parachutiste,
commande en poésie est illusoire,
car il vient du clocher de la rage de la folie,
de ce que mes ancêtres ont planté et légué génétiquement,
et j'ai gaspillé la meilleure moitié d'un siècle attrayant pour
soulagement et en précisant qui commande et qui est le
“Poetoftheway"
esclave

exactement comme moi
exactly like me?

exactly.

my expertise in connecting has been disconnected (all we are we are)

pour Elea


all we are we are

you drew me as a rabbit

I drew you as a dreamer on the metro,
scribbling no way no how, unconnected thots into a connected poem

where was I?
Paris, London, Texas, Switzerland?

Disconnecting, Connecting?

Do you understand what I don’t?

You lost your phone (again)

I lost your number that I never had.

you know everything about me;
I know nothing about you;
my expertise in connecting
has been disconnected

all we are we are

quantum poetry paradoxes

<>

forArianna who sometimes hears opera by night,
but always sees poetry

<>



what we are is unique, at the molecular level,
our DNA is microscopic visible,
in every letter, comma and
even the false white spaces of

universes expanding,
black holes ******* in fooled passerby’s,
burning out and disappearing
as invisible forces create and dilapidate -

simultaneously

this our poems are finite but never complete,
explorers sent knowing they will never return,
and if they do, though their poems unchanged,
but all the readers older, deformed and/or dead

think on it!

the world of you has revolutionized many times
since you started reading this prose, you have birthed
and seen cells die by the millions by the time you’ve
read this sad stanza twice and glory hallelujah uttered!

so go ahead, create and die

simultaneously

I give you answers,
though you ask for none,
you keep on breathing beating,
beating pumping apparatus paradoxically

insists you live even as it wears out with each
stroking, explain these minute contradictories
as your consciousness refracts and absorbs
these many mighty infinite finalities of

the

quantum poetry paradoxes

12:34pm EST

~For Deborah and Soul Survivor~

these words crash across
a sunday morning mind
gassed in caffeine solution,
rapid rabid?
from the hearted, heated tongue mis-issued
hard-scrabble words,
rabbled to demystify

would you like some oatmeal, babe?

love, love some

but first,
what I need
to feed upon,
more to discharge
is the
rapid rabid
good god, so many
poem~children
needy for
birthing

a litter to litter
the pages,
most to
look-live long quiet lives,
but they are all
whole and dear,
all my flesh,
surely of my blood,
rapid rabid disgorge
this my one true employment
my sunday labor,
my sunday prayer

grin and confess that it is
the easiest
version of a kinder person
that I would
give up my right arm to be

work, work it, listening is
sometimes the hardest
thing we are asked to
give…

our centered selves,
say, got enough on my plate,
and don’t got them right pithy
sayings…handy
plus,
that trite is
never justified…


so subtract pieces of me
for gifting to those ask,
who need more that they can say,
is just a shoulder dandy,
an arm draped,
is the best
one can do

on the margin
the paraphernalia
employed to obtain
the sweated inspirations
to tell these lies randomized
stories, factuelle (feminine)
pestle and mortar martyrs,
crushed together, drink in
her form, the S curves
of her shape, my fav
place, on a long list
of favs,

and she says;

hey poetry man!

which renders my
100 or so
senses,
that radiate,
congregate,
infantuate
rendering moi
delightfully attentive,
and I think:

Solitude:

Be All well and good,
wells and veins awaiting
for spelunking & mining for the
nexus of the
next line, but when she summons me,
with a cherished honorific I am
sundered by words deep felt,
and the next line forgotten,
disappeared and
for multiples,of poems,
that
die
heart busted broke

when she call poet, come,
it is like living in a gearbox
Stuck in Fifth,
that message of multiplex pixels,
so engaging and so many container conceptual structures,
those poetic burst and bust out,,
gnawing to be released free,
***** solitude, it’s her
attitude that gives
more than I can
handle…

and the poems are about the conjoining
of
the mutuality of our:

soliciting solitude attitude

designated washer, scrubber,
some dirt, brown burnt fire marks,
impervious to edgy pads, now,
aged into the very being of our
cooking hardware

can only be removed
by human fingernail

as I scrape away residues of years gone by,
mine tears amalgamate in the soapy waters
beneath my bent head

for I cannot remiss/remove
the oldest, burnt,
bottom of the pan,
stains between us,
not with embraces,
nor with whimsy recollections,
certainly not with our
fingernails...

this old poet, one of the first, to see your wave,
when he was playing knick-knack paddy whack on his shoe,
the old poet then played two, and said,
yes, I will follow you

Please
imaging-imaging that old poet with a glanceable cursory,
a small smile whispered, with entourage of a nod and a wink,
stands, knowing he is in the delivery room, a witness,
to first steps of a babe starting a new life
marvelous miracle by touching a button, a new line written,
not crossed but connecting by pressing "Follow"
with a finger from a hand, a human fringe,
attached to a breathing mind and a thinking heart,
the first to follow you, a ceremonial gesture of
innovation magic incantation, a new moon blessing,
a living person believing, remembering, the longest ago,
his first own graceful acknowledgement and eyes speak,

yes, I will follow you

the new poet, astonished at this induction to the smallest
Hall of Fame that they alone own the only key, study that
number, that number 1, the first to follow, kinda looking over
their shoulder to make sure the old poet still there on the morrow,
sure enough there are now two, safe in the back pocket,
a tabulation of humans who speak volumes of trust, saying,
yes, I will follow you

the old poet, imaging-imaging the babe, dancing round
the room, invigorated, challenged and the faucets pouring,
can't write it down as fast as the trains arriving disgorging,
words unique in new combinations and the rush of blood
from heart to head to those newly literary fingers bleeding
happy creatures of creation as if they are Noah
setting sail to save us with verbs and adjectives
two by two all for now species unheard of

the old poet wants to send cautionary notes, the path strewn
with frustrations of no inspiration ditches and inescapable cliches
that sound fresh but just aren't, the disappearing satisfaction,
the inability to get it just perfect, and so many obstacles
to be prophesied,
but he does not, these things must be self taught,
today let it suffice the initiation, the first crowning of
**yes, I will follow you
for this the way of the poet

10/16/17 5:09pm

“Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus.
Our bodies are our gardens,
to which our wills are gardeners…”

      – Iago, Act 1, Scene 3 in Shakespeare's "Othello”

A commandment to wellness,
spoke aloud, with resolute foursquare,
of which no doubt,
upon whom the responsibility lays,
each of us poets individually

I am not a gardner,
know not the pleasure of rich dark soil
loam, cupped in my hand,
or the stroking of first blooms,
the genteel of  spring,
afternoon delights for the eyes,
but for me, no elemental quivering
no instinct bids me
dig, plant, water and worry…

but my body’s garden another matter
for pillaging insects,
the bollwevil
and other assorted devils
planted internally and infernally
breeding
the ills of human failings,
with tulip yellow couragelessness,
they infiltrate & exploit
the crevices where our fallacies
buried but unearthed

what is this longevity word?

we've live as long as intended,
forces internal,
weathered by outside forces,
gales amazing and pelting storms
within and without
combative

born from earth’s produce,
we tend our own garden unequally,
inconsistently  
though gardens demand, preferring
constantly
li
loving attentions

*but humans are notoriously of poor
attention spans and we tend to tend
in spurs of moments,
some lasting decades

and thus or thus,
a poor epitaph to
our fallow falling fallen
humanity

a lyric from Plaisir D’Amour (1),
these singed edged memories,
the grievous tingling tinge of
lost love,
last a  lifetime,
can reappear symptomatically,
with crystalline purity,
for longer then any ejaculatory
momentary spasmodic instant
joyous vibes of a hallelujah salutation

Grief, Why It Even Can:

erode away the smooth
s skin casing of years of
effective affection,
a long term construction project
of a million individual additions

why then
is pain so long lived,
grief never brief,
but deep rooted,
and pleasing data
so easily
overlooked, pushed away by the
“sharp edge of a short knife?”

why
does the low, slow beat of a sad song
bear down,
demands endless woeful
exhalation&repetition,
and
reversus,
the celebration tuning of a happy
days are here again,
an us, a wee-two-too~together,
always hummable but not
overly memorable?

I posit no solution
but whenever I think of
human
it is of the soft tissues outlining
our long bruised wounds of suffering,

that rise up
from deepest within
flooding the plains
of our thin~skinned senses
colliding and collectively
rendering us imbolized

do you have an answer?

cheap confess
do not know
no answer
but believe now
it is a
seasoned characteristic
that is genetic,
the sum of thousands of years of
the harsh
struggling of lives hard worked
where the life balance
is ar best a sometime thing,
*and the really real is
grief that lasts a lifetime

The High Tender

”for you both once loved that silky guise that so heightened
the high tender,
the match of your (her) pink rose skin letting, no!
making your eyes glisten”

wrote those words,
asking my interrogatories,
from where did I know this truth,
this allegory?

replying lying masking mocking smothering snickering
“you, the great lover, do not remember?”

they, not realizing that I mocked myself,
my cuffed hands that authored those words,
were not so blemished to forget the
high tender
they once contained

an impurity
inherent or invasive,
identity, purpose, all unresolved,
substantive, long-lived, minute sized,
flexible, formed, yet more,
clearly shapelessly, so well visible
we'll disguise it
to survive it

without passport, an émigré
illegally legal border invasive,
but somehow more knowledgable
of the unmapped byways within,
more than me - how can that be?

never motionless, indeed,
always hurried, even when energy gathering,
despite it's detailed timetable,
detailing plentiful stops and
interminable unexplained
screeching wailings,
it has no smooth gliding,
nor rumbling grumbling halting,
to a final destination imprinted

this impurity,
a beheaded brainy horseman
searching for what,
I'm not permissioned,
unquenchable questioning,
all I am allowed is
sensory
surceasingly, unseasonably seeking

the undresser,
the verisign
of veritas
eyes mirrored reversal internal,
you can't understand why finishing
this poem is so hard

because you don't want to
confess this
impious impurity,
no étranger, it is but
copious insecurity,
of the all of you,

the ecstasy of
the rushing,
the upsetting,
universal unique to us, you,
unholy, ecclesiastical, catholic,
that impurity is just
the heart pumping the
mottled blood of
life coursing through your words
and out your fingertips,
onto those
stained drumsticks
used
to play the keyboard alphabet
about an
out-of-tempo
impure ecstasy

unfailing clockwork come,
no surcease tendered from its
onerous, regulated,
on-time scheduled,
yet, untimely demands

arise to serve,
serve the sentence,
the sentence of
"out, out,"
whether candle or spot,
but there be no out,
damnable or otherwise

flailing words,
uttered no matter how,
the burden of the inexorable
is freshened daily,
yet horribly unchanged

failing words,
dent not the injustice of,
the condemnation of,
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow

for if the play's the thing,
this thing,
on the morrow,
performed eight times a week,
the sound and the fury
of applause fading,
a chiming of intermission ending,
the sets struck,
yet the tick of tomorrow,
is but the tock,
the switch off
of today
that
Doesn't Work

the script, well memorized,
it's mastery demands  perfunctory performance,
and
an ending that sates,
but playwright,
none provides,
his woeful signature
his pas de coup,

signifying
that tomorrow returns faithfully,
desirious of its unfulfilled dissatisfaction,
for it kens none other
though calling out,
"out, out,"
but there be no out

The Red Queen Believes!



~~~
The Red Queen,
in her youth,
believed in as many as
six impossible things
before breakfast
~~~
The Old Poet,
in his embered tinder, yellowing days,
believed in as many as
six possible poems
before breakfast
~~~

there’s a woman

in Minneapolis
where winters mind-bend, her face on my hands engraved,
she makes my fingers love her once more, saying I am the
real dream come see me when you can, I’ll give you summer
when the calendar says no, but you know I can

in Paris
a woman in the shape of a young girl,
her eyes wider than a grand boulevard,
who writes me in scattered verses I can’t comprehend
takes my hands in the metro on our way to
St. Germain-des-Pres, where she will make confession
she loves another, forgetting that was her first reveal
and why I now love her maintenant, plus complètement

in northern California
my golden raisin with smooth skin, six foot tall and gold hair
longer than Rapunzel, and don’t know what she wants from
this short older eastern man and when I ask she laugh kisses
saying because you are everything I am not, an acorn of real,
Vermont maple syrup for my green grapes and bring me scents
of genuine that your pores secrete

a married woman in Florida or was it Texas
who says come inside me, you are already there, make it real,
we will sail from the Gulf to the Keys in the escape pod
of our specters, our blunt physical connection,  
we’ll go ashore for barbecue when we need
a break from consuming each other and tire of tarpon

in London town
who impaled me with dreams of wet walks on the moors
I’ve never seen except in her poetry; she will warm me with porcelain tea and bitter pints from hide-away pubs, both drinks I despise but will love If she asks: will share chips and wine waiting for the tube or the boat to Greenwich, where we will ask time to suspend itself for a day or two so we can sing old Donovan tunes and be each other’s scarf against that ****** chill we know is coming

I am
their fantasy, their harsh escape to sweet caress for hours
they surrender to my desires for that’s what they’re wishing for,
in our peculiar language, no word for a sorrowful au revoir
or even,
will I ever see you again or even for
peculiar
for we are a physics mystery
a singlet and a multiplet simulation simultaneous,
spectral lines

to call them muses would be an abusal, they are lovers
of spun words I profess in devotionals made just for them,
and lovers for devouring and feasting and then fasting

until I dream once again come tomorrow’s sleep-writing
satisfaction

2/9/18 3:47am

“the simplest definition of our learning to count to infinity”

wrote those words
to a stranger in pain, awful pain,
asking him to count his blessings

now awful pain
no stranger to me

a pain four decades long,
that the surgeon promised was fully excised.

but today was triggered,
chest pain dagger ingredient emergency room

so I am counting for,
but not to,
counting on

infinity

when the wounding cannot be recalled,
only a minor scar to struggle from wonder whence
came it from

which is the definition of reaching the
infinity place,
where finite comes to rest

<>

thirty years apart/making love at the midpoint/Zeno's minding the gap
<>

we are a thrifty thirty years apart

but we make love as if it were an
after school, really hungry, special snack

laugh at myself once again

for this tom, **** 'n harried foolishness
knowing no good can come of this
other than what has already
come and gone,
life's reaffirmation is not age dependent,
we love in the light of  embers brightest glow

the older man is at the midpoint trap of
Zeno's Paradox^

can never grow down to be
closer to her to her youth,
given his head start,
his slowing motion,
can never catch
her down,
or she,
up to him

physics laws forcibly insist they both have lost this race

"In a race, the quickest runner
can never overtake the slowest,
since the pursuer must first reach the point
whence the pursued started,
so that the slower must always
hold a lead. "

as recounted by Aristotle, Physics VI:9, 239b15

too quick to be born,
now the fastest and oldest,
though having reached
the equidistant point between,
will forever never be able to
close the gap

I mind the gap,
I mine the gap

for rousing poems,
from passion piercing fierce love making
prayers preserving the falsity of a
magic illusion of a growing nearness
that we will never grow apart,
burdened that truer is,
never ever closer

she asks me with great tenderness,
why I moisten mine eyes
after our great joy

replying, honestly
I am minding the gap
answers the broken joyous
poet of now, no way

<>

"Mind the gap" ( listen (help. · info)) is an audible or visual warning phrase issued to rail passengers in the United Kingdom (and elsewhere) to take caution while crossing the horizontal, and in some cases vertical, spatial gap between the train door and the station platform.

^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zeno%27s_paradoxes