the lyrics intimate, me inside recognized,
and I find it hard to believe,
not to recall my chest actual
aching from a lost love, a busted
heart,that my family physician told
me not a thing  to be done, and time
the only known cure and that was
only twenty five years,
a just short “long time ago”

but there is no such a thing as time
when the wounded heart is pierced fierce, there is no round the bend visible to tell
you, love will come again; and you’re so
cautious,  won’t trust, to open, but irony it’s
the only way to find it one mo’ time, to
give yourself up in whole, not just parts,
and you “discover” writing poetry helps,
and a new life long habit is forming that is a kind of meds that you disburse to oneself

later be
this song below, Bonnie Raitt
makes you ache with her rendition
keeping no secret she’s been there truly

used to look to ascribe fault, but learned,
t’was a time waster, more accurate, each
of us had our own fault lines, dormant,
till not, and when the lines touched and connect, it was an earthquake off the scale,
and the tremors just keep on coming

but the chest ache was so intense, close
my eyes, and relive it,  and makes me
feel kinder, more human, less angry? more forgiving cause there is no mark of Cain
on someone’s forehead to indicate that
one is suffering the aftermath, the aftershocks, of this loss, so be patient
when encountering a human who sighs
out loud often, as often as as
every breath

listen to the song, it will untie your chords,
maybe making some memories resurface,
for better as it is part of writing
only love poetry

an all purpose cleaner response to the

how-ya-doing-question,

as my vibe unmistakable;
the hatred in the world directed at
MY PEOPLE,
is inexplicable, beyond reason,
a hatred raw and pure in the
tiny places we humans hide it, lest
our ancient linkage to an unreasoned,
embarrassing emotion, be revealed

but now revealed it is reveled,
as the freedom to despise is a
valued thing

is an ancient scar, now freshly wounded
and the two thousand year old accumulated, callused,
surrounding wafer thin, layered upon layer of
tissue,
wiped away
in utter disbelief
cleansed,
a different kind of impure clean,
“like” an ethnic cleansing,
traceless, whisked away in a wink of moment,
a goner.

like hope, prior sentient optimism
sentenced to life imprisonment and
this sentence, and this very sentence!
written finally understanding that it is
a punishment
far worse than the quick relief of death.

c’mon, how about a few “fukk you jew”
cri de coeur, heartfelt, genuine, pointless
hate

no, not I, no, not me,
spare me the pithy comments,
the pointless sympathy, glistening
like evaporating water droplets
before disappearing, I ask myself,
not
why they hate, why it persists,
for this I understand and accept
the foulness of what we are capable of is,

beloved,

as a secret pleasure, now secreted in torrents.

no, I ask myself,

why do I write poetry,

for it is as pointless as
the hatred directed at me,
from birth, till death,
and ever after,
the humanity of poetry
just another fraud

another reason
why this man cries in the bathroom,^
not from any shape of shame,

because poetry is pointless
in times of hatred, and now we
know, recognize, it is always
somewhere, nearby, always
present and prescient,
pointless hatred,
itching to be pointed at me,
makes for
pointless poetry.


To whom shall I point my poetry?