some times I believe,
not think,
but believe,
that there are indeed little figures in the grass,
brushing my ankles with tickles and laughs

sometimes in mid of velvet black,
can see them waving their six fingered hands
in front of the lights across the bay,
for the twinkles are different, their winkles,
semaphoric, euphoric, random but patterned

every know and every then,
could they be inside me,
inciting riots, sugar sharp pains,
in places where pain has no place purposed,
feel them lifting my-back-of-the-neck hairs,
at scary movies, making an ear itchy, why?

these elusives
are fairie godmothers,
personal angels,
hobgoblins,
shoulder sitters,
amusing muses
ear whisperers,
of new poem titles

sock stealers,
shoelace knoters,
giggling self-amusers,
ever present, ever invisible,
hat hiders, wet spot slider installers

you say you know them too?

cousins perhaps, for my elusives,
could not be here and there,
for they are:

as I write,
as I speak,
this very second
fluttering my eyelids,
those rascals,
to lay me down to sleep,
in cherishing tenderness me to keep
for they know too well,
sleep,
is an elusive of a different kind,
like peace of mind,
but they do their best,
to distract me unto rest

~
Bala^ comments:
"alignment - any which way one can if possible to make
****** and ******* simultaneously happen,
without any best position plan"

~

may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity

my own circadian rhythm masters internal,
the most reliably unreliable human container technology teachers,
semi-skilled in the entrainment arts for this impoverished body mine,
deem it appropriate that early morn messages of
propitious possibility be greeted immediately

entrapped, awaken me at four AM with great glee,
because these elusives^^  know exactly what stirs
this being's cochlear cockles into birthing a
poetic cookie ******* *******

your message meme provoking, inducing,
be honest man - simply seducing, my within
by your teasing words from without

"without any best position plan"

not to confuse the mere appearance of a routine
as worthy of the entitlement of "plan,"
much as the poem's own vanity chooses it own alignment
the relationship, the relativity -
always the
flexing flummoxing freaking insatiable pleasuring

when your thrusting unplanned message
****** and bests my brain,
releasing a fully formed, instantaneous parrying poem
from an aroused, passing, unsanitized, second of sanity

for no better *** than this...
as per the unplan?

this tissued life,
this in and out
of punching and counterpunching continuous,
but rarely contiguous,
for we are never aligned for more than a moment,
the moment that almost always goes unnoticed,
for the heart's ***** tissues,
are mostly torn by how life
uses us roughly

so here is an aligned confession fecundity

this poetry gig, my salve,
to tenderize the daily redness,
the irritation residual of having no plan

however these fingerprints decided for you,
to present, upon completion,
this soft-spoken loud *******,
a peaking, not a leaking,
** ** ** - a screaming

hallelujah, i'm aligned!

the man found albeit briefly
a  beat, a plan and its verbal, herbal,
best solution

may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity

the man and his plan, for a mega-second
his best,
unplanned but got and given,
in poetic planetary alignment
positioned

as are you and I -
the thousands of miles of distance tween us
as you read this
collage collapse
into a singular synapse
of ****** and *******

hallelujah, we are aligned!*

~

disclaimer:
anything you say to me, can and will be used
for a poem
~
5:55am
April 1, 2017

My Night with Art Garfunkel


some years back wrote a poem titled
My Night with Paul Simon,^
so it seems that in time,
this his companion’s piece would find me,
reaching its own due date, the timing right,
indeed, perceived, by the muses
that this one, the poet who cannot sing,
needs urgently another soft poet’s voice,
to come to me at night, and so it came to pass last night

a regaler, the teller of tales, both of us looking admiringly upon what was our youthful appearance that only we see in a vintage Murano mirror

the where the why, no matter, just two NYC boys
in their declining years reminiscing about growing up
in Queens, telling tales with no need for exaggeration,
too old for that, for old men lying is always sadder than sad and the truthful stories are not stories, but harmonies

the voices are worn soft, the worse for wear, and the velveteen
is two shaded where usage has reduced the weave, and sunlight has discolored but not discouraged the aging agents

we exchange verses, the swapping of our ****** fluids,
I do not share my prior pope paul adventure,
a separate but now equalized recording

he signs his new book for me,
full of reminisce and new verses

and I am thinking
Art for art’s sake, or art for Art’s sake
or both

wistful higher and higher notes that can longer be reached
of no consequence,
for the body is the work and the work is from the body

let’s take a selfie I ask, but a polite demurral hints of better a preference remembrance of things the way they were, in the past, but I snap a quick photo and it resides on a Facebook entry, unless the muses deleted it without telling me

(which they do quite frequently,
hoarding the best I made all for their elusives elfish selfish-selves)^^


Dec 5, 2017 10:20pm

<•>
^
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/387251/my-night-with-paul-simon/

June 2013

^^
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/747333/the-elusives/

June 2014

<•>

blustery company/unexpected costs

rain-all-day, with a heavy creme topping of
blustery wind window rattling, par excellence,
making the houses's insides rumble so much,
the trees fringes bang-pleading to please be allowed in
so loud that you suspect some are already hiding within,
probably, more likely, those leprechaun Elusives,
up to their usual no goofy good

the poet's fellow summer travelers visit, Canadian geese,
clustering by the Adirondacks thrones four,  
who add another weathering to their grayed, somber,
thoughtful demeanor this day,
all in the Poet's Nook, which though forlorn,
surrounded sounded by sixteen! chubby flyers, admirers,
(their ranks expanded from fourteen of yesteryear),
asking where is the poet-boy, and the chairs explain that his
standing in the rain days are now past his prime,
inspiring modalities, so rest easy in the knowing geese lore that,

he,

through those famous civilizing lace curtains,
see-through visors, of  embroidered, embedded flowers,
the poet boy is watching your brood, not being rude,
just dry inside, contemplating their admirable
weather resistance, and writing of them with loyal affection,
his gaggle of friends, **** avians, favorite weekend guests,
not requiring feeding, cleaning up after, or their laundry done

delighted, they edge closer to him, where he, residing/semi-hiding,
in the sunroom where he writes and contemplates the
unexpected costs of human life
that he tries to pays forward so others may never have such a chore

coming ever closer, now nibbling next to the empty
tree swing, used by neighboring kids and in secret,
their parents,
and the wet freshly cut, delivered green grass,
a feast for them, beneath the oak tree

do they have unexpected costs as well, or do they know
all their predators and threats, that may yet diminish the happy sojourning, the tourney of flying south, and its trials/tribulations?

too long, too long I know, the poem,
but to the devil with you
inexperienced, impatient multi-taskers, this, a poem~moment
that would be dishonored by the breech,
needs lengthy fulfillment for the unexpected costs,  
the randomness of events that can't be guarded against,
demand never ending vigilance, and endless imagining

and the geese, saddened by his absence and his travailing
thought patterns, explain, that this is why we geese,
we gaggle travel, why our long necks swoon and swivel,
ever wary of the unexpected surprise dangers,
why we post guards forward and aft,
not to be taken unawares by foxes or men

the human's gaggle is their random, undisciplined,
by their solitary nature,
travailing thoughts
which they they foolish believe they can master,
but cannot, which then, is why, we geese,
we will always annual come to covenant, co-tenant,
visit the poet-boy in his nook, and rest him briefly, from the
terror of unexpected costs, be his inspiration,
for the poets nook, now, by custom,
our refuge, and his, as well, and better together...