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Left Foot Poet Mar 2019
The Fidelity of Transmissions

”Cells, the units of life that compose our bodies, are able to make copies of themselves to help us grow, fight disease and recover from injuries. Cells have built-in mechanisms that maintain
  the fidelity of transmission  
of genetic information from one generation to the next, and to control cell division in a timely manner, allowing our bodies to build or rebuild various tissues.”

~~~
when the poetry cri de cœur grows unbearable ,
sound mystery-science calms his tumbling transcendency

alas, here too, his ears sit up straight when stumbling on a invitation to
“come write,” for hid within the science jargon, oft rests a snipers shot

redirecting the didactic mind back to the
everyman’s land where-poetry cells split,,
commanding him to delve into, visit new brain wrenching vistas
“the fidelity of transmission”
at its macro level, for science is micro-poetry,^
n’est-ce pas

~~~
when you love another
the transmission is a slow pour,
or a radical jarring,
the fidelity extremely extraordinarily variable

the loveliest unpredictable

the sip sip of eyelid kissing adoration,
the irrational irrigation of the no-space-between,
when the television remote disappears in the couch crack,
the screen, complete static, perfect complement, to a rigorous experiment of

the loveliest unpredictable

we manually conjoin fluids in her mouth’s petri dish,
stain the slide for observation,
in full Imax color observe the cells busting and doesy-do’ing over to
a new partner, where bonds of fidelity attach a partnership clause to

the loveliest unpredictable

when a child emerges, the first words are
find that remote, just kidding, first comes a comestible demand,
mother’s milk 98 degree heated,
feed me a white solution to any unanswered cell’s questions, what a

loving predictive predicate

scribble this, ****** that, change a diaper,
while debating whose baby’s assemblage resembles,
overjoyed at the experimental outcome,
proofs of the fidelity of transmission,
the outcome notated, but science demands no bias confirmation,
another test required of tissue rebuilding

the loveliest unpredictable

~~~

^postscript
for is He not laureate greatest poet of all,
developer of the scientific architecture,
inventor of varietal sunsets, moonscapes,
individualized singularity of snowflakes,
love making, gravity and the preprogrammed death
of your own cells,
etcetera etcetera etcetera
all just poetry in motion in fluidity,
ah, fidelity fidelity
fidelity
Sat., March 9, 2019
Tom Spencer  May 2019
fidelity
Tom Spencer May 2019
a door closes
and I hear him

shuffling down the hallway
his wife of sixty-six years

my mother
asleep, almost invisible

beneath the blankets
as fragile as a baby bird

he stops to wind
the grandfather clock

smiles and nods
“I smell that coffee”

ninety years-old
and still "up-and-at-em”

pills to ration
a newspaper to fetch

dishes to put away
meanwhile

back in their room
dreaming

she remembers
everything

standing by his side
she turns to meet his eyes

Tom Spencer © 2019
Qweyku  Nov 2016
Hebron
Qweyku Nov 2016
my lips parted
humbled by your resplendence
enchanted by the mystery of your beauty

so i spoke the words of promise
forged on an anvil of insanity
fashioned by a trembling tongue
the fire of fearful fidelity

a passion extinguished by acceptance
reborn from the sated ashes of embrace
reignited with the kindle of emotion
the inferno in the flame of your breath


                  **© Qwey.ku
FIDELITY?  I've always been a strong believer in fidelity until i met him.
He was nothing like the other men, there was an aura about him that pulled you to him, the man was an enigma, sexuality had never been so portrayed by a man but this man was special!
ADULTERY! This man had charmed his way into my life and boy did i not know what i was in for! He was married yes, i was entertaining young men yes but i was overwhelmed by my feelings for him that i embraced it and loved the fact that he was married and i had a man, men? i really didn't care.
*******! The first time he took me was on his office table, we didn't make love, all we did was ****, he was rough and would say the nastiest things, i felt like a ***** and i loved it. he wouldn't even bother closing the door, made it more intense. we would be at it for hours but still, i wanted his filthy **** after we were done, plunging in so deep, filling me with his seed, spending time in his office in the pretense of working. Well he was working me and i was rocking his ****.
LUST? Lust was all i felt for him, it wasn't love. i wasn't so gullible to think so because when i woke up i couldn't even remember his name. maybe it was a dream showing me how the other half lived.........
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