(Adult Content )

















"There was a smell of **** in the air "
So said Henry Miller.

Women in Love
in the old wood shed
He loved her ****
or
so he said.
Lawrence lingered in rooms
filled
with old echoes.

***
Eroticism  (hormones)
takes the body
Myth takes
the mind.

***** brain
where everything is
******  parts
T & A
**** and ***
Sell that soap
Cars love Shell Gasoline
Lenny Bruce
went down for that.

People have life force
some call it souls
Personalities
Lives on their way
Better get an AI robot
have it your way.

Objectify
Deny

What is this
****** stuff
anyway?

Get close
because I love you?

******* dreams
all night long?

Madonna/*****
Male or female
doesn't matter
either can be
either one.

The bed has been made
Looks like someone
must have had a
seizure
in
it.

Eroticism/Hormones
take the body
Myth takes the mind
But
When you come (***)
you're done.

Wait a half hour
start all over again
you know
when you're young.

criss·cross  (krĭs′krôs′)

~~~
verb:  
criss·crossed, criss·cross·ing, criss·cross·es
1. To mark with crossing lines.
2. To move back and forth through or over:
noun:
1. A mark or pattern made of crossing lines.
2. *A state of being at conflicting or contrary purposes.
~~~


Oh Steve,
you nailed me
one mo' time,
to this cross of mine,
it's composition,
wood of linear mish mash, and the
nails, of a clear liquid substance,
drops of contradictory emotions

insight inside,
your practiced spécialité,
disarming the self-arming, harming,
we let our minds assemble reasons why,
in order to ourselves
dissemble

I keep hammering myself

unsure why, unclear the charge,
unknown the inevitable outcome

but the lines are continuously crossing, indeed,
but the intersections dissatisfying, in deed,
which is why theses words sores,
seeded by your words,
both burst and languish,
taking to the limitless limit,
of deep water oil exploration

unsure if I want to discover,
unknown if I want to uncover

the essential oils,
the caustic causing lyes,
that anoint these graying hairs,
blind his eyes,
both resting upon a furrowed, burrowed,
a puzzled forehead expression of
confusion about such simple line items as

life everlasting

out of bounds,
out of town,
writing poetry,
down by Richie Haven's San Francisco Bay,
listening to Norah Jones, wailing plaintive,
another Pandora perfect choice
"Don't Miss You At All"

am I stuck on an endless, repeating rifle
firing blanks of repetitious, line life patterns,
or worse,
forever trapped in the colorless
spaces between,
wondering if I can answer-handle
Stevie Nick's pre-vision precsion
pinpricking, questioning,
about the seasons of our life


" but time makes you bolder,
even children get older,
I'm getting older too...
and if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills,
well, well, the landslide will bring it down"

so in this out of state, out of mind,
drinking up these meandering ramblings,

experiential wondering not,
if
the summer sunshine,
only the
when,
it will return,
and the lines drawn upon my face
sun burnt,
cease their
meaning meandering
re life's line items such as

life everlasting*


~
Market Street
San Francisco,
two thirteen two thousand sixteen

~~~
She's Dead (Don't Think Twice, It's All Right)

A poem, forty years in the making,
Part II of a trilogy

~~~

she's dead

my nemesis,
a truly personalized comic book
arch-villain,
all mine to own and bear,
a cost that I comically
and freely chose,
purchased with only,
just the,
larger part of my life

because of a blood letting,
me letting
a lax laziness of fear,
a kind of blood poison,
an emotional self-imposed over-ruling,
"just cry and bear it,
for the sake of
appearance, children,
whatever,"
that was the insane,
disorganized principle,
who made itself
the king of me

an ugly sweater gift to myself
and
ashamedly,
wore its invisible effects
so quiet like,
this self-imposition,
of long standing,
a faithful traveling companion,
quietly unravelling, deconstructing,
this bearer-wearer

I married the wrong woman,

now she's dead

killed by the ovarian cancer
that I nursed her through in the early years
of its misshaped, too late discovery,
with bedside manners impeccable,
even secret whispers,
for who would believe me,
even begging God to give her
twenty years of
my own time

for he was so uselessly beaten down,
and unbearable miserable,
was-would-be gladly rid
of the final semester,
exiting more gracefully
than via other
contemplated and cowardly
methods of terminations

pronounced cured,
she decided a second cure,
like extra points for
a bonus question answered,
was just what the doc ordered

so she cured herself of
me

with a divorcing, stabbing,
emotional killing motion,
so angry, a petulant childlike biting,
relentlessly, revenging,
for all the years that followed,
inflicting, afflicting
me with mine very own
mental cancerous moments

where
I hated
myself
for hating her,
a petulant child who never grew up,
much,
as much as
my censored heart
would permit,
this truth,
to admit

it debased me,
being a raging hater,
yet a hater,
of both
her and myself,
I was,
her best, most successful
victim
of her final
curse

"you're not over her"
all the fools used to say and
then, and even now,
asking pointedly,
why else this time,
one mo' time,
is this small matter
deserving of an ecrive
all its own?

I guess there are glimmers of
secrets in
a life lived in poetry,
(poetry, her unknowing Greek God's gift to me)
in everything,
even in a
confessional,
a special reserve vintage,
for admitting my imperfections

now she's dead,
losing a race to
her curse,
losing a race,
to the most cruelly, patient,
enemy that a human can face,
unwilling self-destruction,
setting one's own
holy temple on fire,
with great irony,
sourced from within,
this tinder
from the very body
she worshipped,
that went finale
crazy ablaze

where ya going with this,
you ask yourself?

a mixed up goodie bag,
of emotional conflicted torment,
brings me here,
to pen and paper

her leaving me
turned out
as the best thing ever,
drawing down my reservoirs of courage,
mined from the deepest arteries
of a damaged heart,
of a recovered addict

a thousand different tunes come to me,
all nurses aides,
to assist me to
stitch myself,
this memory wound
closed

the one that make the most sense,
an old Dylan lamentation,
correct only in exactly every phrase,
yet forced to admit,
I am indeed,
despite it,
for now,
yet,
thinking twice...
~~~

"It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
Like you never did before
It ain’t no use in callin’ out my name, gal
I can’t hear you anymore
I’m a-thinkin’ and a-wond’rin’ all the way down the road

I once loved a woman, a child I’m told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don’t think twice, it’s all right

I’m walkin’ down that long, lonesome road, babe
Where I’m bound, I can’t tell

But goodbye’s too good a word, gal
So I’ll just say fare thee well
I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don’t mind

You just kinda wasted my precious time

But don’t think twice, it’s all right"

Tragedy's shadow
So
Easy to miss
If you're
Not looking
For
It.

Our love it
comes and goes

Rich and poor
I pour my
love into these lines
But our silence
Knows no bounds

Poor and rich
I seek the lines
to describe
the love
I feel inside

Rich and poor
I walk this beach
alone
The days they run together
The shore line is empty
Squall lines long
heading my way
Rich and poor
in these words
I have to say

These rhymes
they sound
so
empty
now

Poor and rich
as we are
you come
into my arms
for these moments
all wealth is
found

Rich and poor
you head
on out
and are
gone.

I wish upon wishes
I wish all the
time

If wishes were horses
than beggars would ride
This is something we've known
for a
long long
time

But still I put
wishes on stars
and
go along
for the ride
whispering out to the great unknown
listening and wishing
for
another story untold

But
of all the wishes
I could bestow
I wish for that peace
we all
wish
to know.