this composition
(not this one)

but the p r o c e s s

a within discovery
so radicalizing

composing himself
this body, this breadth,
this work, of untangling,
slight light shapes,
enfusing, suffusing,
even parts defusing,
but all a
cold fusion,
of body,
of breadth

some, unguarded, tumbling,
some, guarded, jumbling,
all shockingly emergent,
most shocking
to himself, this
decomposing of
composing,
his body, his breadth,
t his process,
t his work,
t his hymn,
this of him,
body and breadth

a series of random questions
all asking,
some ending in,
a few beginners,
where from...

from where,
do the haters come from?

the pleasure of mass ******,
in what gene,
from what cell, possessed,
that you seek it as a life's rationale,
so easy?


from where,
derived
the notion that you,
politician professional
behind closed doors,
bend over to the private interest
your public pretense,
couched lies,
the idea mocking me,
you know what's better
fraud,

from where,

did this despotic greed arise?

from where,
this endless depression,
a session with no end,
don't recall the beginning,
whence the end,
where the end,
freedom from it,
climb out from Joseph's pit,
the exit come
from?

from where,

does inspiration come from?

from
intimacy with the inanimate,
the population of objects,
coarse, beauteous that provoke,
the museums, the gutter, the worn,
the just unrealized, imagined,
from
learning to speak hearts
to speak the heart language

from
from animated blood, eyes, taste buds,
when you pass thru the molecules of me,
by contact real or imagined,
desperation, satisfaction organic,

from where,
from where do these questions arise,
the answers as well,
they are tangible, yet intangible,
even

from,
a notion indistinct,
an untraceable path,
hidden routers,
deflecting reflecting,
even a current direct,
invisible to the naked

from where?

a fair question,
answers, unreliable,
for in the forming,
froming is always
transfigured,
distorted

so let's agree,
the
mother, mater, matters not,
of from,
unsolvable, soluble,
the origin, source,
the river-head is a wasted search

only the acts of yours,
even/or the poems,
all realized ~
undeniable

from you, your hand

that is the only answer to
a question,

from where,

wherein from
comes both,
the contained,
and the
uncontained.

Yes I have been through it,
Our situations are similar,
They're different just a bit.

Tides of time are testing us,
We do not ever bow down,
Yes we will be strong babe.

We're together & we'll be so forever.

strange enough,
that word choice,
******,
for they are all,
(or mostly)
men

they get on
their knees,
so eager to please

write a poem,
newbie,
they will be your
partner pretenders,
instant followers

but
the trick employed
is transference

they want you bad
to worship them,
that being the purest
of their false intentions,
their oldest trick,
guilt,
"if I follow you,
you should follow me!"

their kiss

Pass

laden with std's,
they want implanted
in your
hp inbox

The std is vanity.
what they need,
what they want you to imbibe,
is their world view,
poetry-is-by-the-numbers

the number of followers,
(how I detest that word)
the number of reads,
oft manipulated,
by cyber techno b.s.

so understand,
this craft,
you may have chosen,
is work, so hard,
because it comes from the gut,
wrenching pressing issues
inside you

it is about everything you want
us
to understand about you,
your vision peculiar,
without revealing your rawest self
so obviously

know this in advance

each poem has a unique audience,
as unique as you

years took me,
took me to grasp
this simply complex notion,
over come myself within myself,
that self-same infection

that audience is you

write to please yourself,
be your harshest critic,
popularity
will find you

your truths,
withour pandering,
will finds the seekers,
the quality lovers,
the truth
hungerers

they will find you,
of that,
be assured

amidst the millions of words,
yours are yours,
fear not the plaintive worry,
are they any good?

for the courage to post
yourself,
is the very
self same answer to that,
the bells toll
for thee


if it pleased you,
pained you,
enough that you released into this world,
in poem form,
it is good enough

poetry is ego

no question,
but keep yourself
on the right side of the line,
separating your ego from
the egotist,
and your poetry
will no question,
forever live,
a mark of you
upon the world

let us be brothers,
let us be sisters,
David and Jonathan,
Ruth and Naomi,

but not
Cain and Abel,
no anger, no jealousy,
just raw,
refined,
truth,
the truth
of you,
which cannot be
diminished by enumeration,
cannot be counted,
only blessed