except,
when the old eyes tear, with the greatest of ease,

hitched a planetary ride round the sun, more times
to know that the square root of the human is not
his exterior, which without fail, grows and erodes
on a timed schedule not of his own choosing...

but the mystery that never ages, the arousal of
his base metals, when the women looks upon him
with a intriguing askance, tasking a masking of an
invitational challenge, a whimsy expression of hither

confusion is the reigning ruler, mining for her actual
intentions, the push~pull of her contradictions and
her puzzling diction, impossible to interpret until I
admit, jingle jangle woman, I'll come following you

this is a familiar newness, a fresh candle lit for burning,
and every time is the first time, so there you have it,
I'm no ******, but born renewed, when the heated heart
quavers, with the anticipation of the known unknowns

and the old tears free falling, she finds its puzzling,
even troubling, till she grasps my smiling countenace,
and my head, two~handed embraced as she studies my line~age,
my map of wrinkled experiences that whisper yes, I understand

and she kisses my forehead, acknowledging acceptance that our
paths have never until now crossed, what a delightful surprise
will be the reading of a unexplored map of our conjoined palms,
the greatest wonder be that surprise has not died, and I

with one hand waving free, welcome it all, and she grins at my
exuberant silliness, and that we choose to be with each other, on
a treasure hunt for a poem as of yet unwritten, but so so wonderfull
comforting that its mere outline and its composition~completionition

familiarity speaks of the good things that experience has brought
and now, again, will yet bend time to our wills and what fun that
will be, defying odds, reliving new moments unique, hot created,
and this adventure reinstills the awe of wonder at familiar unknowns

that early morn smell of
butter and bread,  
fresh, virginal,
like the  sweat
we have shed
and laughs we,
just baked this day

People live 50%
      in the past
     30%  in the present
     20%   in the future-
     is this an accurate measure?

an empty hermitage
is all thats left
at the end of the road
a silent space
where once poems were born
and a child of the Universe
-a child of God
sat watching.

I don’t stream a lot of TV
but once I’m in that mode, I’m down
and I can’t get up.

Best pickup line I heard this week:
“You could be my emergency contact.”

A girl recently called me “weird people.”
She was effusive and I was put in my place.
Apparently, good grammar isn’t legally enforceable.
Her friend apologized, saying—and wrote it down.
“She lives on her phone; it’s a claustrophobic place.”
“Ooo!” I’d said, "Can I use that?” She gave me a blank look.

Leong, lisa and I were walking to class when a lone goose flew over,
honking incessantly, like a New York taxi in heavy traffic.
“That must be a Canadian goose,” I said, because my uninformed comments seem forever welcome—and we are pretty far north.
“I know what it was saying,” Leong offered, in her most inscrutable Asian way. Lisa and I waited to hear some Chinese wisdom, but what she finally said was, “Where IS everyone? I knew I shouldn’t have stopped to ***.”

There’s a song that goes, “We got married in a fever.”
That line seems so point-on to me. That’s how it happens.
Not, “We got married with a prenup, hotter than a brussel sprout.”
My Grandmère told me Peter and I will need a prenup, if we ever…
.
.
Songs for this:
Feather by Sabrina Carpenter [E]
Head In The Clouds by BabyJake
Jackson (feat. Josh Homme) by Florence + the Machine

By One Who Still Believes in the People

This must be said.
This must be screamed —
from the highest hills,
from the lungs of the workers,
from the whispers of the broken and the buried,
from the hearts still hoping for something better.

America is being hijacked by ego.
Not ambition. Not vision. Not strength.
Ego.

A bloated, brass-plated, gold-dripping bravado that
believes shouting is leading,
that believes punishing the world will somehow heal a nation.

It will not.
It cannot.

In the last four days, the United States has turned its back
on the fragile balance of global trade.
Trump — blinded by the mirror of his own reflection —
has imposed sweeping tariffs,
shattering alliances,
igniting retaliation,
and in return,
$5 trillion — gone.
Vanished from the markets in a storm of uncertainty.
A storm he summoned.

But the worst part?
He will not stop.
Not because it is wise — but because his pride cannot retreat.
Not because it will help the people — but because he confuses the cheers of the few with the needs of the many.

And now, the world watches.
Macron has stood up.
The European Union is no longer silent.
Australia’s Albanese, firm in defiance.
New alliances are forming — without America at the table.

America, the disrupter.
America, the pariah.

And still, the people are told to trust the plan.
Still, they are sold dreams wrapped in slogans.
Still, they are forced to pay —
more for food, more for fuel, more for failure.

But this is not a call to despair.
This is a call to arms — of the spirit, of the voice, of the will.

Let the weak-kneed step aside.
Let the truth-speakers rise.
Let the artists, the elders, the thinkers, the builders —
let them speak. Loudly.

We must reclaim the narrative.
We must remind the world that America is not its tyrants.
It is its people.
It is its conscience.
And it is not too late.

HISTORY IS LISTENING!.

Will we go quietly into this manufactured decline?
Or will we bellow from the belly of the people,
until the sky remembers our name?

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

Sing joy to me of May and rose
along the tree lines shade and grove
let stride and time slow with noon sun
while hold of hands become as one
know heart and mind are with you dear
and fear us not of stone marks near
for love will steer our hearts with cheer
until the stars sleep sound wu wei

-cec

I had been sober for
awhile and was getting that
itch to drink.
I couldn't recall the
degradation and misery of
the last drunk a few months
earlier.

It was spring, and I was standing
outside of the flophouse, I was
staying at.
Just then, a big sunflower of
a woman walked by.
"Hi Jenny," I said.
We had a past.
Not much of one though.
It resembled a Dali painting that
had been soaking in the rain.

We ended up in a motel with a
bottle of Absinthe.
Jenny wasn't much of a drinker,
No problem, more for me.
Jenny wasn't much of a
conversationalist, and half-lit on
robust *****, neither was I.
I walked around the room talking
about Hemingway and Van Gogh,
Fitzgerald and Picasso.
Jenny wasn't interested in them.
She wanted me to score her some dope.

She said, "If you want this *****, you
will buy me an eight ball."
I didn't.
I wanted to write, but I was too drunk.
We wanted different things and neither
of us
found them that night.
And later at about 3 am when I got
up to ****, I could have sworn I saw the
picture of Van Gogh on the box of Absinthe
laughing.

There we are
Bundles of thoughts and nerves
We plan and script
Burn the midnight oil
Charting paths and mapping
Defining destinations
But then, life happens

And it will

I suppose I could brood
And close tired eyes
Or I could lasso a cloud
And hitch a ride to paradise

The old man
drifted into memories—
technicolour visions
of a young farmhand,
naked to the waist.

Sweat added a glossy shine
to an already impressive torso.
Mary, the land owner's daughter,
gazed longingly at her fancy,
then approached, offering
homemade lemonade.

He nodded thanks,
drinking the glass down
into his empty,
thirsting stomach.
They both smiled.

Slipping from the memory,
the old man
closed his eyes,
took a final breath,

and then
once again —
tasted lemonade.