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  Jul 2023 Still Crazy
(be-tween and be-twixt)


the most precious but precarious item
in our possess, value far above rubies,
this love overflows, but it drowns me
from within, for it has no home for
pleasured sharing and goes wasted, excreted
in tears and exhalations without destination

condition incurable, and the doctor advises,
projects, a life span rangebound from

imperative that this love be
disbursed, pressure relieved,
fluid and gases shared,
send it forth,  
Doc behests,
you’re a decent human,
tell your tales,
follow your motto,
write those love poems,
always leave them laughing,
and give them love in smiles
bringing joyous relief to your clogged arteries,
all this the bare minimum,
for you must moreover grasp and clasp
your body to another, for this
the best transfer transfusion
of all your needed love needs

go be needed, be great, be lessened,
be all three
and never walk alone,
with just hope in your heart,
for the heart, automatically refills,
and this the best, medical opinion…
for all those with too many love poems
requiring expulsion and extrusion
Still Crazy Jul 2023
when you would have thought that nerve had gone, worn down,
when you would have thought that sense was a nub, tuckered out,
given a well deserved rest, after all, it was the best of each of us

maybe a glow, flickering in and out, a summer sun between clouds,
the occasional pang pinging, radiant, radiating in forgotten places,
luxury good, can’t longer afford, once, given with a happy reckless

crazy how love stays with me, low grade infection, ready to spread,
bud by morning, afternoon full blossom, black wilt by next daylight,
can’t decipher, finally decide, these tremors make old age life worthy?

absent, but memorized slivers, old poems, drive by glances of places,
hurt like hell so briefly, double over, no one notices, so fast dispensed,
it’s crazy how love stays with me,
and it’s a crazy that tastes so good,
hurts so awfully good, so badly bad

perhaps that is why behind my back,
not to my face, they whisper,  call me,
the guy, still crazy after all these years,
just still crazy after all these tears, or just,
                                 still crazy
Still Crazy Jul 2023
Maturity is knowing what your limitations are…(my daily chore)


Maturity is knowing what your limitations are. Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter can be said to remedy anything.”
Kurt Vonnegut


maturity comes when you cannot,
even try, to fool oneself,
indeed, you preposterousness,
make you laugh hardest
at your very, fully owned, selfhood
preening mirror disguise

Is this a poem, a lamentation, a pithy regurgitation
of Vonnegut, and you say: “Don’t care, it’s words
that gotta come out, be released to empty the heart”
a daily excess removal of that daily overflow of the
days first words when new day light and nighttime’s REM
sleep overlap, and the music starts of a life time of favorites,
and like a pleasant thorn direct into your temples brain,
the leaking, then the spilling spirals unstoppable onto the pages, and the first true relieving exhalation comes with
the excited exorcism of the stones of your life, come outside
your body and there is a freshly born stripe upon your face,
not yet a scar for it is yet to ripen by healing, but it is your
creature for loving…and it is good company with so many
prior guests who have checked in, stayed for a moment’s
observation, departed after getting an extended checkout
time, joining the many who came and went, disappearing
in to the internet’s ether, where we one will join them eventually,
though you smile at that thought, cause you’re mature
enough, baby, an all growled up dude, to know that when
you reached that stage, you will be, non-stop laughing
at *** serious you imagined you were, and wondering out loud
why it took so long to recognize that mirrored visage as
one big ole fool with a smile upon his face…

p.s so much for that promise to take a break from beating
yourself up, but you know what, it is pleasing, in that way
when upon the grand occasion of waking up to another
unexpected day of living deserves a deep, but rueful,
laugh out loud and others’ look at your self and argue to
only mischievously agree,
you are indeed,
still crazy after all these years
7:59 am
Jul 8
Still Crazy Sep 2020
the desk drawer was open, extending an invite,
cheap blue handle scissors, easy see, on top,
robbed of excuses, went around the house, all my
personal goods, mission oriented, trimming away
loose threads wherever they were hiding in my life

no expert in love, for sure, but struck by you people
linking love and dying, over and over, like they are
hyphenated, siblings, separated twin children, that
long to communicate, checking each other out on the
internet  anonymously, cause these two linked in ways
not understood, loosely tied, a threaded linkage, can you
please explain?

is loved only fully realized,
when it phoenixes?
burnt, slowly agonizing,
arisen, resurrecting,
is it one cell endless
dying, re-splitting?

Paul calls,

“and you wonder why we, why you,
why I am still crazy after all these years?”

Wed Sep 9
plague year
  Jul 2020 Still Crazy
sundial iris
هر دو بی فرزند هستیم (متفاوت)/we are both childless, differently

let us not ask each other or god

the why, just how life worked out

and maybe by a choice unconfessed


yet we both lie.


you possess thousands of offspring,

tend to their every need, breast feed

them water, special nutrients, stroking

their leaves, worry about their viruses,

you, dying just, a little, when, one rooted

looks up and says, “I am dying mother,

thank you for your love.”


my ***** produced two men,

each now, differentially,

lost, lost to me, and daily

privately, in word and wet,

weep my losses, for what

is a man who had children,

but goes down into his grave

gray haired, with none in

attendance to refill the soil

that his grave grayed body

requires to

hide his wasted,


  Jul 2020 Still Crazy
Where Shelter
all three came and gone,
I’m in the slow poke lane,

my days in the passing lane,
driving like a crazy man while
composing poems @85 mph

they, you, slowed me down,
teaching the old dog an old
lesson: new tricks are for the

children I’m leaving behind,
as they pass by speeding to
god-knows-where, and-why

there are no more queens in
my boogie nights, love a some
time thing, but what I know this:

when I ran, the wind was running
behind my back, and pushing me
hard to travel non-stop, what I think

about is this, my arms child-extended,
like a jet’s wings, the wind streaming
over my foils, I knew better-than-good

scratched my mark in the soil, still
finding my spot, to drop down and
write these words, to sleep in peace
Still Crazy Jul 2020
them creaky noises:

years ago wrote of meandering this old house,
in the creaky hours of-should-be-sleeping,
listening to the varietals of noises old houses speaking,
how the floorboards talk among themselves when
no human about to trod them, to elicit their groaning,
solicit their tales of who, when and memorizing the ending,

I wander same as before, same house, same wee hours,
no direction home, as I am technically “at home,” but still
directionless, still crazy after all these years, but that’s not
the only still, still left unheard, now new creaks demand a

the house
still talks to me in its language peculiar, but now,
my body, of its own free will, in its poetry of groans in bones,
creaking, two dialects of getting old, always being cold,
sleeping with your socks on, your twisty back named Jack,
who hijacked your invincible good health and getting up is a
hysterical funny musical of snap, crackle and pop, coming from
places inside your body, that supposedly don’t posses the skill of

kept awake by a united nations assembly of them creaky noises,
whirring motors turning me and things on and off all night, what
a racket, only early dawn calls them to order, to quiet down please,
everybody shush, the old house and it’s content, an old poet, needing
some winks cause soon enough the sun and the fog will arrive to
commandeer his overnight recollections, write them up, & write them
down, still crazy

like the one about them creaky-sounds, coming-from god-knows
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