~~~

"is it just me?"
this habitual guest,
nay, by now, alien resident,
this panting ponderous puzzlement,
so habitual, it has founded a room of its own
in a secluded space
upon mine own, contested Temple Mount

oft it strolls about the premises of me,
arm-in-arm with his pernicious cousin,
a fellow imploding interrogatory,
"what if?"
these thigh-slapping cacklers both, living off in the hollows
of the doubtful spaces they create,
cozy, corner-bounded criers, walk-abouters in thine recesses hidden

today, just one more inflection point in this man's life,
of which your are a welcomed observer,
and if but ******,
then let it be of thy own self,
for well imagine we, this pesky pairing,
that never venture far or away from their companionship
of any of us
friends of friends

I have no answer for either torturous query,
this answer, unsurprising and well expected,
for these visitors from a planet pernicious,
are astronomer-logged in your own constellation,
the dimmed light they shed, sheds no light at all,
having arrived light years after they were first posed

how can I counsel thee, that their risky business
should be routine dispatched fast away to another galaxy,
for here I am failing and flailing, well into my ending years,
yet waking once more in bed,
with this uncouth pair today,
haunting mine well worn, well trod paths

have you no guidance, no solvable words to defer
the solvable drip of doubt with which they tint our souls?

the only defense I am aware,
is to answer-deflect them with
yet another half-inquiry, half-commandment
that resides in the wellsprings
of thine best, supplanting them,
a goal to be,
by asking a twice-harder supposition

how can I,
this new morning glory, 
this new clean babe borning,
be a better human?
~~~

~~~
(Inspired by Miss Ohio,
I read your work)
~~~

"This time, but once"
one of my oldest companions,
surely,
my most favorite dessert
and lie
of greatest acquaintance

who, in posses of the
electronic stimulus card key,
mistress unlocker,
privateer explorer,
of the Venetian Grand Canal passage
of my ear to brain.
temptress of words-whispered,
always inviting me
straight to the dark places
of just us girls

this time, but once,
no one will care,
no one will know,
fumble, hurry, do it
quick now, quick here

just this once,
just this morning,
but not tomorrow,
just this night,
one cocktail can't hurt,
a few strokings,
a drag of desire,
a hit of heat,
glide path, short and pathetic,
this momentary shame,
for the quid pro quo,
of the satisfaction gained
from lying to one's self...

so I lay with a lie
to startle start the day,
come night time sleep,
speak of a sequential array of
pleasurable fantasies,
lies repeated repeatedly,
do not become truths

thus,
a bookended graduation
two endings,
a matched pair
a commencement to start,
a commencement to finish

and the truths in your poetry
in between,
*but just this once

~~~

Happy Father's Day, God in Heaven!
(A Continuing Dialogue)

~~~

wonder if I am the first,
even the last,
to wish a deity,
happiness based on a human construct

but feeling groovy with you,
meaning we ride sums of the same
curves and the lines, grooves,
connecting holes in the palms of
our hands

ya see,
got some familiarity
with
fatherhood...
and all that entails

the balance of imbalance,
it's tough I know,
load-bearing children,
leave ten ton scars,
but don't expect no
tea and sympathy from me

you and I,
we have our beefs,
and by the by,
master of the universe,
nothing has changed between us,
just saying, for the record,
ya know, for our inscribed
bible personal with our own bible argumentative stories privé

a human has no right to offspring,
but off they spring,
when the '**** dam’ springs a leak,
and them kids then spend
their lives.
saying yes and no
in light speedy abundance,
or worse!
ugh

...whatever...

if
they respondez
to whatever you suggest-see

rebels even when
they hug you
around the knees,
all knowing we papis (poppys)
fully, way in advance,
that in their supposed adulthood,
children will curse and bless you with
the equality principle
of self-righteousness and I know everything

Let us think upon it....

somewhere in the world,
it is a sabbath,
your citizen-creations
are beheading and burning
each other, Papa,
in your name,
so Happy Father's Day...

I mean,
really, that must be tough,
so it's perfectly clear
why you created free will,
all parents need a way to
walk away sometimes from
the children's choices

somewhere in the world,
it is a sabbath,
billions sending you a
litany of liturgy, a sweet songbook
in so many languages,
the simultaneous translation machina
must get overheated,
all those human claques submitting
liar loans applications

the backlog must be
eons in length

you see,  I am,
muy simpatico

of fatherhood,
what is my expertise?

a fair question
from one who provided
us the classic excuse,
"that's so not fair"

two sons have I,
a Cain and Abel,
so in this, expertise,
we've trod familiar ground

but this be about us pops,
not about how our embodied creatures,
bent and beautiful,
sending us formalities of video thanks,
should they remember or be bothered

maybe we should institute
greater frequency
of celebratory notifications,
making it easier for all of us
to forget,
lessen the guilt, the ache,
for it's more convenient, easier
to be overlooked,
with familiarity

nah,
I am not a complaint
in human guise,
not much, anyway,
and don't you fret,
I got you
a Father's Day present

as appealing as it is,
atheism in me won't take root,
cause I look forward to giving you
holy hell, next we meet
it's so richly deserved
so maybe I'll repost this in a year,
or maybe, I’l be close enough
to whisper this in your ears,either way, come hell or
high water,
Meus Pater,
you can bet your last bitcoin or
anything you might value,
I'll be bugging you,

(cause I'm
still crazy after all these years,
from standing upright,
on one left foot,
showing the world the poetry
of your world)

so tween us, I wish us
a Happy Father's Day
*best wishes

for Catherine,
who did not request this,
whose soul prospers, more than survives,
but forced me nonetheless,
this poem~quest to address

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
do not come,
turn back now,
disjoin from a
voyager to the harshest disheartening,
to the crux,
where essence oils aflame
burn smoke, stymied from being
expulsed, expelled,
through organs that have
no natural orificial cavities
allowing escape

the hell of poetry

no, paeans,
yes, pain swirls,
Greek laurel wrapped headbands
squeezing temples, give no relief,
confusion sewn together,
a mixology cocktail
of the ends and the means,
of giving up yourself
in, and to,
poetry

no tribute,
but only that which,
we must pay,
and pay on
in the coin of the realm,
which expires valueless
at the end of the day,
so you awake,
broke
in every way possible for a human to be
broke

busted bird, wing broke bent,
judiciously waiting for
a capricious time to heal thyself,
but time never healed anything,
where grievous grief knows no horizon,
from the absence of some sounds, voices,
that can never be heard again

toil (a/k/a light),
trouble (a/k/a diamonds)
double that,
then raise it again to the power
of anvil crushed chest compressions
preventing basic breathing

all this to get to
the crux,
that tormenting, familiar place,
where difficulty lives on a
one way street
with a "dead end" sign at the beginning,
a self-mocking "no outlet" at the end

this crux,
inflection point,
****** peak imploding,
*** of brains boiling over,
more crucible,
where molten metal
reformulates into words

why do you want to go there?

the heat of me cannot be measured by
any mortal thermometer,
the pressure of blood cannot be calculated,
the stained consciousness maculated
by past and future sadness

of death, no fear,
writing poetry from the places
where it's well down drawn.
terrifying,
like waking up

this is where one goes,
when your pick up the gun of pen,
in vainglorious hopes of venting
the bullets of gases that seek
an unplanned escape
from a place you have no business
visiting for business,
certainly not,
pleasure

this is here, this right here,
where existence is identified,
where the sun only burns,
word life selection, a humming curse,
and the voracious need to write
boils in your blood,
chokes the throat
with your own two hands


for their is no perfection in poetry,
there is only a voyage to the crux,
the hell of poetry...
where Faustus and I
rue the day we deemed ourselves
more knowledgable than the gods,
selling our souls
for fleeting, human skills


**why do you want to go there?