"How could I live
without metaphors?

To call things by their names,
not to drown in longings,
not to color them,
to make shapes less painful?"^

><<><
this quest, this verse curses
my drifting senses. now all attentions,
the outlined shapes that haunt, daunt,
lacking ****** substance,
just wafers and wines symbolic,
to defer away the many pointy fingers,
hands of nothing but forefingers
aiming exactly at  our temple's
temple
stating most factually,

J'accuse

shadows are metaphors,
images meta-stasizing
into what ever

you believe,
what
you think you meta~need to see,
in the dark late of the light of our soul's night,
so you right of,
you write of
seasonal changes,
hardly illusory,
failing to note, that when you wrote:

How could I live without metaphors?

the answer metaphorical+historical,
for the question is only
rhetorical

for you know~knew

that once we know the name to everything,
we will no longer want them,
but only to write of them in
idealized metaphors
so we can sleep~dream on,
perchance
while the
restoration of the imagination
is our brain sourcing
new things
that seek, crave,
to satisfy our urgent needs

to describe, define, our every fractional moment

upon reading your poem
Tremor^

and this what I think:
when reading your seamless
writing connecting of moments
of immortality,

only one question remains,
why, does our own writing
not approach the level of your exquisite precision
soul's *******?

is it our
own immorality
that permits our soon-to-be-
discontinued pretenses,
wherein, whereby,
we can still believe
our own words should be
deservedly disowned,
disinherited to the
scrap heap heated,
burned, eradicated
and
why do we even try?

sigh
>.<
dare not read it twice,
lest my inked fingertips
surrender to my
indecent indecision

Agnes de Lods.writes:

"Writing turns our thoughts inside out.
We cut and suddenly join words to touch the essence of both human and non-human existence. I  allow myself not to be too sure
whether what I write is a record of what I have seen,
of my falls, or maybe a hallucination,
trying to wear the veil of mysticism.
I am only following the crumbs left by the undefined"

<AoL>

PREFACE

Perhaps it's me,
perhaps it's you.
but I trip over the inspired insights you so oft
slip in, share, and guilty feel
you have commissioned me to write
a poem for everyone
but especially,
for the poets here,
who peer, preen
and pepper their
inside innards
to find,

"the undefined"

<>

I know well these crumbs,
that once,
tasted
demand a full on British Baking
real life escaping escapade of a unque episode

god how I love the poetry of a glance askance,
the invisible invitation to take a closer look,
the hither in-a-come-closer

god how i love the well hidden but tracing whiff of a smile,
of an 8 year old when she's gifted an
unexpected delight, a simple bracelet,
which alway says please, little one, always,
remember me?

the pretense of irritation of an phony whiny
'I know, I know'
just for her, a savory masking
of the pleasured knowledge that you know her,
so well, of what she'll next speak.
just as well,
hell! even better,
before she knows herself

the shock of a particular poem
when first read, is a stone to temple,
a knife to the breast,
for the only first thought
forever, is my guilty plea of
"I should have written that!"

Need I go on?

perhaps one more,

the very first time you accidentally intentionally
touch each other's skin, hair or breast,
and the shock equivalent is of an electric chair
shared,
that requires stoppage of breathing, allowing for the full on
desire to fall to the ground,
thinking I'm found, I'm found out, I'm revealed, unveiled,
that comes out
of your eyes silently beseeching
if anything could ever be better,
than a joy undefinable.
and a memory memorized forever,
that defines,
that makes one fine,
that comes crossed off that secret list,
one more of the
undefined
of being alive
and changes you
for the entirety, and
the subtlest shade meanings of the phrase.
just
for the
rest
of your life
is immortalized
<>

now, here. I cease.
quite pleased,
that I do indeed!
remember;
begin again to recall
how to breathe
out, then in…
and then,
tho still off kilter,
                                          again,  and a gain
                                                            ­                           <nml>

7:58am Tuesday Sep 9 Twenty 25

Mi rayo de Sol

Cabellos de oro

El mar en tus ojos

La arena en tu piel

Corazón de azúcar

Alma de miel

Toma mis esperanzas,

no me dolera si las destrozas,

porque tocar el cielo no puede doler.

Pídeme consuelo en rosas

besos de azúcar

el cielo de un flechazo

y la eternidad en tus brazos.

Por esas hazañas ya  no me enervo,
hay menos materia e ideas que me echen para atrás,
ahora escribiría epitafios como el de Amado Nervo,
y es que ya hace mucho tiempo que encontré la paz.
Y tú no necesitas a alguien que te diserte sobre la vida,
cada uno tiene un rol válido en el mundo que lo cumplirá,
todos sin excepción en distinto tiempo antes de su partida,
así contemplaré tus hazañas y una sensación en ti brillará.
Así como viví estupefacto escuchando y leyendo al poeta de la tristeza,
entre altibajos desde un sentimiento carmesí hasta una reflexión policiaca,
cada noche con pensamientos que literalmente me hincharon la cabeza,
ahora se volvió una melancolía compleja en donde el gran silencio ataca.