this accidental status, we are all very busy
to be on the lookout for, the odds are not
terrible compared to the lottery, a modest
1 in 300 million, but it’s an easy buy and bust, just a two dollar bill, two lousy singles,
for a legal purchased fantasy that’s
cheaper than a cup of coffee

but finding love is miserable murderous
murmuring mess, can be very expensive, and
exhausting too, physically and mentally,you’re swimming in shallow waters tween razor rocky coral, begging for a slice of your double sized portion of anguish

And yet,
can’t be that hard,
it is a mega billion busyness,
with no cure or satisfactory vaccine,
and the randomness can drive you
mad, make panting to-pack it in,
until your spidey sensnses tingling,
a ketchup and bitter herbs mixture,
and you’re sweating, and it’s 100% anticipation of the well known (!)
unknown risks, this easy
walkway~path in the woods,
leads you on, with marvelous views,
even babbling brooks, till you find
you’ve climbed halfway way up a mountain and to make it to the top,
it’s a rocky boulder strewn,
ankle and heart twisting road that
takes you to the grandest place and plan

oh but, boy,
where the view of the worldscape is only
fantastico, but the only way back down involves throwing yourself into a
quarry pit, full of dangerous chemicals,
that burn scars into your inside parts, invisible wounds so untreatedbly unspeakably bad and incurable
again and again,

and you say stupid things like
I can’t help myself,
what’s a matter daddy,
just want some sugar in my bowl,
and when your neck gets broke,
and it’ll take incredible processing
to just get you to walk again,
and yet
the single
odiferous scent, that amuse bouche on
your lips, and you’ll do it all again for
once monte carlo throw of the dice,
because the odds ain’t that bad,
everbody lives somebody
and given the billions of opportunities walking in just this planet,
even one in a million sounds
pretty good,
even,


very…fair

~for Maya~

(8/12/24)
never put off the important stuff
till tomorrow, defined as 202five,
first tend to the existential jive,
after all there are harvests
that need bringing in,
bills that need to be paid,
or yet to arrive,
and them older ones, children demanding
an installment to keep them happy’n
currently hip

the weather vane ventures an opinion,
another option, hard to discern, for the
vane spins wildly as almost undecided
as a teenager dreaming ‘bout which girl
to prom-vite, or a seven year old confronting
30 plus favors in the tuck shop before picking
the craziest, the most colorful,
& worst tasting,
then dropping cone et al, on dad’s ****** brand,
new sneakers

putting off poetry till the next year’s almanac
agrees a day off you need,
to seed,
to cede
for yourself, a practical decision
that any farmer could at arrive,
tho probably better things need doing,
****, even sleeping as there is never
enuf  seconds even for that, cause something
always needs fixing,
and

I ain’t even mentioned the vagaries of the
full time occupancy of worrying bout
the witches in charge of discharging
crazy unpredictable Canadian weather

but there is something that needs tending,
use those soil stained fingernails to unburden
the weights that don’t go away, just because
the body too tired to talk to the soul, cheat
sleep, scribble down that single verse that
the chest can’t get rid off, that rhyme in
your puzzled mind, as to what comes next,
and then the rest will follow; which
one you ask, me smiling, the one that
already burnt a hole in your breast,
complaining bout their orphaned status,
and looking to be one of the kids who get
luckily adopted

but what do I know, probably all wrong, me
with no plan on how to survive beyond T+1,
the way markets taught ya how to think
about additive time, a day at a time,
but still find a poem for you
squeezing itself in between his very different
list of worries that never quit, making those
hailstones falling in his can’t-sleep-either brain,
rising with the Eastern sun to pen
crazy poems about humans he’ll likely never
meet…

postscript
————-
his favored Persian poet penned, (1)

“We are often in battle,
So often defending every side of the fort,
It may seem, all alone.

Sit down my dear,
Ttake a few breaths,
Think about a loyal friend,
Where is *your music,
Your pet, a brush?
…
Now pick up your life again,
Let whatever is out there
Come charging in

Laugh and spit into the air,
There could be holy fallout.* (1)

Inevitable, that the circle be completed,
celebrating our seasonal return to the
sheltering abode by river, bearing winded
surround sounds to our isle of near-perfection,
where slivered tongued foamy waves deposit
new & used poems on beach, emptied from
now repurposed sea shells and hardened
conchae's, evidence that the truest inhabitants
never leave, always return, with their markers

Inevitable, that I write this in premature
anticipation, amidst the towers of babble,
& honking taxis, imitating Canadian geese,
who await our presence to refute any paper,
that we fool human claimants, before Nature
pretense of ownership, are not mere renters, albeit
but for a few centuries, which by larger definition,
is an interim short term lease, writ in invisible ink, that tho it
yellowing disappears, the orange summer heat magic revives

Inevitable, that decades of worshiping this
place, now mindbound, as temple, shrine, to
a place extant in our minds, wherever we be,
as land that owns us; here, we have buried
super~hero figurines, sanded, polished memories
of loved ones, parents, friends, adventures, times,
confusing generations, for the children of earlier
children, whose children, now too scream with glee
& courageous abandon, familiar+identical to forbears

Inevitable, that we live here, though life demands
our presence elsewhere, in our minds,* for each
year burnishes our genes with sun rays, while sand
smoothes our roughened skin, and we are only refresher
modifications of our earlier selves, when we first were
lost, and stumbled upon this grail, with shovels and
red plastic pails, with which we commenced erecting
foundations, homes, gardens and vines, and images
that are always at home in our minds, living on,

in real time…

in our mids 20’s
it’s okay to fail
stand up and try again
this time learn from your mistakes

it’s okay not to rush things up
we can go slow and steady
look how far we already achieve

we’re all doing the best that we can
we can do it, just hold on
we’ll get there!

In God’s No~Fly Zone

blessedly, so many of you are
unaware of the full color spectra
that be can seen only when an
age of experience has been reached,

reached, not attained, for the no~fly
zone is no place to be, without any
redeeming colorations, it is dark hued
twilight that inhibits vision clarity,
a precursor warning of the hungry
darkness that offers to swallow one
into shades of sad remorse, and other
miseries

How came I to earn this distinction,
was not by acting out, rather by inaction,
the failure to pick the  correct fork in a
life of sentence diagramming, sentence
in the prison sense, all my sentences,
broken down,  no connection sensible
to the next phrase, next phase,  so I
sit beneath my vine and fig tree, unable
to fly, unable to tear shed,
grounded, pounded in my head

writing love poetry in/on time of hatred

<~>

not for the absence of love, for there is sufficient out and about,
in the eyes of children who cannot hide their glee at your surprises,
tousled morning hair patted down almost into not-a-horror-show,
a shapely body in a black one piece suit, that speaks of hints and
mischievous frolic, a summer night~right of taking, reciprocation,
god’s coffee delivered bedside every morn, with kisses of tenderness

but

these are the days when hatred speaks loudest,
volume of volumes,
and the hypocrisy runs blood red in the streets and we we wonder
has the world learned nothing from the horrific history of the prior
century, the absence of easy solutions for those who reject in the
provident supply of the low humane treatment of a world where the
word
society
is a mirthless grimacing joke

maybe that’s why I I turn on the love songs and music, a soupçon
of cherishing, a wail for its absence and loss,
the thrill unique it provided,
and may yet again, and to just remember, remember, remember!

why we obsess about crazy love in the artistry of our lives

so, I will force myself…to write of tenderness, let sneaky,
much needed,
sentimental in…

oops, looks like I already did…