Airborne Muse #2: Once I wrote:

if it cannot be said
in ten words, it cannot

(but now, older wiser, more intuitive)

I believe five is plentiful

11/26/24
12:27pm

~ encore un autre, inspiré par Sally B.~

another poem excised from an
interdepartmental message from
The Dept  of Poets, (Global), a
ridiculous thot mine, deserving of
removal, remorse and regret,
(modern human’s woke 3 r’s)
nonetheless deserved of exegesis,
mainly because I think so…

Surficially, I comprehend that of the bones,
of the billions of those who have gone to
their where~ever, if could speak. we would
require a huge commitment to building out
our cell phone networks, the best comm
tool, for portability between differing
dimensions, times and spaces

let us cut to the chase (thank god),
my bones shall be without a doubt
return to a granular dust, my minerals
contributing to some future breakfast
cereal, thus assuring my recirculated
inspiration for generations to come(?),
acknowledging that my “gifts” are
the product of apriori Jews who wandered
this planet, forever rootless and semi-
displaced by their haters for reasons
that have nothing to do with reason

By way of my gratitude that you have read
so far, hopefully to continue, let me assure
you that this P.  will not trend, nor spit or spot
or high lighted, as it’s worth is as fleeting as my bones, when one dwells on the size of space expanding and the time & space
continuum

that disclaimer claimed, we breathe easier,
and I happier, and now at last to the meat
of the matter:

My poems will wither, and eventually their
ions will be erased when the internet servers
undergo the many purges that yet will come
(better this than purging people)

yes, my ego’s cells, which one of you will
no doubt will imbibe and perhaps????
imbue, may actually reappear in a newness,
in a refreshing refreshment, that some Believers will think is absolutely brand new
(which it won’t be), for the new treads are on
the old treads, only now, dug a little deeper,

and I, in my ionosphere, inside my cells
yet within you, will muse amusedly,
“there is nothing new under the sun” (1)

but the sun will be shining and that is
good enough for all of us

Nov. 23
9:04 am
nyC

~ inspired by, & for Sally~

the modern internal combustion engine
is a series of controlled explosions, a spark
ignites the flammable gasoline, the pistons
moving, dispensing energy to turn our
wheels so we may voyage as a pair, to
there, and to here:

our very hearts, the original model of
this energetic blood disbursement of
oxygen ignited by electric pulsations,

one contemplates
at this late hour, at this late date, when the
moving parts, obedient servants,
collectively concur
that the use-by-date has nearly arrived and
we must soon take a sabbatical to the whereafter

what two, surely not three, digits will complete the right side of our hyphen,
our from~ to, as if that were an achievement,
more than merely, an identifying bracelet

think upon it, thousand of explosions,
millions of sparkings electric, we have been
engineering our reactors to go to over 100%,
until we cry out
how long you gonna run that body down,
and when the answer is ascertained,
we now done and undone,

we
no longer care, that last datum,
we are, of it, unconscious,
the date prior inscribed in flesh,
its mate, its uncomplimentary
complement,
can be only scribed in
Vermont granite,
as a warning
to any passerby
that yet harbors
the illusory that
the future can
be foretold

~ following “A Simple Poem”~ (1)

But of course, we reference revelations,
for our brief self-description are guises,
meant to hide, meant to impress, reveal
little, enhance our mystery, preserve our
secrecy. expose and hide simultaneously
within our mid-of-night aura mystiques

Safe behind the curtain, we wizards speak
in voices and tongues, giving up our innermost everything in verse, write of our blessings and our curses, holding  little back while we give ourselves away, hint by hinting, writ by writing, a series of
+++++++’s

I choose, I chose, to dress my chess pieces
in a clear varnish, **** the consequences,
sail towards the torpedoes, heading direct
to meet your eyes, giving up my forest
tree by tree, poem by poem, a leaf and
a branch, only tinkering and fussing like a new parent over each new virtual birthing,

and then once tidied,
once spent,
my secrets unconcealed,
we wonder quick if each
puzzle when connected
to its predecessor is 
understood
as a tiny pointilisme dot,
a speck
and that you are wise enough to
comprehend how each speck,  
lives only unique in its
conjunction,
only tandem-with both the one
nearest and the ones dabbed a decade
long ago, and when you connect  
my dots, I stand before you completely
a full and a naked folio,
one book of a single reveal,
the sum of my totality,
an addition of many integers,  
summing up to 1

So,

should we pass by each other,
our eyes will pierce, each wrinkle,
solving the equation of who we are…
a single human, readily identifiable,
total recognition, via the reconnaissance
of our letterered footsteps

this semi-seemingly sad refrain~reflection, more truth than
one can even understand,
for my physical self slowly
disappearing, diminishing
though no visible pieces
as of yet,
gone missing

few of you have come to visit me
in NYC, so you cannot be sure of
anything you’ve been told, for the
great liar claims, the internet bleeds
disinformation believe this
if nothing
else

for I’ve been a dream from my very
naissance, a vision imaginable by
those who contemplate my whereabouts,
my visages, we bemused, while
you imbibe, tongue |taste
mrs
written bouche amusante

well,
if you want them pieces & parts,
poems in the fleshes,
seek outa one eyed guy patched
by a rivered walk path,
see a troubadour on his soap box
amusing the real peoples
who pause to reflect
cause
them
give respect to his peculiarities,
listen to his truths bout
himself and them
selves too

if you can’t camp this far,
then believe in your dreams
cause my come and go,
fly out the window
and have reached as far as
the Phillipines, New Zealand &
the Land of Oz

I’m their break from the news,
indeed call me ‘the new news,’
which so cool, makes us laugh,
cause there ain’t no much new
by this foolish OG, ‘cept for the
rhythm of and blues, I spin, the rhymes
that they fet/met/net me with dollar bills,
loose change and half used joints in lieu of cash-is-trash

So I dream, they dream,
together we scheme,
each of us composing,
in separate and equal
prepositions preposterous
and share all who to be heard,
especially those who wish to also
have their dreams be
seen