~for S.,
who needs to look up
nada et. al.,
for & cause,
she was the
implanter-in-chief~
<>

by now
you know exact my meaning,
the daily diurnal,
the witchs why you keep
a log, a journal,
of the all memories mundane,
pleasurable and pained,
the stuff of life
which morphs into
the stuffing of your
scribing,
aged pages
of endless fascinations,
of the tiny artifacts,
the dance habits,
muscular sized,
from moment of
first arousal,
to the last thought
clanging,
all are impressed upon
your closing jail door eyelids,
all these minutiae
now nightly benightly
locked in,
the actions and reactions,
that choose you,
or vice versa

the A to Zed
of who you be,
what summaries get kept
in your head,
of who you
were, was, when,
now storaged
in that stainless steel
attic of
you actions
in living color, the
terrible and the tedious
all these seedlings of amoebas,
of unending routine edges,
that define
your selving delving,
and shelving of
yourselves,
the best mysteries
of your personal histories,
that you’ll take to your graveriueries^

t h e y
are the original origins of a life,
you who walked you out of the sea,
to become the
salt of recorded history
sprinkled upon
your poetry…

<>

and those ****
they
said you
couldn’t rhyme
worth a dime


ah well,
they~them
last seen
entering
the hated gated
halls of hell
sighing,
while I’m
laughing,
Rolfing^
on my
Armstrong ceiling tiling^

disclaimer:
a long poem, tumbled out complete,
feel free to *** along

<!>

a poem that does not need writing,
scripted once before(1), sung this song,
nonetheless the heart purges,
then
newly urges
for fresh eyes to revise

for each second, four new babes come
into these world, estimating that one
will be infect by poesy, and there is
and yet,
no-known/cure, there be no disturbance,
no Cain mark distinguishing,
no sign from heaven,

so this enlivening disease, sometimes takes
almost a generation to bud, blossom (4) and pollinate the world with its unique nectar, uncontained, unconditionally & uncontrollable, and naturally,
incurable

by you awoken & aware of yourself
as a carrier, the strange heart rate
display of your EKG, that the doc
cannot explain, with that extra heart
beating beat (2) revealed, tell them not
to worry
it’s ok,
it’s a genetic
that makes you
tick
that’s yours
distinct,
and

there is no cure expected, no foundation advertising for dollars to lead the fight,
maybe one that does exact opposite, but no
matter, the infection becomes a condition,
with symptoms diagnoseable by the
colored gleaming lights in your
aggregating eyes

then comes the days of
frustrated declination
when every undisciplined
***** ditty wordy rejected,
crumpled and to the round
container sailing,
that’s the pain for the gain,
though all natural talent marked
by higher standards
self~imposed,
for only you can judge
when it’s good enough to satisfy
the judges observing,

the ones astride you
on each shoulder,
censoring the trite,
******* you back into the fight,
and soliciting you to go easier
on that body
for it already contains
all the nutty nutrients
that will combust
into a poem
that will be any equivalent
to an
******  of
new life breaching the
mind’s cautious customary warnings

so much more to tell,
by way of example,
who are the
predecessors that give me instant inspiration,
in the expectation of periods of
Saharan drought, (3)
the need to jot every random thoughts,
for oft
we compose in drips and dabs,
every birth owns its own timetable,
took Cohen ten years
to make Hallelujah satisfactory,
theiving so/too much of your time,
until the best distraction arrives,
announcing the following;

“if I did not truly loved her
it would be causas belli
should I fail not to
bring her an ember of
coffee”


but writing in the moment
is a stupendous momentous
so smile sweet,
tell her where to go,

where
the mug with Hawaiian scents
awaits, and let her lover
decompose what needs saying

immédiate
right now!

so by way of closure
I ask you
why
are you still reading this too **** long
soliloquy
and not
stariing into a world
of words
all your own?
<>
for
inscribed upon your every breath,
are
your words,
a trickery uniquery
to which

nothing will ever compare

seethe ~ bubble up as a result of being boiled,

<>
sunrise was 714 am in nyc
this perfect fall day,
chilled to perfection,
a white wine of a day,
so imbibe,
only later does it
heat up up and onwards
to the temp where the
walkers/joggers/runner recite
hallelujahs and hosannas while
moving at their own chosen pace,
in a state of warm southern comfort,
never a racing

lest
the poems
now seething, boiling-burning
bubbling up inside
into the atmosphere explode!

all of these
early warming~warning inspirations,
now~expressed,
realized flickers of
original ex-impressions,
cannot be contained in
an open field unsupported,
these
breech babies each,
in a pediatric ICU,
demanding an
instantaneous airy concoction
to Earth’s atmospheric
literary intoxication

they use:
up hard, a dice roll,
who lives
who wilts,
that docs cannot but
obey
the fetus’s insistence,
many instructions,
push pull breathe,
must the. be given forthwith
through to our
servile waiting
uterine fingertips,
for we human are just be
~ings,
nurturers of
verbal artifacts
that never die

in
an~always~at~the~ready,
in service to
the great conceptual,

poetic in/justice

“What information pertains:
The thought that life could be better
Is woven indelibly
Into our hearts and our brains”
<>
Paul Simon “Train in the Distance”
<>
a songwriter inserts a precise scalpel cut
in the nether part of the brain
where we bury
things we-wish not to recall, but
that particular
poem-scrap-dagger/byte

must remain a permanent
guest on a cruise ship
going around the world that can
never return to your
hailing port

“indelibly”
that which we hope
that cannot be
removed or forgotten
or in a reverse
of a kinda curse,
this hope stabbing
is springing eternal

when I need to be bleak,
quiet on all fronts,
silence the voices
desirous to speak
in tones moving me
from down sided
up, to up and away

that **** thought
life could be better
“if f—king only…”

is a cut that never
ceases to bleed~leak,
can’t be curettage away,
never healed,
it’s indelible

it’s a saturday morning
bright and chilly
indelibly
incurable
stamped and stampeding
on my mind
that this arctic exploration,
is self-exploitation
and curse my
heart and brain that won’t
accept my explanation
nor my pleading pleas
wet knots of
begging to anyone in particular
to please
leave me alone
&
this is how the week
ends

October 2024

(the drug cos. have invented this,
tablet, capsule, even injectable;
but the pharma cabal says
no to all,
who know & ask for a public release)
|~|
For

A Kiss That Lasts All Week
it will cure most illnesses,
and what’s the point in that?

you will just have to learn it
with practice, practice & tactics
no need to hurry, play with
the concept, roll it over the tongue,
ready for overseas deployment
said tongue,
the tongue now
the advance force

close your eyes
focus on the overwhelming
(says the now all powerful Wizard of Lips)
those underestimated sensors of the lips,
too oft disdained
in a overhurrief hurricane rush
to the
“big n’ better “ orifices,
and the slow luxury
of the tingly
uttering of

WOW~

shooting through you to the parts of you
suddenly rewoked
& now revoked
from the
quietude of functional boredom

and think
but do not speak
***, ***, o m g,
this is
the fountain of youth,
the revitalized
cellular generation,
the speeding up of the
flow of blood
to places long forgot,
allowing the heart to pump
its gifts to the deadened spots,
reawakening the invisible
soul
that we all have in common

so:

get to “work”