what cheek, the audacity to sheer his name from his faceless appearance, well, I know something of names, and mysteriously common and vague,
said as often as ****,
does not satisfy this certified member
of the hoi polloi of humens

grace,

with a small g,
not to be confused with those courtiers in human courts
who so address their temporal superiors,
who more often than not,
chop off with their head,
just god
downy not longer
for being insufficiently lying
in their obsequiousness

grace is a virtue par excellence,
multi~facetedly faced,
reflecting well and goodness
on both the speaker and the hearing,
if grace you know not the meaning of,
then research it and let it
reflect back upon your countenance

replace god with grace,
and forgive me this too obvious rhyme,
it will only be better days
for the human race

><><
my name?
hah!
sinner man

perhaps a subject already well covered. but I consult no one else,
who can expertly summon the artificial artifacts, no better yet,
art~iN~facts of prior expert~tease, and speak only and wholly
for myself, blatant, and openly undisguised

it is the spilling, the upward sensory explosive detonating,
in a pressured chest, the eagerness
to race, to complete,
find the next line, to define, to refine to get the balance tween
elegance and simplicity, to have the ******* sensory totality
of completely having spun off a piece of me and let it free float as a balloon, that may fly to China or get stuck on a telephone pole
just beyond my front door
                                      =============
^ I write this midst the composition of another poem, wherein
unusually I feel the need to pause, collect my thoughts which are bombarding my atoms internal, causing  a new fissionable element,
distinct and unique, my poem…next…

relax.
not-within me to compose 14 poems
about anyone, but do not test me,
for if there was such a person,
it  would  be  
                            Timothy

now, not my place to over praise,
for this man hews his own road
among the thickets that separate
humans from each other, and let us
not forget, those thickest thickets
tween a man
                             and his God

he writes in a style imitative, of
some noteworthy bards, with
whom you might have some
passing Renaissance and Elizabethan
familiarity, the thought of which
attempting to do, frightens me to
                              my very soul, scored

but what ails me that this-dialogue,
tween an Englishman and a New Yorkah,
who have each a love of the commonality
of tongue, but with a perfume of idiom and
dictionary differentials, that just sweetens
each, my apple pie, and his, pie of,
                                mince

commenced in 2014, when he wrote to me with
insistence that I not throw in the proverbial
white towel of surrender, for my poetry seemed
to die on the vine, received with lemons and limes,
pleading with firm resistance to not give into
to this
                                impulse

so here we rest, with many details personal
exchanged, transversed over a great pond
dividing  and I permit myself to reveal
but this, he is a much, far better human than
I could even dream of becoming
                                being



so here we are, 11~12 years on,
and he likes my poems too oft,
calling them better than the daily,

I do not receive the daily, but daily
thank our common God for his existence,
and we share in unison a single word
                      
                                      amen.

the first words that a new mother
utters is
Ma~Ma;
until,  some day,
you say ok, enough,
and acknowledge and satisfy her
overwhelming craving;

be assured,
the father is no different,
for after Ma~Ma,
they will indoctrinate you
with the concept of equality,
and Da~Da will be pronounced
shortly, thereafter,

so Colby,
rest easy, be assured,
both your parents were & are
perfectly
normal
probably twice as much when ma-ma is not around