my questioning,
directed at myself
and the answer simp,
not necessarily simpatico,
cause the answer is either
today, or never,
could be
both or n-either

yeah,
of that age,
when I awake
first two words are
*******, again?

and
if I hurry,
one piecework,
one mo’ poem,
hurried,
may yet be
vented,
scurried,
aired out
or for
quick disposal
sad dispatch

one mo’
disgorged poem
within and withouted,
either side
of midnight

been gorging
on letters ever since
They fed me
sugared letters
& lemons
for breakfast

and the last twenty
sending them you
in a disembodied
softly softly
voice
no matter how
far your imaginary
ears are from me
Sunday AM 9:52 2/19/25
🥲

an existential question so deep,
it can be answered only by
enumerating a million tiny
words:

in the quiet crackling of a spine & unsticking page noise of an opening of a brand new book, a first of firsts, a thrill for free in any bookstore that is yours now, uniquely and forever

in the upward stroking of a smooth
cheek, by your smallest finger, upon
a newborn’s face, your youngest child’s
newborn, and a rare moment of unadulterated love tinged by
immortality

the smile you retrieve when scratching
that old beloved pet’s face, in the exact
spot only you two know and a long time ago
discovered


patrolling the Promenade, espying an
elderly couple so bundled against the
city’s Arctic cold freeze, that movement nearly impossible, nonetheless holding gloved hands in a manner and a moment describable only as inseparable

letting someone jump in front of you,
at the supermarket or the bank, when
they have only one item to purchase, and you, a dozen or so, but the most important item you really really urgent need you have is to prove to yourself that it is possible to buy more time
for a human

crossing with an elegant eldery woman
across the wilds of First Ave., who insists
she needs no help (ha!), but doing it anyway
by complimenting her candy striped cane,
and being rewarded with a “stop that, or
I’ll be forced to take you
home!”

searching endlessly for  red kidney beans in olive oil in a health store that has no less than 19 varieties of everything, and an immigrant teenager employee tskes you across a cityscape of aisles, turns, niches and alcoves  to the exact spot and item, and you
smile and weep because the beam of their smile at your pleasure lights up two souls
simultaneously

next, herbed flavored tofu?

making a bank teller laugh (a near impossibility) when depositing a very large
check, and when asked if there is anything
else you need, informing that you would like to withdraw half immediately but only if they have a sufficient quantity of extra large size single dollar bills!

a group of privileged upper east side college seniors eating out at a wonderful Italian neighborhood restaurant, talking loudly about their recent travels abroad, and how crazy it is that one cannot get a cappuccino in Italy(!) except at breakfast
(oh, the in-justice)

here I stop, because not a lot, of my reasons
to be brought forth are concluded, but only because  you have started
to feel an urgent need to p-
repare/start your own list, immediately if not sooner to ascertain precisely your own anwer to:
Where
are you
being?

5:48am
NYC
Shabbat, January 18, 2025
18 Tevet, 5785

begin the
first day
new year
with
thumb and forefinger,
tracing in no organized
specific pattern upon
her arm’s smooth skin,
just a sliding meandering

she grabs the intruders
for a squeezing acknowledgment,
unnecessary, for the sensation
sensual is shared equally,
soft, of course, but so far beyond,
there are elements that lie beneath
that requires mining deep within
yourself, contrasting currents that
soothe the heart and yet, electrify,
simultaneous, a concerto for
piano and violin

this delightful touching is the stuff
of poetry, a wish, a commandment,
for long after after the first day of
the unknowns of the measuring stick,
a ruler with 365 ticks to check the
day’s of time concludes, the touch
will be
implanted on thumb & forefinger’s
cellular memory, and be carried on,
reusable, recycled, even biodegradable!

but then heart hears a lyric,
“she is living proof”
and now!
happily concluded,
is a poem that is gifted
a title, entitled, certified,
and recorded for

*every ordinary moment
when memory is required,
and the thumb and the forefinger
can be diverted to write this all down
for the day when a memory fades,
and the skin is eroded!

WHY are you reading and writing poetry today?

why not?
**** straight &
just be the cause
that's right,

even writing
just keep it
short/\ sweet (self mocking Ha)
there are actual family members
who might require
a shocking paddling
to the
heart
when conducting their
year end review

as for us
the shock, the awe,
of so many fine
new poens opening
is a sufficient charger to the
parts that need restarting when
we wake up, no matter
our diversification
our diversions
and divisions,
reading new words ancient
in the Reforming,
are dividends and
that keep on after the electrolytes, caffeine
& other stimulies

stimulants that keep us going
a golden charging,
Plenty good enough

Ps
and I delight in many new ones
discovering my prose, welcoming
them like my newborn children
all my own, and raising them
and the new-for all-new combinations
to see their Forthcoming with/\ by
bringing them to your attention,
and that is my Jewish own creche,
my own scene of all of god’s chosen
poets
nativities

and did not plan to go in & on
but nothing stirs the sparks,
like thinking that every minute
a birth is celebrated
and I am blessed to be among
the witnesses

nml

somehow we all like, enjoy saying  
that word thrice, somehow nice,
when you follow the
rhythm of the tonguing of it:

time, time and add~pray-it
one more time again

seems eminently successfully sensible
in a trinity unity

so stop here and now
and give me a

love love love

permission granted to say it
as needed on this day
without embarrassment
and when they inquire
what?
just smile and say it one
mirror one more time
inexplicably explicable