but the idea of you
was a parfume pervasion,
a totality of reawakening
your words intrigued,
your expertise
in the matters of  the heartfelt,
tingled my senses subtly

the aroma of your words,
the visionary way you make the
words dance in my eyes, in different ways,
makes hear the music of you
the lies within,
they touch me inside,
where fingers cannot go,
but when I saw you:

my eyes tasted you
in all your magnificent eloquence,
intrigue became desire,
heat, licking flames of desire,
and I was bitten~smitten,
weakened by by blood rushing headlong,
and
per~you
it was not
optional
                                                                ­                                                      olp

that this country we
all inhabit and that
inhibits
all,

this country of
"Unknown Origins"

is a land that should always be
capitalized

study
your defined mounds and dipping hips,,
lips and heated soles, to ascertain that
your mine willingly, you're alive, still mine,
to have and hold,
not to be me, a left~behind

for
you in and ex,
hale~hail me not,
you chest. convex nor concave,
if it gives, lives, moves, my eyes,
    mine wetted eyes cannot discern,
and the precious stillness I do so adore
cherish,
contaminated by
notions of you having perished

+
it,
is wished hard away,
wished hard it may disappear,
a sigh. a groan, a puzzling moan, anything
even a sudden dreaming scream,
to confirm that our heat still can be all merged,
so that your light sleeper schema cannot be
touched and thus defeated,
so I write an only love poem,
and sign it with tears
of a cursed quiet streaming,
clouded, most unliterary, but
always
with a super silent adoration, of, for

she,
who cannot be disturbed

IF,
It should be on the morrow,
OR
Two decades more over,
Let me wait for this, just this,

Be dying in a bed,
with four,
no more! eight,
legs
mine, hers,
and our luv dog,
jambalaya'd into each other…
one dish for all,
and all,
for each other…

9/23/25

can I handle the season of older,
took my~love, and took it down,
till the hymnodist laughed,
do not forget,
she shrieked,
old and gold are symmetrically synchronized,
synced, not sink!

what you want to think, is always,
never what you
true believe,
as long as you breathe,
a miner for hearts of love you are,
start in the capillaries, onto the arteries, and deep into the
pumping machine,
which calls out in indignation,
you human, are mine,
and as long as you mine,
for the cup that-is-not-illusory,
always and eternal, l think not,
for you have already tasted love's holy water,
leaving you, leaving you with an undying thirst,
for more,
the gold apogee on our elliptical trajectory,
where the she~sharing-oxygen once displaced
in a race
to be supplanted,
but that must be won,

when/where  the golden aura supplants
the necessities,
and the liquid gold will
replace, re-p-aces your almost now used up blood,
endlessly re~circulating,
subject to the  the critical cortical critique of
insufficient,
no más, for never enough,

gold and love,
like sync and swim
together  in time,
in rhyme,
how could you not know
this absolute
is a
scientific fact?

whispers the stubbly face of the old grandpa,
or I'll blow fierce little airs all over your rigidly
pretending-to-be-asleeping cute little facey,
then tickle your kissable little
lips
and make farty noises
for the rest of the day

she, irresistibly, bursts out laughing
like the roaring lioness she be,
whose cubs might be threatened,
and laughingly squeals, oh poppy!
it's all your fault, you grumpy old poet,
you made me put the *** in my
peej's!

and how his son,
the father,
on permanent overwatch,
growls below annoyingly,
"great,
now we'll be late,"
and
threatens to tell the
attractive single second grade teacher,
upon whom
he has a semi-secret crushing,

to which
we two devils scream out,
"oh please, oh please"
knowing she will find it quite
charming, and maybe even him,
tooing,
the single attractive father-man
who, could be ripe for a
twoing
><
and poppy twinkles,
thinking that no
matter what you
call it,
that thing,
is all-around and
in~between us while
he changes the young lady's
sheeting

~the heart of (the) matter~
~~~~~~

an essential phrase,
that concentrates the
instincts not to sway
away,
   be focused
on, by the always present
algorithm of the
essences

but my version preferred
is that
"the heart of matter"
with skill and effort,
one can learn, to shoot
arrows honed to be near
an-almost-bullseye every time

but to understand that
the heart
is matter,
the mother
of our body parts,
the little engine that could,
can and does,
and asks only
refresh it with
fresh blue blood,
every second
(not to much to ask for)

what are/is the sinews of the heart?

what are its secreted corpuscular (1)
composed of?

why words, you silly!
each beat, a letter,
      the heart doth register
its creativity incessant,
never ceasing to rest
for composition is its goal,
to sing to write, to weep
from pleasured thoughts
and deepest fright,
and you say you need inspiration?
then listen to your writing vibrations that from thy center
emanate, you who toil laboriously
when all that matters is the matter,
the wonderful matter of
who when where and why
that chatterbox in your body
never ever pauses


and that is why in the matter of god,
have no doubts
only a god could have conceived
of a world of billions of composers
where each one of us
matters**…







5:19am Wed Sep 10

peeress: a woman holding the rank of a peer in her own right.

what tools fo you require?
a microscope, binoculars, perhaps an observatory telescope...

you ask to peer into my soul,
the heart of the matter,
and I object
not,
asking only for a workman's wages,
of honest preparation,
have you the tools to see me properly,
and when you love what you see,
will you have them by your side
to see the future close by,
and so far ahead?

do you possess within thy
secret places,
an archeological brush
to wipe  gently away my ancient earths,
or a toy red shovel to remove fossilized
10,000 year old grains of old hearts,
or fresh, damp from this morning,
of words and sand from my inner
beach, even then, the tonnage may
require an industrial excavator
to clear, hold and perhaps contain
    all that poetry, all that love that it contains,
so I ask, you, myself:

Do you have the proper tools,
the necessaries and the necessities,
to find     to store     to relish and    to delight
in what you may find?

be an explorer,
and write of all your discoveries,
hurry, for the word
time
means in soul terms & the heart's specialized verbiage,
never enough

so girl scout/ mademoiselle peeress


you s t i l l
have much to assay/essay/uncover
re the meanings of love...
for there is  as much to learn from the
quietus of love,
as there is, from the vibrant tumbling of
climbing to new heights

peer carefully...



5:44am
Wed Sep 10
Twenty Twenty Five