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"having found a white coal seam amidst the black bunting
that decorates their glum apprehension of tomorrow's tidings"^

the computer tablet recognizes as I essay,
                                                          ­                        the "tomorrow" word
as possessing a reality, with time sensitivity,
please,  somebody help us, almost

an inevitability

the possibility of a realizable event,
                           as if the poem composing was
the future's assuming a 99% probability,           right ready for scheduling

offering me two choices:
create event or view calendar?

as if the next shooting, bombing,
and my glum apprehension thereof,
as if ''tomorrow's" tidings were mine own doing
of my undoing,
somehow my fears create or anticipation of
the "next one" makes me a guilty part

my heart cracking with despairing moans
knowing that this is foolishness

but  
              not to me

for as we think upon it, that tiny extra precaution,
'tis already the small death of me
each death a cut in the same spot,
and the pestering wound ground deeper, bone closer

find myself
jailed in a place with no view, insecure and unprotected

no view, no window to crack, no window no view
no to letting  in fresh air, hope or something good,
and yes to no,
I know about this and that and words
intended to offer up optimism,
albeit on a small scale

I am careful not to mock
the words and those who offer up

but seriously,
don't

I came to,
I came to this place to write
only love poetry silly love songs
and some black angel sideswiped me in the left lane
writing now in stead of ways I'm dented and unforgiving
feeling stoopidly foolish            even as
I try and I try to find the seed germane to the connectivity between the horror hallmarks of these times and the ******* window is just stuck stuck stuck

I'll think I'll change my name,
honestly,
only love poetry? cries out ridiculous

this is no poem, more a teacher's note of surrender,
                                                       come back with a new identity or just a new field of endeavor

so I put that on my calendar for tomorrow
and it appears right away, right after:

6:00 am Check on Glum Apprehensions
and it appears that I'm too late

confirming I've missed my appointment so too late for my kind of tomfoolery.             and that white seam, glimpsed but not grasped, illusion noxious,, I can't seem to locate it anymore

somewhere between the
first date and the last date

Joni Mitchell,
she, me
  encapsulates

I'm remembering well,
pounding the dashboard of a red Jag,
laughable now, mocking this fool's need
for a middle age conceit,
his heart to restart,
reactivate

in enthusiastic lockstep with the voice of the
Joni,  the blonde goddess of his youth,
foot falling in love,
speeding along
at a
joyous sixty five,
in places where the signs said,
"thirty five to stay alive"

this aged Rip Van Winkle teenager,
in reverse osmosis of Big,
an old buck, come back to antlered life,
singing along to the CD disc
set on
backdate

I could drink case of you,
and still be on my feet

and he could

rediscovering the champagne taste
of a great first date,
feeling the heated blood and fevered mind,
symptoms of the pleasures of
anticipate

thinking she's the one
who will make him great,
happy greater, greater happy
than that one ever, ever,
he thought was roulette wheel possible,
landing on the red of hopeful
floodgate

months, days, minute minute moments
of the fated faded last date later,  
comes the
deflate

but then,
Joni singing comfort words,
reminding him that he would be,
wisely, sadly seeing, feeling,
both sides now, and yet again,
getting his mind back to
straight

I've looked at love that way,
but now it's just another show.
you leave 'em laughing when you go,
and if you care, don't let them know,
don't give yourself away

a grown man punk'd, blasted,
dumb and dumber, dumped,
a feeling sorry sad sack self,
until he reflates, drink another case,
onto yet another magical mystery first
date

pounding that dashboard once again,
believing it's not too late
that perfect roommate heart's to find and
captivate,
to attain, invade, acquaint and laughingly...

serenade

what does her true voice sound like?*

going on seven, maybe eight years,
know the thumbprint of her stylish,
at twenty paces, her tower recognizable,
leaning in, she is the garden, can’t tell
where the garden ends and she begins

she opens the pages and lets slip out the
exposed flora+fauna of of her heart’s eyes observatory,
revelation unintended but wanted, she can’t be helped,
for she, both a revealer, reveler, party girl, beat poet

know her
in the bursting:  of the spring welcoming festival
in the bursting:                     of the season of loves busted unhappiness,
I know her well enough but not at all

in the sparse, frozen soil, and in the contra-blooming,
in every season, she warps my judgement,
with words unheard, unknown, the dictionary my accompanist,
what she says is a language purportedly in common, maybe not,
she takes me on a tour of her symphonic insights,
as my foreign tour guide

enwrapped, entrapped, I am, as she crooks her hair, in the
curved shape of a question mark top,
unknowing what does her voice sound like?

try different versions, a tasting menu of mellifluous, and
imagine myself to sleep, wondering and wandering,

what does her voice sound like?

off to sleep,
smiling, frowning
upside downing


11:51pm Tue May 5

~
the Nth culling
~
she gentled sleeps besides the imperfect poet,
who has wandered the hallways since four am,

retuning his returning

to their temple bed,
to cull, pluck, her each precious breathing sound,
source material for his
Nth
love poem

smirking at his own
Nth foolishness,
weeping tears at the consequences
of human interactions,
he wonders,

why does he worry,
searching to distinguish
between the black and white of life,
hunting for meaningful words

when all the while
he has the vein of her breathing to mine,
as if he were a
Ruth,
following behind
the harvest reapers,
culling a bounty of
dropped grains,
fallen unto him to
garner, imbibe and memorize

those Nth breaths,

that last but seconds,
but here memorialized for
his own
all time