Sweet Sixteen Years

<••>

had to get the calculator
cause this brain refused
this math,

2024 - 2008 ‎ = 16

yearlong furlongs
a dustance existential
impossibility:

She selected me from the
millions of riffraf looking
for a living romantic love,
which perhaps while
not a complete miracle,
but something, that had
been as elusively beautiful
as a running back shedding
11 tacklers and well,
scoring a touching down
(n.b. it’s a Sunday)

a touchdown elusive
and once thought,
a deluded inconclusive
belief from the realm of
music and poetry,
an aberrant belief
in a life of mundane
and oft much pain

that periodically stubbed
one’s toes with streaks of
sparks, but never was carded
for one who had not
learned
the definition
of longer
lasting,
open ended,
unimaginable,
genuine
to expect, believe
that it was a
validity,
nothing but a
legal fiction
never to be a word in
my finishing diminishing
vocabulary

there will be no candlelight
dinner, no popping corks,
no mad jewelry hidden in refrigerator,
maybe just some
outshine lemonade icicle popsicles,
a modest treat
for an e-xtra oh-never-ordinary
travelogue with no final
destination penned in
blue-black ink

for the record:

she picked me out,
she came late to
our first date,
and fully agreed
on a third date,
that commitment
was a pressure
neither desired,
agreeing with a
hearty high five

so here she is,
always a present,
always an available
sujet for one more
onlylovepoem
to scribe, and
complain
how a poet goes
on and on and on

which is a reminder to self
to quit writing too much
when there is still a
tomorrow to add to this
poem

The hands on the clock are slender,
Like her fingers,
Who used to weave through mine.

Soft was her voice,
It could grace you like an ocean breeze,
Or it could work like a hurricane,
Make you wish you never left shore.

This new winter snow,
The color of her skin.
Thin as her kiss,
Leaving me warmer than I was before.
These days I find myself missing it more and more.

But she didn't leave,
It was I,
I had to return home,
She didn't beg me to stay, she knew I couldn't.

But I know,
Someday we will find each other again,
And in time, I will remember her kiss.

Words melt in the walls
Covered in paintings
Made of you
Made of me
Yours are beautiful
Careful strokes
Each of such precise yet casual calmness
The motion of your hands
They swing and move in such ways of a ballerina
Ones of a mother easing her child to a deep sleep
They recreate a sky that took so many billions
To become one of which it is now
You bring it into your own reality within moments
The lovely lights glow on a cotton canvas
Making music with the latex
darkening what's surrounding it
But me?
Mine are ugly
I leave rotting flesh in the daylight
Spred the shine of blood and paste the teeth of past fighters, veterans
They form the sight of ****** tires leaving streaks on asphalt
The animals that peel off roads, screaming with one last breath
in through your nose, out through your mouth
I'll hold you close and speak
"Let it melt in your mind"
"spit it out and light it up"
lets do it
together
we can burn the truth
Then we can take the melted remains
And make a balanced gallery
A museum made for 2

Along the threaded lag bolt path,
at scale, as existence twists toward
a peace past understanding, even
in the past when religions won
wars against heathen satanic
savages and book makers…
made slaves of all losers…
and heroes died young…

old Is-ai-ah a liar yoke broke bull.

Or does life
in the word realm extend dominion
across domains long reserved
for the learn-ed mankinds
worth decreed long lines
of ration reservations,
right to use rules,
golden ruled,

chuwd chiydah
riddle a little riddle

shamar briyth amar
by keeping our weform
whatsoever we agree, we
makes our stand, not under
by my own word, I so say, on
--gwanb'guns half done doit
be thinking once I heard tell

I know that riddle
in Ezekial,
from a POV ascribed
to professional amanuensis -
ritual hear and reply, last words
spoken -
in secret sacred all in once
told tales, crossroad wagers offered

never tell a soul you saw the towb ra'
without mentioning the wise serpent,

risen
in curious music
from nowhere,
wha…

a class of tongueless eunuchs
some have suggested. Created
to oath bound accuracy, verbum
verily holding the rude pen in spirit

17:21… after the riddled parable

And all his fugitives
with all his bands shall fall
by the sword, and they
that remain shall be scattered
toward all winds:
and ye shall know

{Dusty trails, forever}

that I the LORD have spoken
[it].
A long, long time ago…

Suffice
to know the Torah, preserves
the form
of temporal wrath defense rituals,
Jolly good luck charming mitzvahs,
the recipes, the dance, none chance
old as the stories told during Job's days,
centuries before Moses, if Moses ever was,

as the witnesses
of all first drafts… done left us
riddles and esoterica, mostly
to keep us safe
from preachers.

This is the sweet spot
No sweet tooth again
Needing less from me
I'll be less than I should

Be like Pooh!
Gorge you way through
the gospel til you are full.
Relish its sweetness.
Feast on its goodness.
Let it so stain your lips
that your friends will insist
that your appetite is insatiable,
that you are incapable
of living any life
that is not fully sweetened
by the honey of the gospel.

That savoury love,
That familiar comfort, a home cooked meal.
The reliable morning texts and midday calls
My warm, rounded, sleepy belly.
That sweet love,
That longed for joyful treat, my childlike excitement
The tender kiss on my forehead
My wonderment, my gentle hope for more
That sour love,
That acrid seizure, my face contorted in shock The lingering invisible betrayal
My confused tastebuds, their longing for dissipation
That bitter love,
Those biting words, our requited animosity
The weaponising of our failings
My aggrieved mouth and her repugnant venom.
That hot love,
The picnic of your mouth by the ocean
The heated liminality before each kiss
Our frenetic and impermanent fire.