The Deepest Twist

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for my friends who know that when HP says this my 1300th
poem, it’s off the mark by hundreds; nonetheless
1300 is worthy number to celebrate your affections
nat
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you return back my older children, fully grown,
my eldest word babies who never ever visit,
blessing them anew, lavishly, with special wishes

I,
take them,
with both hands, a reacquainting occurs,
the old words, deep twist, now hurtful hurt because
reimagining when and how easy they came to be birthed and
how the replication of that process is now a
practiced impossibility

how they burst forth, in purple majesty, wheat waving,
wholly formed, bathed in holy water, leaving no stretch marks,
only just an empty sac inside instantly needing,
needling me into auto-refilling right away

even the twenty four hour, hard deliveries,
long and arduous, were so easy created faust-fast,
that the errors of typography contained,
became lasting hall marks, iconic nomenclatures of
passionate loving-nonpareil

now, well past point of urgent addiction,
unlike then every glance, each sidewalk cracking,
lamppost shadow casting was
a sea story for a deep dive delving asap

I,
supplied answers for the internal badgering incessant
happy ****** need, mine, to go, spill the words,
cab or bus motion nursing them,
now they come slowly strolling,
semi-formed, needy, inconclusive, reused,
and feeling as trite as a cloth coat from an old thrift shop,
so wanting for tender loving care,
which is to provide when you are
four score

wondering how easy it was in prior times when inspiration
fell like a deciduous tree’s fall colorings gifts or
as little children’s nightly multitude variety of dream tales,
when whole worlds uncovered, nay, universes,
hidden between summers green grass blades,
or in unique snowflakes

the semi-forgot love affairs that parented poems
by the score of scarred orchestral scores,
now love circle-turn in holding patters in the
crowded skies above nyc,
awaiting for a trafficked man to give permissions
to “run-away”land that rarely is granted

once, poems in turbulent fluid born, noisy ripping of skin,
****** by the emitting of  constant calming tenderous words,
wonderful drippings, so many multiple births in a moment,
even the OBGYN is complaining,

give other poets a chance at parenthood!

the awesome anger of human tragedy is now so shopworn
from over experience,
even god visits less and less, for it is written,
nothing new under the sun*

though soon his annual visitors day approaches (Day of Atonement) and god will require new
words of human comforting,
a new poem acknowledging that being godlike
is ******* hard work,
for humans are annoyingly capable of incredulous kindness

how can one justify allowing unlacing acts of insane violence to tear
the hand stitched lacing fabric that’s ever ready
to bring us together in an instant elegiac joining

the truth is every one of todays poem are clawed,
shovel dug out from cavities and crevasses,
your new words of recognition of the oldies but goodies,
iron of irony, make it hard, hard, painful to write
without an epidural to numb the painful
dumbing down

when I am breaching my waters, I am hard to spot,
we ancient humpbacks live beneath the deep distanced,
cold waters for many more minutes
than we need surface for breathing,
the show-off fluking, less and less,
and when we birth,
every two years,
must bring the calf-poem to the surface instantly,
to breath, lest it die,
all the while repeating to ourselves:

what was miraculous writing is now nearly invisible,
to blinded fingers that arrhythmically cane tap,
words difficult to recall, recalculate, recalibrate
into a wholly poem

only the **** tears,
that same shameful violin permanent-accompaniment,
they laugh at me when now, they alone
come first quickest, all too easy,

appearing nataurally,

without a formal
written
invitation

After two years of trying to figure it out
When the root of the problem ended up being upside down

Every piece of the puzzle now perfectly fits...
But God... I was not expecting this kind of plot twist

You were the plot twist
in this young man's story.
-Ikigai Poet

Neste dia a minha lamuria tem dois metros,
O meu amor é este fragil ramo.
A minha vida é esta cadeira.

Neste dia ponho-me a cima da vida.
pois o momento de atar a minha lamuria ao meu fragil amor chegou.
Assim tenho um bilhete só de ida
Com esta atitude pontapeio a vida
a minha lamuria estica,
pois ela assim me farta
e a minha ultima esperança é que o meu fragil amor não se parta.


On this day my grief is six feet long,
My love is this fragile branch.
My life is this chair.

On this day I put myself on top of life.
For the moment of tying my whining to my weak love has come.
So I have a one-way ticket
With this attitude I kick life...
my grief stretches,
for she's making me sick of it.
and my last hope is that my fragile love won't break.

Blade in my hand.
Eyes on you.
Feet planted on the ground.

You come running at me.
Not knowing what's about to happen.
Then suddenly blood spatters.

My hand's on your shoulder.
The blade in your torso.
As your white shirt turns red.

I tell you I'll take it out.
That it was only an accident.
But instead, I twist.

And watch your pretty little self
Fall to the ground.
Writhing in pain.

What's scary is that I don't feel anything.
Not pain, not guilt, not fear, nothing.
Hell, I barely even care.

I laugh at your cries for help.
I've killed you, now.
Twisted the knife and watched as you fell.