Two men, one poem.

This day, on this site.
Two men wrote to me.
One called me brother.
The other, an arrogant *****,
Called me little.

One shared his life,
With humility and gratitude,
Then, I lost it.
Wept. Baby like.
Honored me with trust.
Swapped spit stories
That bled into my brain,
And a tattoo appeared on my
Writing arm, one word,
Humility.

One boasted of his beans.
His bean counting reads.
Analyzed his trends,
Predicting by Christmas (!),
He would have this many.

His **** poems he informed,
Would be published.
What need did he have
For punk-u-ation,
His rants, his **** stream of words.
Better than mine,
Just cause his stuff I said,
Not my cup of tea.

What a crazy place this place.
Holy and *******, sided.
Humble humble, always humble.

He invoked, this arrogant one,
God's name.
Not knowing I talk to Him.

So I rang Him up and said,
How did a little peenus-genius
Find his way onto this
Holy Place, HP, of kindness.

He smiled in brevity.
Did I not create both,
Angels and devils?

I love God's brevity.
His commas, his question marks,
His pointed punctuation.

I love that He could create
A man whose sight of
Me, unseen, but found capacity
To love me in ways
Undreamed.

Because I peered in to the man's reveal,
Saw quality, value,
Saw humility.

So of arrogance, I said,
I would write.
But it is of humility
I will sing,
Of loving human kindness extraordinaire.

Of weeping endless.
At the joy afforded me
To read so many lovely poems,
Here.

If my poems never see the
Imprimatur of a publishing house,
It matters not,
For I have seen a human being
Weep real tears reading mine.

I have shed rivers of my own
Upon discovering yours.

Humble, humble.

If it is glory you seek,
You will find it,
All alone. Mastur-bating.

Me, I live here, in the midst of a
Good Company.


Sept. 7th, 2013

The twigs remind me
of ancient a memory,
muted by time
and our efforts to forget.
You remember how
You’d snap a twig into two,
then we’d sword them off,
like two chivalrous knights,
queer knights that feared
a shared sunset together more than
Battle.
What happened next?
the next memory seems to
slip away from me too,
imitating you.

It wasn’t the two of us at the start.
Day turned to night,
and suddenly we couldn’t part.
From one of the many faces,
To one I could pick out from the crowd.
We weren’t sure of ourselves before,
But one thing’s for sure now.
We’re caught in the torrent —
We found ourselves headed to the deep end.

To be Among                                               My Owned Script-U-R-
the First, No Greater Thrill!
                 <>                                                              ­  <>
a small coterie,  a cohort,                        this mess of thoughts and
not too big around, that                           prayers, poem notions,
reads me regular~like, who've                come scattered & disordered,
been for the long haul, know my            blunderblus shotgun spewed,
foibles, my excesses, my habituals,        all leaving a pockmark upon
but of late along comes a suprise!          soul, a mental scarring of an IOMe

new poets here, with 0/very few             These indented scars, some fresh
followers, touch me with a forefinger,    some old enough to be ancient
perhaps unawares of my traditions,         that I carry the Imperative, to
makes them my most favored nation,      complete, turn feat from defeat,
for I am well supplied, with ample          satisfying a necessary condition  
supplies of courage + encouragement     to exist, therefore I am, a being!

for the honor, for the thrill, to be           each poem transformed from scar
among the number of their first             to shoulder stripe, turning what
followers, to leave my intials on              was mere rank, into a high rank,
their someday colossus, to bask               with each completed poem, I  
in their fresh glow of new extra               stand taller, *****, lighter, bright,
bright light simply enlivening                  bright light, simply enlivening

We live in a place somewhere between two worlds
One the physical and one the spiritual
They are separate and distinct
But they can coexist, they can be linked
To be practical and active
And still live contemplative
Living with one foot in the sea and the other on dry land
We fight to maintain equilibrium and meet every demand
So how do we reconcile one with the other?
Is it even possible to do so?
Maybe we don't have to, maybe it's already been done
For a baby born of a ******: God's own precious son
Jesus was of two worlds, and he bridged that divide
Became bread and wine so he could live inside
Let all you do be a prayer, and all your work give him glory
All you say be with love, and all your life lived with joy
This is how we can live in two worlds

don’t believe in
divine intervention,
but all~so(uls)
don’t believe in the
accidents of coincidence

the Pandora Box gods eavesdrop on my mind,
looking to match the music to my mood,
(box to box, they cruelly smile)
Providentially Provisioning
me with inspirational food.
to collect and let
what’s brewing,
stop stewing,
and come out
in a you know what…

that old song,
500 Miles,
keeps
returning, unplanned,
auto play repeatedly
entirely accidentally,
(U believe that?)
my mind keeps on
knowing
I’m up~blowing,
there’s unfinished business
a-firing, a forest fire
of a 500 miles~s-acred blaze,
the firemen intuit ‘tis
of a kind,
it can’t be stoppered
until you and it,
self extinguish, (ex~sting-you~ish (1))
burn itself,
outside inwards,
reverse phoenix,
not sparks left,
until it’s dead

and the song,
and it’s power o’er me,
** ** **, is un~finished
busine business,
having fun with
my undoing

Lord, I’m Two,
both of us,
in words unspoken,
know that the/a fragmentation
grenade that is my brain,
dancing on the thinner
blackest
red line that asunders me,
twice, into two unequal halves,
is inflamed, infected, dejected

Both of us,
hear that dog whistle
loud blowing
one inch, a salty pinch,
or even
500 hundred miles,
makes no difference,
cause Lord, I’m two

reminding how far I am
from my owning
my very own
personal homeland security,
complete with self-sourced,
sovereign jagged glass pieces,
intended to jag, jog, tear, penetrate, break, annoy, till~this line……ends
,
the errata of this man’s
quasi, semi, repeating
mess-ups, that are
erratically invoking
benedictional confessionals,
of poems unwrit

those I dare not,
until and unlest,
you board a plane
to come to save me

Lord, I’m Disordered,
Lord, I’m Three,
a trinity of Myself & I & Me,
siblings who just
can’t along,
but can’t barely survive,
as separate human beings,
for one cord connects us,
keeps attached like on a bus,
though at a modest
moderating distance,
cause the fights are
frequent

Lord, I’m
(yeah yeah Four, say no more,
just rap it up son,
there’s work to be done!)

am I finished being,
an unfinished being,
will I ever make it to Five,
get home, even barely alive,
Lord, will I ever be One,
just like you,
put together,
a jigsaw complete,
a whiskey neat,
a whiskered gnat,
a graybeard bit
of fluff
with a wide smile of a
Cheshire Cat?

Lord,
give me sleep,
& poems born written
pre~complete,
so alls that required is to just hit
SEND,
a journey shelved,
ended before began,
a pieced together whole man,
give me rest,
eternal and blest,
make me an archaic kept,
in an archive slept,
and end this song,
with a fini
of
quietude & peace?


4:35AM
Sabbath Eve
- Av 12, 5784
- Aug. 16, 2024