#lmnsinner
no, instantly NOT, where your brain has gone,
call me back, this poem has none of that
but slow and swell to speak to my body,
indeed, in deed, with a pretty one, please,
two organs directly connected, brain to heart,
heart to brain
the triggering can be anything,
breeze upon her face, no,
But the word she silent spake,
when she gave me the
Argentine tango stare reverberate
beautiful woman, dancing tango
in every space that a sightline provides,
first invader, then an occupier, lastly
a poem that refuses to be erased
the stare, it is an invitation, to the
limitations of the first instantaneous,
What will come after will be displayed.
Am I charming, witty, amusing,
but most
of all,
how well do I dance the tango
How well do my fingers on her back,
five finger telegraph telling her
be ready for what
comes next!
our swell with constant messaging,
Our fingertips
speak dance, acknowledge tension,
the next move, sincopated,
Before even completing the last…
With respect to the unwritten tango laws,
I wait till the dance is over,
And ask her,
plead/command/desire
the next one too two,
alas, a lass, her stare
already
has tangoed elsewhere…
Dec 18, 2025
Dec 18, 2025 at 1:33 PM UTC
real or false, no diff, a clue
to what matters to you,
your profile, a synapse synopsis
Tell us just enough and never enough
I\sinner, all you need,
treat my expertise\\
sneezed, revealed,
the spaces tween yours and mine
defy that word, de fine,
yeah, de~fine what is de-fine,
in the spaces silent
tween the poems sighs,
the quiet gasps, even the empty
spaced tween letters, are fulfilling
your hints and mints of clue,
review nothing,
comma reveal little,
but my mind traverses
the eye drops of dew drops
you word~shed, it’s kinda
just bleeds bled into my
conscious unconsciousness
where I live, my abode,
when reading & righting
the world; what is so real,
but so unbelievable, it can’t,
cannot, be anything but
our own un+realized connection
I’ve sinned, I’ve will sin more,
when I dream our names, their
mysteries, in a singular scopeless
scrip, tiny writ, parsing what you’ve
provided, but left insided, my robust
willingness to explore, a territory worthy
of endless, exploration, uncovering the
coverlet cloak you have wrapped yourself in,
protecting your own, from my inquisitive mindful,
imagination, that fortunate, is boundless until I
get too close, and you say;
no mas, wala na, pas plus, अब और नहीं,
too much, no more,
but a sinner is never deterred
Dec 13, 2025
Dec 13, 2025 at 12:06 PM UTC
the easy answer,
those who love the intricate brocade,
the rough and tumble
of verbal expository elegance,
delicacies that enter the body
via all five sensorials,
then digested by the
invisible soul,
the language's very own mysteries
invade some, not all, the very few
lucky ones who embrace cherished
phrases, that become tattooed on
the brain, and are crutches of living
a life of realized possibilities well
appreciated
yes, that might be the answer satisfying,
but the whole truth, not,
***these urgent converts received
slices & pieces of what is, airborne, taken
in by merely breathing, see their widen
eyeing open when the first taste of words that
purges the dregs, allows in the comforting
of other humans, living and passed,
regardless of human dividing lines,
accepting, what some call the divinity
of being human, the primaries of the
human primate primed to communicate
even without being asked! the most grossly
finites that turn life from boring to bolder,
taken from the young & the wiser, older,
who received this message without ever
asking
for a tasting sampler menu,
of whr defines
the finery
of being more than ordinary…
Oct 16, 2025
Oct 16, 2025 at 10:48 AM UTC
She,
caugh ***** but at rest, posing fully attentive,
in her favored chair, a Mies van der Rohe of a
leathery chocolate color, which admittedly is most
accepting of the human frame most welcomingly
but She, gazes relaxedly & rigid, unflinching fixed,
upon on of our Friday flower self-giftations,
an array of eye filling pink and white peonies,
that have mesmerized, entranced and made
her rigidly relaxed, peaceful whimsy on her face
the seasons of life are short, the season of peonies,
is an abbreviation in human terms, perhaps a dot,
a single month a year, in truth overshadowed by
their competition, overly popularized cherry blossoms,
but these 5 P’s, are in her brief of, most pleasuring
pink peony prized possession, remarked upon
with always trace sadness throughout a diminished,
perma~lacking, imbalanced, rest-of-the year, with
sighs emanating from where her essence resides
minutes pass, I too, pass by, dithering to/fro other rooms,
but She, transfixed, breathing quietly, she neither notices,
or acknowledges my temporal interruptions in her moment
of possession by the robust busting opening of the flowers,
an eclectic, electric charging of amentia, for she is
enwrapped and entranced
in an emotional place only that She,
this woman,
shares with no one else, a Universe tiny but all encompassing,
her eyes winnowed and windowed upon the extravagance of
the beauty that comes so briefly…
May 6, 2024
May 6, 2024 at 12:06 PM UTC
did you ever write poetry?(1)
once. but everything of earthly substance,
destined to fade into the ignominy of forgotten
vaults, where time takes it time and erodes all
into dust. here,
every word preserved. there is no time
in the dominion of creators, and you friend
are numbered in their midst, enshrined in many
hearts and eyes, and
with every
reading,
each reimagination,
you are a reincarnated being
Jul 13, 2023
Jul 13, 2023 at 1:32 PM UTC
no fame, no claim, no name
who shall we say is calling?
*I am a man of
no fame, no claim, no name,
an average sinner, absent glory*
a few seconds of rustling bustle.
did you ever write poetry?
*once. but everything of earthly substance,
destined to fade into the ignominy of forgotten
vaults, where time takes it time and erodes all
into dust.*
here, every word preserved. there is no time
in the dominion of creators, and you friend
are numbered in their midst, enshrined in many
hearts and eyes, ***and with every reading, each
reimagination, you are a reincarnated being***.
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 10:04 AM UTC
Of you, I am certain
can it snow if the skies are cloudless blue?
will I kiss tomorrow the person sitting bus opposite,
who now gifts me love at first sight?
can my children’s children love me more for who I am,
and not just for who I am?
knowing does true love have an uncertain beginning and a certain end?
would I recognize peace of mind if I ever so blessed, had it in my possess?
if the sun never returned, is happiness possible?
can a broken heart mend itself without new love?
Of all these, I am uncertain. Of you, I am certain!
will this scrip of letters be beloved or overlooked and forgotten?
will the day come sooner when self-rising,
my eyes will be pleased at no new scar ‘discovery.’
my ears hear no snap crackle or pop, and
my blood, pre-warmed, by a lover’s attentions,
to happy coffee cooling and a poem-done at my feet?
will my flaws be healed, scars laser erased, my muddled past,
fall obedient to a blue skies, a white full moon embrace, yours?
will today be the day, two feet identical, left and right banished,
ten new colors invented and rainbow added, and sad illegal?
will I awake somewhere over the rainbow one day,
dreams coming true, troubles melted, way up high?
Of all these, I am uncertain. Of you, I am certain!
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 9:55 AM UTC
in retrospective rear view perspective,
come to understand that we spend
every moment of our lives, reckoning,
determine the odds of which fork we
will take, laugh out loud, for each moment,
a poem is titled, the resultant, a poem -
who needs a muse, you’ve got choices!
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 4:19 PM UTC
haven’t reckon’d that Earth
and I will be entwined/entombed
in each other’s arms, until such time,
one of us or both, will be reduced
to cosmic dust, our pride, our poems,
will be equally unimportant and irrelevant,
I reckon.
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 4:16 PM UTC
A night of reckoning, calculations repeated-checked, sums divided,
did I use too many, or not enough, words to be understood, verbiage eloquent, did daytime reveal my poetic meanings, or double-occlude it’s essence?
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 4:14 PM UTC
you haven’t written me a love poem in so long
around midnight,
two too together,
climb in to bed,
covers tucked,
up to their chins,
happy old souls
settling in 4 the evening...
suddenly followed,
by a furious
sixty seconds of
running and rubbing,
semi-serious sinning,
hands up ‘n down
any part, nearest, handy,
public or private, dandy,
maybe even a minute moaning,
a simple reassurance,
a kind of insurance,
covering bases,
first, second and third,
yeah, ***** to me, attracted...
exhausted, contorted,
exalted, these two fossils,
rising like a holy ghosts,
from the dust bin of
a jointed storied history,
begin to race, who will,
be first to sleep-snoring...
yet
one of them thinking
in those waning moments,
*you haven’t written me
a love poem in so long,*
the other, thinking happily,
*ha! finally learned to keep
poems, short and simple*
and both of them
kaput, lights out darkened,
until coffee arrives by
seven thirty morn light,
handmade, by hand delivered...
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 2:50 PM UTC
he gulps me into peaces
__
led to his bed.
eyes kissed and asked to
come and go to where I
dream and imagine
but do not think.
he gulps me into pieces.
oh my god
oh my god
oh my god.
and when he sees I am at last
in peaceful,
speaks.
god could but desires not to answer
all who call out to him.
thus the human was invented:
an imperfect messenger
a version of his image
that answers you in
pieces of peace
as best as any
human can
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 4:35 AM UTC
my god, my woman
when they’re angry with me
both turn away,
and do not answer my pleadings
when they’re pleased,
they wink, demurely tossing my hair,
making cloud armadas in tight formation applaud,
the overlaying overlap of all existence
the apple’s knowledgeable
in every everything everyday
teaching
to never say
God is a He
nope
God is the Mother of Me
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
he melancholy muses, his hand upon his chest.
a thousand miles
she replies, a thousand eyes winking lying
a thousand quiverings
she denies, a thousand quaverings
a thousands hairs
she sighs, everyone of a different color
a thousand songs
she cries, not any but not the one
a thousand sensations
she implies, by silence, not the same, sensual
a thousand touches,
she asks, slyly, is it your tongue your finger?
a thousand dies,
she contradicts, all mine, not yours, or ours!
<>
and then she speaks, in Italian, a language so musical, it’s melancholy at its very essence.
I’m no longer of surety possessing,
*Non ** più la garanzia di possedere,*
is it my finger or my tongue, is it
è il mio dito o la mia lingua, vero?
that my finger became my tongue,
il mio dito è diventato la mia lingu,
all senses at attention, blurred,
tutti i sensi all'attenzione, sfocato,
the love song enactment, touch
(recitazione della canzone d'amore, tocco)
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 9:57 AM UTC
Italian love songs
Canzoni d'amore italiane
fires the need, touch touch caress.
alla necessità, tocco tocco carezza
my hand engulfs her little finger,
la mia mano avvolge il suo mignolo
sliding down from her knuckle,
scivolando giù dalla sua nocca,
to the glassine hard smooth of
alla glassina dura liscia di
a petite fingernail, contradicting,
un'unghia minuta, contraddittoria,
confirming the sensational opposition
confermando l'opposizione sensazionale
the forefinger performs a solo,
l'indice esegue un assolo,
exciting the ear’s topography,
eccitante la topografia dell'orecchio,
the sexuality of hill, vale, spaces,
la sessualità di collina, valle, spazi,
curvatures extending an invitation,
curvature che estendono un invito,
the neck, plane of the neck, take
prendere il collo, piano del collo
I’m no longer of surety possessing,
*Non ** più la garanzia di possedere,*
is it my finger or my tongue, is it
è il mio dito o la mia lingua, vero?
that my finger became my tongue,
che il mio dito è diventato la mia lingu,
all senses at attention, blurred,
tutti i sensi all'attenzione, sfocato,
the love song enactment, touch
recitazione della canzone d'amore, tocco
<>
the confusion of love is its clarity, the master and the slave
becoming one
la confusione dell'amore è la sua chiarezza, il padrone e lo schiavo diventano uno
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 8:43 AM UTC
*she just shakes her head
she meets me on the street-corner, me from work, she from dance,
in the grayling dusk of a thank god it’s a freedom Friday night,
I greet her with words semi-adventurous -
“come with me, few errands to run, keep me in good company”
to the candy store we go for to purchase my weekend eve
lottery tickets and blow-pop lollipops, just in case some
kids appear, a surprise omen as they come
trick-or-treating just before Thanksgiving
the Bangladeshi candyman calls out a long prayer
in his native Bangla
she asks “what’s that he’s saying?”
“Oh, just wishing us a pleasant Sabbath and
may his gods smile upon our good lottery fortune”
she just shakes her head, from side to side
emerging from the store, walking home in the
now doubly ***** darkly dusk,
a set of white teeth from a passing shadow-man says to me
“you’re home late and have a great weekend,”
she asks, “who is that?”
“why,” I reply, “that is our very own personal postal carrier’
she says:
“he delivers mail to ten thousand people all in buildings tall,
yet knows your name, your face,
where you buy your lottery tickets,
your coming and going hours,
how came that to be”
but waits not for an answer
she just shakes her head, from side to side
I show her my secret entrance to our apartment house,
the fast route to collect our mail, dry cleaning in one fell swoop
a secret door, secret elevator taking us directly to our apartment
a secret elevator which is under the direction of
Bimal from Nepal,
who I greet in Nepalese, (my tutor)
I, asking after Brian and Bryce, his 100% American boys
now she says nothing, but before our door, as I go key digging,
she just shakes her head, from side to side
later she says:
“let’s order in, apprise me of your expertise,
some exotic fare from Manhattans First Avenue,
known for its aphrodisiacal powers
afterwards,
you must tell me each dishes name,
in its tongue’s nativity,
but much, much later,”
and as she speaks, grinning,
she sticks out her tongue,
while she just shakes her head,
but this time,
up
and
down
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC