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 Jun 2017 t

so she says...

your mouth suddenly goes Gobi Desert dry,
somehow manage a single swallow,
sounding as loud as if you've cracked
all twelve of you pistol-toting open carry knuckles simultaneous

****, as ridiculous as I sounded,,
it can't be worse than my succinct, elegant,
pithy response of a choking, but interrogatory
                                                   ­                              ahem?

(translation: excuse me, what did you say,
are you crazy, and did I hear you correctly
and are you completely crazy?)

then that awful pause
as you wait for
further guidance
from her mission control,
a scientifically measurable and
unendurable two shakes of a lamb's tail
(10 nanoseconds in atomic scientist lingo)

while that interminable wait drags on and on,
you manage to prepare an Old Testament long
and truly impressively worthy sing-song
list of variegated absurd follow up responses,

- **** those ten pounds that summer slipped on so quietly
- is she really that crazy
- does she really think you're that crazy
- really? naked naked? (as opposed to just naked),
   or just in a, uh, a bathing suit?
- hot ****! there is a first time for e v e r y t h i n g!
- mmmm, what's she really after?
- am I going to be an Internet instantaneous super star?
- but I'm not tan down you know where
- she's just making fun of a really old man
- that's gross (or more accurately,      
   "I am so gross looking i.e. **** those ten pounds")
- yeah baby
- and the concluding eloquent summarizing thought of:
"make me an offer I can't refuse"
  which sounds suspiciously
  in your aged brain sadly like
                                                                                "you talking to me?"

then she laughs sweetly and says,
not naked, naked pictures silly,
just those poems where you bare your soul,
reveal more
of your core,
ones where we get to peek
(peak? couldn't resist) inside,
that comely come, studded,
(surely she must of meant studly,
says my semi-wounded pride)
that brain
you try to disguise
from where you draw
equal measures of pleasure & pain,
revealing yourself and so,
revealing us as well,
in a publicly secret way

cloyingly, subtly, adding
in a man-killing seductive  manner,
"after all that's a kind of love poem too,
is that not so?"
dancing me into submission, knowing,
that when Wanda-Goldfish like,
elle répète en français,
est-ce pas?"
there is no question who's the master
and who will be role playing the obedient
slave to poetry

oh well...

Sic transit gloria mundi, all glory is fleeting..

but still,

that's a not half bad compliment....

so I reply

you know there is a very
steamy seamy dark side to me

and as proof,
and in fulfillment
of her request,

I gave her this love poem

                                                and no telling what happened next
4:21am, of course
 Apr 2017 t
everlasting cherry
you might be repressed if
the universe tells you to
buy hi-vibe crystalline
heal, align, energize
and rock her
holy alive
 Apr 2017 t
Teresa climbs on the bus
before the sun, if she has
the fare

to get there, where she
makes the bread; she's been at this
two of her nineteen years  

yet she has fears, they will
come for her--green card or not;
though they like her rolls

she kneads the big *****, pulls,
pinches, a sculpting of dough, a laying
of trays, one after another

then, from the Iglesias,
they come, decked in their finery
though she does not see

she only hears the litany
of language she can't comprehend,
a clanging of trays, laughter

the urging of the jefe to work
faster, bake the bread; the communion
wafers did not fill them

now they are here, breaking fast,
forgetting the words they just heard
the songs they sang

Teresa does not complain; she
is glad to feed the worshipers, though
they will never know her name

nor will they stop for
her in the pouring rain,
the blistering sun

Teresa never wavers
next Sabbath will be the same:
dawn, the dough, the oven

it is the work--her hands
which make the bread others break,
the grace granted to serve

holy, holy, holy...
 Apr 2017 t
 Apr 2017 t
In city of Mumbai,
the dream city of India

The life is noisy
everyone is busy

the culture contrasts
in city small yet compact
there is still place here for more.
 Apr 2017 t
Henri Words
 Apr 2017 t
Henri Words
The heavily snowed day is
the oldest day of the year
The day annual rings mark, those scars
you see are enhanced interrogations
I had to take

The smallest inner circle is
my blessing to you, see it?
the double-sided pattern I carved
on your window timber. Be aware

one evening
a little breeze will enter
into your room through
your closed window
to blow the moonlight and
put out the last piece of
your softest sorrow
 Apr 2017 t
 Apr 2017 t
The innocence of the moon
outweighs the crooked way
the stars hate the light of day.
 Apr 2017 t
 Apr 2017 t
like my head it reflects and blows
so much to express, to clarify
but im avoidant and in constant denial
for what im about to shed off my mind
are nothing but thunderstorms
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