all of you too,
ask what shall we call you,

and I smile/grimace, for lack of a
proper witty, worthy, weirdly perfect
pithy reply

which is why I offer you
a free option,
call me by my other name,
a What~You~Will,
your preference is my desire,
it is within your hidden possesions!

your chosen attribute?choice,
now mine,

multi-faceted
multi faced,
every name has its own unique
poet
hissing hiding inside,
wary of confessing he's/she's a sinner,
ask, and you shall be both
deceived,
and
well received,

for we live in a thousand of words,
all  disordered
and when you inquire,
then they be re~sorted into new combinations
and for you,
when you call me,
you may call by that name

that name,
of the poem that
will be given and taken
expressly
for and from you,
it is the only way my
teachers taught me
to take,
in order yo give you back
your uniquness
…

In grammar, a correlative is a word that is paired with another word with which it functions to perform a single function but from which it is separated in the sentence.

In English, examples of correlative pairs are both–and, either–or, neither–nor, the–the ("the more the better"), so–that ("it ate so much food that it burst"), and if–then.

Correlative
-----------
the word intrigues,
not for its functionality,
but for its relativity

we are neither relatives,
blood connected,
nor are we correlated,
in fact, quite the opposite!

my love for you,
from afar,
if not, then,
not at all

you say
never,

and I say, even better!
causing you're confessing,
we are special together,
the more, the better,
our relationship contains
a scriptural clause elemental,
an unconditional
correlative,
for
every
for
e v e r

you
never
utter
……

whispers the stubbly face of the old grandpa,
or I'll blow fierce little airs all over your rigidly
pretending-to-be-asleeping cute little facey,
then tickle your kissable little
lips
and make farty noises
for the rest of the day

she, irresistibly, bursts out laughing
like the roaring lioness she be,
whose cubs might be threatened,
and laughingly squeals, oh poppy!
it's all your fault, you grumpy old poet,
you made me put the *** in my
peej's!

and how his son,
the father,
on permanent overwatch,
growls below annoyingly,
"great,
now we'll be late,"
and
threatens to tell the
attractive single second grade teacher,
upon whom
he has a semi-secret crushing,

to which
we two devils scream out,
"oh please, oh please"
knowing she will find it quite
charming, and maybe even him,
tooing,
the single attractive father-man
who, could be ripe for a
twoing
><
and poppy twinkles,
thinking that no
matter what you
call it,
that thing,
is all-around and
in~between us while
he changes the young lady's
sheeting

a birthday poem for S.

perhaps, this is the responsibility, the purposeful gentility,
that poetry engenders, that thwarts the impulse to anger,
guiding away, finding a way, to temper the temper, to out
and joust away our basest, our first, but never our foremost
nor finest, succinct instinct, yet terrible human nonetheless...

perhaps, this is where we hide, neath our carnival masque,
our-would-be better selves, and struggle in this, this intensity intentional,

the season's change is subtly blatant, not obvious 'cept to those
who have a front seat, a well worn Adirondack chair in the nook
where the airy breeze offers fruits of words so easy, pluck words
as easy as breathing, and the slight gradation change, in the light and
temperature, and yet, the suns cares not, for it still warms my body,
though lower and slower, nonetheless, when the heat invades my soul, confirming my, our, existence,

burning off the fog of our contradictory confusions,
and eliciting an unsolicited
"thank you god"
for my, our personal miracle of re~birthing
and better comprehending,
that other
miracle we can embrace
never enough

loving kindness

sun~mon
sep 14~15
twenty twenty five