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Declivity
noun: a downward *****

~

a perfect word for the world, the mood, the man.
stroke of luck, ***, an email arriviste, word-of-the-days
all encompassing. what could go wrong, has happened,
only degree unknown remains.

don’t thing we can bend the curve twice, ours, and not
just the coronavirus, but the virulent state of the globe.

we are in a pandemic world, with plagues centuries old flaring.

disease revived of ugliness,and selfishness, so, wilding, and you
ask, where is God in all this, so I asked him...of course he/she
has whimsically hit me back with an email containing this new
word of the day that summarizes where we fall, falling, felled,
signed ***.

Use in a sentence:
The declivity, the angle of decline, steepens, and the human world, ***, *****, even worse.
word genius.com

WORD OF THE DAY
Declivity
Part of speech: noun
Origin: Latin, early 17th century

1. A downward *****.
May 31, 2020
no truth login May 2019
each of my poems is a commencent address,
depending on the day, the time or place,
either an ending or a beginning

a moment unique, we mark a changing,
by tossing/losing a hat we’ll never wear again,
or picking up a shovel to bury a parent
in earth and casket we cannot share

an operating room, shiny clean, with mercurial microbes
awaiting a new arriving inhabitant, to defend and attack,
or bidding farewell to a elder child born blood-deformed,
whose wingspan shortened by virtue of our own gene-rosity

commence the commencement.

take the iron from the grotesque irony,
the steel from the stealing away seconds,
the hum from the humble mumbling,  a disbelieving refusal,
the tears from the skin-rent tearing just
beginning a speech for the occasion and
ending with a prayer standing, by a gravestone

when you awake today, prepare a commencement
or a commence-not address
no truth login Jun 2019
life choices cast in iron skillets,
presented choices that possess no flexibility

twice, she asks me today

morning fruitage, on offer,
peaches ripe to rip real sweet perfection
from your eyes to the remembering salivating mouth,
or
sweet but just **** enough
strawberries that will wince your tongue buds
intolerant of either, but perfect together

acorn squash,
over roasted to be the violin section
to your barbecued chicken orchestra serenading,
but which shall be the sweetener,
honey or maple syrup,
similar but different

the kitchen floor explosive shakes,
pans to the floor fall, eyelet unhooked all,
spices from cabinets burst forth,
kitchen mittens slapping each other
in utter disbelief

when I reply,
let us choose both!

for there is no bifurcation,
no line of demarcation
on our taste buds
this a truthful -
our lives a perpetual blending,
both will login lead to a
the right and proper ending
displeased to report all my attempts
proven unsuccessful

the poetry that forms yet mocks, gloriously,
all things that which avoidance was intended,
this stuffing,  too tough to swallow, just surfaces ******* me,
appears unMasked, pushing, bullying to the head of the line


my will contravened, and now in review, poems suspected,
poetry was a wonderful, grand failure, to wit, escaping to
the fore, were the very words from which I sought relief, they,
didn’t escape my view, so when imprisoned, they were damning


words that arose from the gullet gorge, as you can espy verily,
verified words of little value, no truth, these them are the ones
I’ve come to despair + despise, hurtful to my eyes,
my escape not merely in vain, but rocks hurled,
so my escape foiled*

myself,  
beneath buried
,
while out walking...on a SUNday afternoon...

the senses five have vacated the premises,
sun doesn’t rhyme with June or moon BUT,
two out of three say get thee to liberty child,
go outside, find the mottled color rabbit and
smell the light, its scent arrives with hints of
old lyrics, huckleberry friend, feet humming to
let the sunshine in with “visions of harmony and
understanding, sympathy and trust abounding”


so you see the writing comes hard, but the knees
promise with every step to return, recur, recapture
each pleasing flag and line, every odor, all the perfectly
nonsensical so that a walk is a poem, an exercise in
harmonious...that a drifter like me, vague remembers
someone singing, like him, that he is:


“off to see the world,
there’s such a lot of world to see
we’re after the same rainbow's end,
waitin' 'round the bend” and a moon river...
the thin line between poet and:


******* artist
is so thin,
it is almost,

almost,

invisible.
those who created wind and water had many reasons,
but their first purpose was to constant enliven the human mind
with the softest message that true freedom is never bounded

nature’s song is refrained, “man, be unrestrained,”
nature’s majesty is then greatest, for men fool
themselves with lines, divisions and walls.

Earth’s best, mens too,  is best seen in its unconstrained, searching character.

this is the one, only truth.


12:07am Sun Jul 12
who can hold the wind in his fist?

~for Ken Pepiton~

your poems full of hints and innuendo,
most of them I don’t get, of stuff, I don’t know, no clue,
my education impoverished, which is why lucky me,
I’m getting my viral signed check for 1200 bucks,
yes siree

but some college educated sharp eyed feller,
said look, see how Ken keen, has the bestus, the real tuff stuff,
hidey holed in the footnotes purposed for you to miss it,
****, he was right, cause I found what you hided!

<>

who can hold the wind in his fist?

an inquisition worthy of a thousand answers,
my Roman slave cautions forbearance, whispering in
my one remaining unconquered Gauguin ear, just the best,
these time of times, hanging heavy, be sweet, leave out the chaff

I, cannot hold the wind in my fist,
for it has always befriended, going
over my life-coarsened skin,
through my-stubbled fingers,
cooling and christening, constant teasing kissing
as it was born anew, a first time poem,
it was meant to be unkept and unkempt


you might want to hold on, keep it, for its touch is indeed
that of a first time lady loved, savoring the cool,
and the heat simultaneous, no fool us, empowering,
the wind forever runs freely, between, never sticking,
going around my body, into my open orifices,
sometimes caressing, sometimes troubling,
its power leaving us atrembling, moved, straighter or bent over


those who created wind and water had many reasons,
but their first purpose was to constant enliven the human mind
with the softest message that true freedom is never bounded,
nature’s song is refrained, “man, be unrestrained,”
it’s majesty then greatest,
men may fool themselves with lines and divisions,
Earth’s best best seen in its unconstrained, searching character
no truth login Jun 2019
my way to say,
present, in Wonderland.

present in your life when least expected,
no qualifying reassurance reason,
and best!
dessert-deserved more than the rest of the days

prefer to have a postman ring twice,
imagining the look on your confused face,
the genuine life velocity wholeheartedly surprised,
the tickling happiest angst of wondering why...

the present of presence is selfish, me-gleeful,
good for the soul, and the surprise message,
for my presence is all the greater by my absence,
well, it tickles that warm spot you almost forgot about
that no rowed columnar calendar manager can pretend provide

that’s what is all about...
(and stop grinning already)
the unexpected, the ******* jack wondering,
the whys grows lesser,  
the message très simple:
the no reason season of surprise,
starts with a daily sunrise..  

C'est la vie au pays des merveilles


postscript
————-
(Holiday and Birthday wishes/presents are now de rigeur, obligatory,
forgetting unacceptable, even as a date’s meaning grow less significant,
now that we’re on Facebook to be advised by AI that controls it & destroys simultaneously,
the reduction of the remembering quality of life)
no truth login May 2019
lesson #1: in the beginning, all poems on Earth were formless

on blended knee, the approaching, humility, raging, barely  
tempered by a gale force need, the forthcoming yoga pose of compose

you have urgings, mostly in a blink of an eye,
then going, gone notions, the writing is so a losing effort,
you turn the paper’s aperture sideways hoping to get an
inside straight insight,
but the poem refuses to come, the creation ******
delayed is torturous and the poem birthing, even worse

so you revert to basics to give the formless a shape,
recalling  a child’s learning that in the beginning:

“the earth was formless and void,
darkness was over the surface of the deep,
and the Spirit of God was hovering
over the surface of the waters.…”

so you insert a single sheet of 20Lb bond paper,
sliding the typewriters carriage smooth swift  
over to the starting gate hell’s bell, typewriter machine smell erotically exciting creative fluids boiling,
typing, laughing out loud, forming entree to the hinted hallway
of a womb opening to a crafting with three words:

                               in the beginning
no truth login Sep 2019
ramble on to your hearts discontentment
for as long as it is discontented
rambling will be the cure,
poems deep rock sourced,
from sorcery, for good!

as long as spoke, needy needed,
their wandering brick path is
the road to a content finale
she’ll alone recognize

— The End —