believe
that you can surely shuffle your miserable untested
vocabulary into never been heard before combo’s,

believe
your insights have never transversed in my blood stream,
a poem unheard, yours, a transfusion of not-my-blood type

believe
you are special in life, in love, in pain, in sad madness,
only you can feel primarily and primitive, all of us, tertiary

does the optimist mock you?

most certainly not.

achieve
poems are allusions, born each time, first time, summary illustrations
of eyes, mouth, all your sensations together, make a messy birth canal

achieve
your first is our first as well, make the risk-taken a celebration,
newness is a gift unique, bond us to your children issue nouvelle

achieve
with insolence of the blind beggar, a teasing teaspoon of outrageous
good fortune, a fist hammering breakthroughs of pain and glory


N.B.
my words have been tasted by thousands of thousands,
a fleeting glory that is instantly lost to the crumbling
dissatisfaction that all that your needs, your findings, solutions,
the breaking of the chains of your boundaries, drawn by imposition,
the fragility of the lines that contour your image, make you nothing, are nothing more than just another poet which is the most,

most glorious honor one can proudly bestow upon oneself

stealing time
to pen some words
that may be
considerate  enough
to rhyme

stealing time
to sit  apace
with  myself
and muse away
a small portion of
this humid hour

stealing time
to stare at space
and watch
the dust motes
dance with
ballerina grace

stealing time
with vacant smile
as the world and
his wife, walk on by

it is  in moments
like these stolen away
that i gather the beauty
of each and every day

the phrase instantaneously registers,
dutifully stored for a new baby composition,
for all my future lovers and you dear reader,
“move at the speed of trust”

too young to justa rush into,
too old to justa rush from,
y’all inquire “what’s the right speed,
when the hunger pains of now-need,
instantaneously beg for get-no(w)-satisfaction?”

move at the speed of trust,
whoa, the resonating free ringtone
clangs like a fireball,
sounds sensible

but sensible and love

are words illegal to use in a poem, and,
about trust, as surely past burnt lovers
will happily remind you at every chance,

trust means bust fifty percent in romance

every instinct says go, fall, let it happen,
except for the bass squeaky one,
from the rear mezzanine cheap seats,
low and slow toned, hey remember me?
trust, my name is trust, here to remind you
that justa trusting yourself will never prove wrong,
that’s the lesson of now-need, fifty percent anyway
in matters romantic