To Destroy, First Build  (The Construction of Human Dissolution)



steely Ironies begin as the end nears, leather torn by fabric,
when humans begin the separation protocol, when first
we intend to dissolve, we need construct, *****., barriers

so true, good fences make good neighbors...no. great enemies.
the invisible ones, freight train tracks running down the middle
of the bed, new lands of “his side, her side,” shut your light off!

he makes a joke, she don’t turn her head, maybe she, offers instead
a secret grimace, thinking inside too little late, bothering/thinking
go write your breakup poetry, that’ll keep you truly invested and

ocupado, lock door’d, why is my toothbrush in a moving van, that I didn’t hire, no destination home, notes passed via refrigerator door, what was  that “have children chatter?” months+words recent, huh?

just months ago, not confused, don’t touch his diet drink! man-o-man,
thank god we didn’t do a vaca drive up the West Coast, hanging with relatives in SF, LA not your town, you hate tinsel and pretense. BS.

arguing when we need to add gas, a wonderful double entendre, when was the end of detente, we abrogate the Treaty of Versailles, another place we won’t ever get to go-gether, that just makes me sadly happier, and

I think; now I understand why he always booked us seats on airplanes separated  by the aisle, no head upon his shoulder, in my lap, holding hands needs disinfectant, social distancing solves many problems now,

need now, no asking how, to conceive destroy, imagine concrete:

first you must build, it’s how one does it, human dissolution requires work, malice aforethought, we both master builders, see yeah,  that’s a joke, a good one too...let’s laugh not together at us, our edifice crumbles

I sleep until Morpheus laughs milk through his nose
and abruptly laugh at us Both. yesterday’s whole-grain toast
on a doily, derelict and butter-cuffed-
where a bite was sincere and absent-minded.
Much like a peasant’s frenzy,
with manners from Empty tables.
Only good enough to gauge
the width of a Total
Farce.

Or sum the Sublime
with a Catalogue
of Lost
Arts.

I awake when the dream begins
.
And you wanna hear me talk about snow right now.

And I bother.

“ The blanket is a kind of white noise that only the eye can see -
   as a Blue Thing.

It’s fading… and nothing comes close to not beholding.
We are all In for the finch and the hare
and the crepe of crisp.

pinned to a theme of our leisurely stroll-
through damp crystals
as awestruck as
Winter at
Spring.

On the cusp of our twilight, serene seraphs slumber
born of golden spite and joysome psalms, woven from unspoken skin
to stitch ice to every paw of Dawn clawing at the hem of Night.

     And where Winter falls, I stay awake to chart comets and chimneys
Like any awkward Silence
thought I might.

_____


another mourning morning, usual signs of warning,
wanted to wash away the distress signs of no sleep,
turned on the tap, out came only troubled waters,
my only friend, the voice from the mirror, pretending
to be coming from me, speaking: Oh Lord, Oh Lord!

is there no surcease for me, somewhere, can I find,
little bites, small plates, pieces of peace, the kind
of kindness that eases, repairs the dividers of mind,
the country stone fences that been growing wilder,
when, troubled child of 10, window breaking, beyond
youthful mischievousness, evil streaked, so deemed

Give me a boat, give me a bridge, give me a road, a home,
one of those things poets, songwriters about, wax lyrical,
Oh Lord, give me time, 45 seconds, even two or three,
Being strong, being confident, am I not entitled to that,
a boat, sturdy mast, cause sailing from storm to storm,
just glimpsing dry land, is that too much, a pale beyond?

love, nah, a bridge too far, not even on the menu, not blinded,
I am off key, not well enough, between the peaks between,
I am out of sync, bubbling discombobulated, a **** besided, behind,
lend  me a finger, not even a hand, a kernel, not even a cob,
a string, forget a rope, a washcloth to bathe and dry,
lay me down, lay me down, to live, even just not dying.

the bookies of High Street North will give you odds,
1000 to 1, our paths will never cross, a simple notion,
we’ll never meet, it’s a sucker’s bet they’re happy to take,
despite, shhhhh, not that hard, truth be told, airplane,
Terminal5,  Heathrow Express, Paddington Bear Station

and yet, there are oceans to fly over, viruses in
every nook and cranny, and the biggest risk, those
what ifs...and the worries viral multiply as imagining
grows more spectacular than wild flowers on the
heath, bogs conjuring up Holmesian fluorescent hounds

she’ll know for whom this poem tolls, but
will never understand that my envision of her world,
through her eyes, unfamiliar words mellifluous,
for me, they, a nectar, the special Ritz teatime,
but don’t be mistaking me for an Anglophile

no, this Yank plainly loves her garden of nature,
and her own nature, beloved as well, floral blooming,
how it grasps his heart with her two hand’s nouns,
seizing and ceasing its beating, nicks it, his rhythm for
poetic composition, so little more to add, other than
writing this made both a young boy glad, an old man sad...


postscript

someday she’ll crook her finger, like the crook
of her hair, and this Tom, will no longer be waiting

degree of overcast

so the day begins
and so will reman,
the week predicted
the same, only one
variant, degree of cloudy,
mostly, partly or just...

it saddens me deeply for
I contemplate all the lives
with this whether forecast,
or rather,
the absence of
whether,
the only variant,
the degree of overcast

9:34 AM
Fri Jul 17
Year of the Covid

the best thing you could teach two another

is how to love themselves,
so they can return the favor;
now that would be a refund!