some years back, not too difficile to recall,
revive and animate those memories of love and disasters,
but the distance is comparable to half-a-dozen
eighty day trips around the world, many frequent
flyer  miles accumulated with trips to love disasters,
interspersed with the days of shock and awe believing
(sigh) that stumbled, fumbled my way in what we silly
call true love, which is really the high of believing
that you deserved the easy way, but now know, there
is no easy way, and romance is a hard earned privilege,
and sensory deprivation can  fool you, absence makes
you vulnerable, don’t be vulnerable, stand up right,
**** out, and eyes smiling but phasers on full, nonetheless…

this not a downer, but a dis-claimer, even I claim the
never be sure of the 100% foolproof methodologies for
discerning the genius of genuine,
when the risk is the reward
maybe when your 22, even 23,
you’ll be better at true discernment,
but until then be wise,
there is no saving the day,
till your knees are scraped,
and crackling and cracking
heart seem like the same thing


but they’re not
do not confuse
causality with correlation
love is not your cause, be-all,
or even the end-all, do the  work
on your self to betterment
24/7, knowledge to be wiser
comes with vive les expériences!
and

someday you’ll senses will be tickled,
and the aroma of possibilities will
arose that dormant hunger, and may
be a correlation to another human in the
immediate vicinity, a man, swimming
in your moat without permission, then,
check him out and maybe, jump in,
once you’ve passed the red cross lifesavers
test, cause the murk is murky, and is never
fraught with just rose water, but jump a
few toes in and if you’re still sinking,
hell he’ll
find away and give him the rope to help
you climb a board, yeah, a broad tough as
clear varnished nails with a heart radiating
the nuclear fission of Strontium 90.

The Whether


you will like, love or hate this poem
it will be written, needs writing,
asks no permission from the author,
gives no quarter, it is the
whether of either or,
for ‘tis not in our hands, not in this domain,
for it’s ripped from my elemental being,
like it or not, was took and taken!

Even I, am without choice, this one of
singular changing moments in our lives,

when she speaks and:

the happenstance dominates, the errant word,

bullet kills, grimace or grin is its very own revel-nation,

when where truth smashes,

drips and a froze-moment is preserved without

artifice, mnemonic or devise, for it is both perma-

burnt and burnished with ochres, browning yellows,

when you spoke plainly words that sundered irretrievably,

un-remediable, destructing 

my first first principle,

a mathematical construct of

conceptional  constantcy

“I can no longer love you.”

with a hellish mess of originality!

she don’t care, that my own estimation
is droopy, my slip showing, nah, she’s
howling and I’m returning her “favor”

*****, you’re my ruination,appearing
regularly around 3:00am,  with three
or more poems for me to store,  as if
the world awaits my/our awakening,
muse gaslighting, trolling my brain!

she replies:

“they come sad and easy, fed to me
in spaghetti string lines, forkfuls
of stanzas, wicked, which I lace
upon your lips for easy retrieving,
reliving them gloriously here on HP

Of course, if you prefer this woman
can disappear, like a rolling stone,
plenty new aborning poets, lyricists,
crying out for inspiration, satisfaction,
how about an adieu, bye to my how-de-do?”

she got me by my spectacles, knowing I’d
take her haunting just to write a single word,
all my own, even if took ten years long; laughing
at me, saying “you’re not the first to make that deal”

so if you see creations from a musebtch@xxxxx.com,
it ain’t me babe, just another man who sold his everything,
for a passing hallelujah, or worse, even a finale selah...

everyone has gone back to suburbia,
city streets are dangerous, if you look
at someone cross eyed, it earns you death.

don’t celebrate this madness,
mourn it in black, it has a taken
a pandemic to school me again.

this a broadcast, shout out, email me
if you know how I’m feeling and can
share what other mutualities crisscross.

Do you like Jazz? Me neither.
Flouncy bouncy dresses? Nah!
Sweats? Unnecessary, I can sweat
just by concentrating.

You like me, own soulful bluesy singers,
femme fatales, who coax and croon,
wet the spun threads of subtle emotive,
who live by light of candles votive,
I live in black, day and nighttime,
write in midnight blue, a woman who!
takes no b.s. and doesn’t ever take no
for an answer...

it's a pandemic panic
i'm just hanging out & listening to
Anderson . Paak
what about you?
i've got the red cabbage & brussels sprouts roasting in the oven
with a little salt and pepper & olive oil
it's going on in my house
dancing  in the kitchen
the heater's on
no one's f*ing with me tonight
what about you?




.....

oscillating between extremes

the seesaw tilts, slamming the body into hurtful,
no genteel daisy picking, nope, love me, love me not,
the mind playing warped ideologies, you, tossed about

I want her; all men do; the rapture is coming, her eyes,
preach to the converted and the soon-to-be; join her,
her semi-colon smile, represents a hell of near-completion!

discourse, pleadings, all for naught, she, teacher/grader,
A or F, frenzied thrown to the ground, her lips say oops,
but we know, a throwing intentional, a mastery of reminder!

barbs of  batting eyelids, whipping tongue tips reveal daggers,
woe is me, whoa I plead, there is no mercies extant, instead, we
oscillate up and down, tween extremes, I need her, can’t have her!

I hate her! and myself, for myself, I love her so, my hate for her is less
than our mutual mocking of me...

————

we oscillate between extremes, at least, we are together...

the men I crave
speak blunt,
wanting me for
my poetry persona,
strength sheer as a cliff,
me to be their tour guide to the edge,
my sexuality unabashedly to be their owing

they speak plain,
believing directness
is an aphrodisiac for me,
my style, direct unvarnished,
so that must be whom I am, surely

but they err deep grievously

I do love my poets so, the
ones, soft spoke, genteel, feeling
using first, no never, guile, words harmonizing,
softening the edges so smoothly rough necessary
for me to protect, confounding the harsh takers,
who never think to ask, never cradle, stroke,
don’t go below, see deeper that my nerves
are feminine, that pink is but a color,
that anyone could love, not an
invitation, a philosophy of
automatic surrender

now you know why I write poems,
to understand better the heart human,
ferret out the chaff, the bad, for everyone else.

#brandychanning