it had better be
the best
of me

want to go out
kickin’ & screamin’
with words that rip
those ***** bandages
holding us together,
rip’em with more than the
merest passing ounce of
a simplistic
ouch

poetry,
a sun reflector of
the daily of living, you’re up,
then floor crawling,
not for the first time,
and most likely,
you
never saw the sucker-
sunburn-(pow)-punch
hitting you from behind

the muddling of memories,
them, that can weep and sweep
you into comfort, sustained,
by the knowing at that exact
moment, I,
gave you
the best of me

no joke;
yeah I’m young(ish),
partied hard, fell hard-in love.
only to be busted opened up,
like too many else…nothing
there to write home about,
but to write a poem that
survives in someone else’s
heart, that would be miraculous,
as grand as the grand things
and truly great people I know,

but hello, poets,
this promise, for real

but David Foster, et.al,
said all this better,
and so melodiously
~~~

“And I think I've gone this far
Because of you
Could be no other love but ours
Will do
No one will ever touch me more
And I only hope that in return
No matter how much we have to learn
I saved the best of me for you”

you owe me
and yourself

to repost e v e r y poem
that gobsmacks, renders you prostate,
that brings forth the whimsical smile
and/or a guffaw and a  laugh-out-loud,
but especially those that:

invoke/provoke/ evoke an involuntary s i g h,

that make you wince in recognition
(and breaks you)

but most of all those that make you utter
all of the above
and
make you think

****!  how  I  wish  I
had written that…


which is why I repost (costless)and bring forward (costly) so many
for the pleasure and pain you provide…

nml

though a young’un here,
wander, stumble through
old poems via crazy word
searches, and bumble~bump
into fabulous poets who have
not scribed in many ayear,
and the curiosity chomps me
big time, where do the poets
go,

when they without trace,
they disappear,
disparu sans laisser de trace

leaving behind poems that leave
me breaathless, eyes watery,
could not have all died,
but their spark that lit up skies
world over,
has been extinguished

impossible
cannot be,
perhaps they graduated
to more serious employ,
though know nothing better
than scripture of scribbling
a beauteous insights,
a pithy phrase
that rings the heart strings
in ways that leave you
gasping!

how
can you lose the
need,
urging,
compulsing,
sensation
to create
great?

how can it be,
late at night,
the kids put to bed,
the papers writ,
the bills paid
as best one can,
that the inner scream
becomes your
fingertips
to blow, spark, and drip
fulsome
words?

unheard,
requiring
witnesses,

Where?
is that ****
divine action,
when
so many have lost
that sparking
of
describing
the sparkling best
that life
provides?

he gulps me into peaces
__

led to his bed.
eyes kissed and asked to
come and go to where I
dream and imagine
but do not think.  

he gulps me into pieces.  
oh my god
oh my god
oh my god.  

and when he sees I am at last
in peaceful,  
speaks.  

god could but desires not to answer
all who call out to him.

thus the human was invented:

an imperfect messenger

a version of his image

that answers you in

pieces of peace

as best as any

human can