"strange creatures we are,
you and i," she gets up from the couch,
stands in front of me, looks into my eyes.

"shot in the heart
with cupid's crooked arrow,"
and then she sighs, "an ill fated love."

"hey, you left me moaning in pain,"
some sorrow in my voice, "for far too long so
feel for us creatures
seeking love,
afraid to lose the love
once given like sunshine
on a spring day." I take her
into my arms

and her cheek rests against my cheek
and she whispers in my ear, "you could
tap dance and juggle at the same time."

rain tapping against the windowpane.

"our distant stars
riding the cosmic train.

we are joined together
in some beautiful gift
that we will never be able to understand."

"*******." she tells me, and smiles.

(Tap dancing, love. and riding the cosmic train.
a lost art.)

Tell me then how to face this day,
As the coward that would avert his gaze?
Untold days spent lost and slaved to sand,
Hand in hand with the chains of time.
Or should we grasp it as would a man?
By throat and pain and circumstance,
Each rage at our command.

For promised lands are paved with pride.
The consequence of shifting tides
Once known and a matter of course.
But these seas lay uncharted
Horizon bleak and endarkened
By the shadow of a brewing storm.

1:12:25 9:20am nyc

Exactly, how far is it to you?
this is more than mere question,
or a rhetorical poem title discard,
consider it an interrogatory of
the first order, a debate raging
with every word successfully
affixed from brain to fingertips,
from my breathing to your heart,
how far is it exactly, pray tell me,
how these cords of words find you,
are your lips bending up in a smile,
need me a weather report, air quality,
wind gusts vitals vital to yo! estimate
how fast & conditions they’ll require survive/arrive in your eyesight well
and be friended


feed me the data, Heart Rate, Blood Pressure,
SpO2, so I’ll know what condition your
condition is in, adjust my words accordingly,
send to this distance back to me awaiting,
the necessary facts & figures to provide the finger stroke directional, do you need whispers or emboldened bold face to arouse the a spirit flagging, a shoulder shaking, a dozen red lipped chords of
kisses and sweet everthings, that do not
dissolve, dissipate or disappear instantly,
but can be stored in a Ziploc bag, refrigerated,
ready for gorging and disgorging, repeatedly,
as needed, synchronized slow or hard, fast
or soft, wet or dry. sweet or salty, savory
or a blended mixture, an adjustable concoction depending
on distance, time of day,
tell me,
the stuff that you accept
with open willingness,
or just begrudgingly

all adjustable
all shaped to
your individuality
elastic flexible
but the schedule
filling up fast
so we can mutual
squeeze into each others
empire of empty

so,
Exactly, how far is it to you,
to where you are being?

If freshman year was aspirational
and sophomore year was unhinged
junior year was put up or shut up
and senior year is a dash to the finish line

This year’s on fast forward—and it’s for keeps
every to-do list has value-laden questions
things seem sharp edged, single use and intense
it’s all about trajectories and ‘landing spots”

Let’s wax poetic..

Produce now, or spend fury on thyself—all else is untenable
we’re past youth and ignorance—your honour’s at stake

Suitors call you by name, like well-acquainted friends
they took your measure—you’re beyond the mark of others
they ****** with money—the future brings liberty and noble deeds.

So don the the garland and prove thyself—take the field
join the battle—now’s the reward—aidless, perpetual toil
with every motion be right, it’s thy shunless destiny.
.
.
A song for this:
A Man of Great Promise by The Style Council
Headstart For Happiness by The Style Council