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 Sep 2017 Vinnie Brown
Xyns
Decency
 Sep 2017 Vinnie Brown
Xyns
Maybe I've had an increase in confidence
Or perhaps this is something that I just think is common sense*

You see, the only thing I expect is respect and curtesy
I give it; thus, I expect to receive in return common decency
Don't act sincere then suddenly change on me
I've noticed that it happens constantly
And that's something I just can't stand to see
What I'm asking for is simply sincerity
Just be you around everyone and also around me
It isn't that difficult, honestly
Though, I've learned that to most people it seems to be

I've learned that the Real really are a rarity
It's unfortunate to have that type of clarity
I'll treat you the same way you treat me
I'll always stay the same, how I was initially
And all I expect is respect and always sincerity
That's common decency
At least that's I how I see it, you see
But I see some people don't see it like me
And I think that's just a tragedy
for Jul
<•>
your style, it is who you are

some can dance only to the music of haiku,
some, in anger birthed, can only call out, cursing the world,
with poems beginning and ending with a rousing fk you

your style, it is who you are

most guilty of only perspective inward,
micro-scoping to the cellar cellular level
where in glass stained slides everything revealed, criticized,
the tissues of selfish, the cancerous fears, the shocking
discovery that we are mostly mineral water of kindness galore glory

your style, it is who you are

a few see a solitary leaf,
gravity kissed, flutter to mother earth,
and write of a voyage re-versed,
life in ascendancy,
upward bound, and cyclically, seasonally hopeful,
a reminder that the straightest lives are but a composition,
a series of rainbow colored curved lines,
connected dots on an arc of two by two,
say it's so, Noah!

your style, it is who you are

a handful see the morning daily in their first cuppa,
thinking
"when I look up it is quite possible,
will see the moon and the sun simultaneous occupying
a sunrise and surely more miracles
are possible, unseen, unnoticed, god bless"

your style, it is who you are

some will have their inscribed words endure as long
as the Georgia granite, their retainer, resists the elements,
overlooking the marks left on the human brain that
are a poetic monument invisible but far more
everlasting

your style, it is who you are

one or three, will write daily, chasing music, trying to forget
what just cannot be, and the abased case, there is no
The End
when offered a choice
to chase reborn every time, or not, always choose,
just another photo or poem continuum
for memories are multi-generational in both

your style, it is who you are

are you the one who loves to write, but more so,
writes of love over over repeatedly, for the words
exotic, ******, poetic and ultimately infinitely~intimately,
one and the same?

are you the young one who needs to expiate the sin
of a broken heart, a broken home, a brokenness so
persuasive there will be no relief until someone
person n e w will be a stumbled-on, and the earth will be
torridly recreated and the prior ache just a discarded bandaid,
come the go-morrow

your style, it is who you are

some write to heal, just to feel, to be sure,
they are who they claim to be, wise old young men who've seen too many big rivers that cannot be man-made dammed,
and even the tiny eddy flows of their skin will generate electricity
in praise of nature, never realizing that the human kind is
always the ever greater

your style, it is who you are,

those who are confined by the ropes of rhyme,
or to a script pentameter beaten and measured,
to you, gift the freedom to scream any way, any time,
that pleasures us all with words jointly treasured

your style, it is who you are

some in their garden write in both wistful
contentment and dissatisfaction of things
never to be crossed off, sallied forth, on the list,
but no mind, no matter, the generational ladder climbed,
looking ahead is a looking back of a life richly deployed,
and even the many...in between the poetic words,
and the poetic days, when one day, will be filled in,
these...
will be will be the pits, the seeds bearing still
more of the ripened fruit of that tree

your style, it is who you are

me?
as if me mattered, the littlest bit,
surely the o'clock nearest,
a boundary that cuckoo states
like a good ole friend,
dummy, as usual, you've gone on too long,
but that's your style, it is who you are, so leave some choice,
Grade A, poetic cavalcade of noises for the better poets,
who come everyday, new babies for a better day,
leaving me behind, so happily contented, to be just another scribbler

in my style, it is who I am
  
<•>

September 3rd, 2017
2:01am ~ 3:01am
the message I guess is best
to stick to who you are,
especially in our writings


"keep me where the light is"
John Mayer
before~after / conception~completion (my coordinates)

<•>
for the caretakers of the next generation
<•>

comes the everyday, the mundane,
the profane, meeting at
the X,Y ordinates of
ordinary sweat and struggling tears

oh! this stuff of life,
makes me groan and wonder out load,
what is the purpose beyond the
existence of being a
constantly in need of maintenance,
sustenance machine

then I hear but do not see
the hallway pitter patter,
the thrumming of purposed
direction certain,
four little feet
who between them don't posses
even a decade yet

on their way to the
sunroom, now renamed,
the playroom,
expropriated by their toys of eminent domain,
on their way to the life between the
before~after / conception~completion
and this point,
of a single moment,
an invisible sound,
of this particular life,
this extraordinary ordinate,
this X,Y locus,
this precision perceived location of something real,
it is a realized abstraction,
the exact point,
where my **co
ordinates are
harmonized

9/2/17
5:11am
SI
the rationale of the ultimate intimate*

one more for Bala*

a single pillow, an intrepid phrase,

"the rationale of the ultimate intimate"

sought and retained,
then fist-hammered into place,
for your fists reckon and recall all to well,
the contours of your face

the face,
the glib exterior
the canvas cover over the place
where reason and intimate
clash when each competes for your attention,
and ultimately,
it is the intimate that seizes by coup,
any semblance of that banished ghost,
rational reason

better perhaps to say,
that intimate was the ultimate rationale,
thus friend,
each then given its due
but your poems confirm
the intimate rules the world
did u not believe when I wrote:
I have a poem in reseve for each of you!
~for Vinnie Brown~


even your kindergarten crushes?

what burdens you seek to retain,
the edgy border of delicious and pain
is a raggedy cut line,
as lost lovings, rhymes with duality

Once upon a time,
a middle aged man
left the woman he married,
the one who drained and cruel reigned
over the destruction of his-dreams,
for one accidentally stumbled into,
the love who blurred his edges as well,
between forgotten happiness and
pain so awesome bad when she grew tired
of his life's complications,
she left him,
weeping on the corner of Broadway and 83rd Street

was that 20, 30 years ago?
a memory
from no matters land
but
the physical ache that marred the hearth in the chest for
months and months,
sent him to the doc who smiled sweetly
but gave him, had no, no relief for
busted grownup hearts
with normal EKG's

that remains a treasured affirmation to this day of
life's capacity to love that comes with
an ingrown danger
of never forgetting

did you know the French outlawed the use of the term
Mademoiselle in '12 (Mlle.)?

I loved that salutation,
calling my one true lovers
with the soft feminism of that address

and still do

and you want to recall
kindergarten crushes?

Mister Vinnie
possesses a lovely contradiction,
holding onto
lost lover sickness
that lives on in good love poems

this my new found poet,
is how that he, this aching heart,
fast approaching his shore line for one last return
and final departure
repays a sweet compliment,
from one who complements
anothe man's lovely's insane desire to
never forget any of it

~~~

reading Vinne Brown's poetry
https://hellopoetry.com/vinnie-brown/

and listening to Joni M.
at 3:09AM;
never wise,
but full of hindsight
all poets are human, therefore, all humans are  
poems*

<•>

"In logic, a tautology (from the Greek word ταυτολογία) is a formula that is true in every possible interpretation."

<•>
hardly a tightly taut tautology,
yet true this, in every possible instance

all humans, poems,

as if their portrait painted

from words dipped in a vocabulary palette

which is why,

you my million muses,

are so oft the themes of *who
I write

and when foolish think there is no
inspiration in the air,
your names
each and every,
a title awaiting
finishing
a gift for Jamadhi Verse

Friday, August 25, 2017 6:10 PM,
S. I.
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