for Catherine,
who did not request this,
whose soul prospers, more than survives,
but forced me nonetheless,
this poem~quest to address

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
do not come,
turn back now,
disjoin from a
voyager to the harshest disheartening,
to the crux,
where essence oils aflame
burn smoke, stymied from being
expulsed, expelled,
through organs that have
no natural orificial cavities
allowing escape

the hell of poetry

no, paeans,
yes, pain swirls,
Greek laurel wrapped headbands
squeezing temples, give no relief,
confusion sewn together,
a mixology cocktail
of the ends and the means,
of giving up yourself
in, and to,
poetry

no tribute,
but only that which,
we must pay,
and pay on
in the coin of the realm,
which expires valueless
at the end of the day,
so you awake,
broke
in every way possible for a human to be
broke

busted bird, wing broke bent,
judiciously waiting for
a capricious time to heal thyself,
but time never healed anything,
where grievous grief knows no horizon,
from the absence of some sounds, voices,
that can never be heard again

toil (a/k/a light),
trouble (a/k/a diamonds)
double that,
then raise it again to the power
of anvil crushed chest compressions
preventing basic breathing

all this to get to
the crux,
that tormenting, familiar place,
where difficulty lives on a
one way street
with a "dead end" sign at the beginning,
a self-mocking "no outlet" at the end

this crux,
inflection point,
****** peak imploding,
*** of brains boiling over,
more crucible,
where molten metal
reformulates into words

why do you want to go there?

the heat of me cannot be measured by
any mortal thermometer,
the pressure of blood cannot be calculated,
the stained consciousness maculated
by past and future sadness

of death, no fear,
writing poetry from the places
where it's well down drawn.
terrifying,
like waking up

this is where one goes,
when your pick up the gun of pen,
in vainglorious hopes of venting
the bullets of gases that seek
an unplanned escape
from a place you have no business
visiting for business,
certainly not,
pleasure

this is here, this right here,
where existence is identified,
where the sun only burns,
word life selection, a humming curse,
and the voracious need to write
boils in your blood,
chokes the throat
with your own two hands


for their is no perfection in poetry,
there is only a voyage to the crux,
the hell of poetry...
where Faustus and I
rue the day we deemed ourselves
more knowledgable than the gods,
selling our souls
for fleeting, human skills


**why do you want to go there?

~

my shelter,

two arms,
a human lean-to,
a pup tent,
all with a
welcome mat,
for you,
await

with graceful patience
simpatico smiling,
always avail,
awaiting,
no life clock countdown
prematurely pushing,
come when
there is
no other place

all,
on offer,
shelter places
that become
your home,
if you so
honor them thus,
your choice,
your decision
when to come n' go

shelter you,
no questions asked,
cloak all with human warmth,
easy silences, no pressures

for when my arms 
 bear your load,
now mine,
my load,
somehow

halved!

I sit in the sun room, I am shaded for the sun
is only newly risen, low slung, just above the horizon,
behind me, over my shoulder, early morn warm

Slivers of sun rays yellow highlight the wild green lawn,
freshly nourished by torrential rains of the prior eve

The wind gusts are residuals, memoirs of the hurricane
that came for a peripheral visit, like your unwanted cousin Earl,
in town for the day,
too bad your schedule
is fully booked,
but he keeps raining on you,
staying on the phone for so long, that the goodbye,
go away, hang up relief is palpable

The oak trees are top heavy with leaves frothy like a new cappuccino,
the leaves resist the sun slivers, guarding the grass
from browning out, by knocking the rookie rays to and fro,
just for now, just for a few minutes more,
it is advantage trees,
for they stand taller in the sky
than the youthful teenage yellow ball

I sit in the sun room buffered from nature's battles external,
by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization,

and my thoughts drift to suicide.

I have sat in the sun room of my mind, unprotected.
with front row seats, first hand witness to a battle unceasing

Such that my investigations, my travails along the boundary line
between internal madness and infernal relief from mental pain
so crippling, is such that you recall begging for cancer or Aids

Such that my investigations, my travails along the sanity boundary
are substantive, modestly put,
not inconsiderable

Point your finger at me, demanding like every
needy neurotic moderne, reassurance total,
proof negative in this instance, of relevant expertise!

Tell us you bona fides, what is your knowing in these matters?

Show us the wrist scars, evidential,
prove to us your "hands on" experiential!

True, true, I am without demonstrable proofs
of the first hand,
my resume is absent of
razors and pills,
poisons and daredevil spills,
guns, knives, utensils purposed for taking lives

Here are my truths,
here are my sums

If the numerator is the minutes spent resisting the promised relief
of the East River currents from the crushing loneliness that
consumed my every waking second of every night of my years of despair
                           divided by
a denominator that is my unitary, solitary name,
then my fraction, my remainder, is greater than one,
the one step away from supposed salvation...

Yet, here I am sitting in the sun room buffered from
nature's battles by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization

I am a survivor of mine own World War III,
carnaged battlefields, where white lace curtains,
were not buffers but dividers tween mis en scenes,
variegated veins of colored nightmares, reenactments of
death heroics worthy of Shakespeare

Did I lack for courage?
Was my fear/despair ratio insufficient?

These are questions for which the answers matter only to me,
tho the questions are fair ones,m my unsolicited ******,
they are not the ones for which I herein write,
for they no longer have relevance, meaning or validity,
for yours truly

I write poetry by command,
by request, good or bad,
this one is a bequest to myself, and also a sidecar for an old friend,
who asked in passing to write what I know of suicide,
unaware that the damage of hurricanes is not always
visible to the naked heart

These hands, that type these words are the resume of a life
resumed,
life line remains scarred, but after an inter-mission, after an inter-diction, an inter-re-invention
in a play where I was an actor who could not speak
but knew every line, I am now the approving audience too...

But I speak now and I say this:

There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away what belongs to you,
do your own sums, admit your own truths
query not the lives of others, approach the mirror...

If you want to understand suicide,
no need to phone a friend, ask the expert,
ask yourself,
parse the curtains of the
sun room and admit, that you do understand,
that you once swung one leg over the roof,
gauged
the currents speed and direction,
went deep sea fishing without rod or reel
and you recall it all too well, for you did the math
and here I am, tho the tug ne'er fully disappears,
here I am, here I am writing to you,
as I sit in the sun room.

Memorial Day, 2011

the woman surprises,
bids me an eye~closing adieu
just a tad differently,
as I fall off into easy street,
the "sleep perchance to dream" place

she whispers a parting thought,
a quiet shot cross the brow
marking up my transference,
a hole-punched in my
departure and entrance ticket,
a line crossing, a seed freshly buried,
for my sub-mind to ruminate upon

"I am very fond of you"

puzzling this, for is this
as good as,
the pro forma
"love you"?
a lesser conditional,
a solutional mystery?

a diminution, a new dialect,
a dialectical proposition,
a homework assignment,
needy for exposition, exploration,
what means this phrase,
tween long time lovers?

I have written love poems, t'is true,
but never audacious enough
to market them as
true love poems,
too many, done before, no need,
trite indeedy, what sonnet expertise
had long ago,
youth lost

but here comes a
commentaire, remarque,
answered though unasked,
on the subject of

true fond

there are many you love
just because,
just cause,
just the effect,
of being
blood kith and kin,
or kindnesses memories from long ago,
that cannot be pushed aside,
buried in fogged cemetery dirt forgetfulness

but by now,
know clear,
just where,
I'm going here...

you can be fond of someone,
and bon mot, sweet,
need not love them,
but you, hero,
stand back and
grasp this commotional notion

you can't just love,
cross over the river
from like to can do,
that other thing,
until, unless, you
ease onto the vessel of you
into the deeps of
true fond
and take away with you,
until heart and soul now veneered,
a no rust
coating,
impenetrable

that place, that feel
where and when
the affection is infectious,
the tender is unreasonable,
the cherishing downright excessive,
the savor is a favor to oneself,
the giving instinctual,
the taking victuals
not so tasty or important

where you feel
way past the point of foolishness...
and then and only then,
with this
necessary condition,
take the rudder
be the pilot

do/if you think you can  
goodnight say,
get off/get away
with the perfunctory
eroded by time,
"whatever"

then kid,
you don't ken
true fond,
the  cornerstone, the found base,
the reality of where edges blur,
where what you feel
is like first bite of
tea and morning-warm buttered toast,
making one think
this is the way it
ought to feel...every moment,
salty n' sweet, smiley-face grinning
heat,
true fondness

The Marginal Difference
Tween Child And Adult**

awake Sunday stuff to do...
another unit of life decapsulated,
where one will compromise
with all those lofty
make believe dreamy would-be goals
that course thru the brain,
when sleepy morphs into
the to do list at the premier  of today's
wacky wakey consciousness movie

and a poem forms on lips
that have not yet been
coffee'd
into adult responsibility

the list purview'd,
and you purvey,
foresee, attending,
bend back that pointer finger
looking right at ya guiltily

one and enough,
believe getting that one done,
will be
satisfyingly crossed off that
grownup
groaning
tatooed list
of the unavoidable

one will make the
marginal difference....
tween child and adult