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Where Shelter Jan 16
BUT each piece, limb parcel, of me,
claiming authorship credit,
the fingers that type,
the left foot upon
which we stand,
the heart, soul,
and the oxygenated blood,
diluted with a *****-like
mysterious soulful ether

all vociferous claim
full credit
regardless for the specific
instigating moment,
specific contribution,
they each encapsulate

and the birthmark,
a Noah’s ark-escapee,
sign left behind, well,
upon my chest, exactly
when my guttural growled,
complete!  for the very first time

Do I care?

Not really.

Can we live without any ***** specific?
Briefly, perhaps, a substitute oft rejected,

the jigsaw of my body, it’s animated spirits,

just a bunch of noisy, plagiarizing auteurs,
egos so big, it’s amazing
we can frame them all in
into a single slop bucket
Aug 19 2020
Where Shelter Sep 2020
the words don’t come easy (Poet’s Nook)

~for the postman who always rings twice~


nah, they come
too easy,
from me, for you, doesn’t mean
they’re cheap, quite the opposite!

hard earned, been through the
washing machine so often,
they claim recyclable status

ok, so they are worn, edges raggedy,
they don’t care, nor do I, cause you
can’t find me any that never been fired

in the kiln of experience that came before
the crucible of my eyes, that says to them
welcome back! old friends, easy and familiar

stay for a few minutes, before you must get
snatched by some younger person’s heart,
send them along with my thanks and my

fare-thee-well, bon voyage, stop by one more
time, if you pass this way, I’ll be in that place,
Poet’s Nook, in our atmosphere of inspiration

where we have cohabitated, cogitated, and
wept together, co-created, and dreamed of
new combinations of our old souls’ cross currents

8:11am Sep 10 ‘20

In the Nook,
Where Shelter Sep 2020
a tall masted sailboat plods its way
across the picture window, under power, moving slow, 5 minute mile,
seagulls trail behind, periodically dive bombing the roiled wake, thinking, surely, men’s finding machinery may better than their own,
taking anything to make the new days poems & troubles easier

so it goes, the interplay between man and a natural world,
so it goes, finding fish, our sustenances, a dance perpetual,
so it goes, divining spirits sensing a vision, bring me music,
a spiritual so apropos that who can doubt God’s existence?

”With the water
Sweet water, wash me down
Come on, water
Sweet water, wash me down

Tried my hand at the Bible
Tried my hand at prayer
But now, nothing but the water
Is gonna bring my soul to bear”^

so the birth-day begins, sunrise poems & troubles sure to follow,
in serenity commences, perhaps a sunset bookend to match,
but in between, surely poems & troubles, all of life’s stuffing,
signs and guides, surely, at least, the day’s poem is completed...

^ Nothing But the Water (II)
Grace Potter and the Nocturnals
first poem of the day

Fri Aug 21 2020
Where Shelter Aug 2020
~for me~

no food in this house, badly bruised fruit,
leftover congealing overdue-past pasta with ketchup and cheese,
moldy bread testing the outer boundary of edibility,
jeez, even gotta drink water direct from the tap!

the worn out endemic pandemic comatose wakes up next to me,
“even this fickle friend is thinking its time for them to go, who knows,
cause we no longer count the time, where time goes, it just goes”(1),
don’t want it to go, because the ideation of life totally alone terrifies

looking out at the water, waves relinquish their sooth-me-ability,
now, they looking like masses of commuters and tourists weaving,
pushing, on Fifth Avenue, everybody trys gain a step in this old get-
ahead life we used to liv, believing that the way to, the right place

a poet here has cancer, doesn’t answer me when I’m checking on him,
another has memory sickness, cannot ever let go of her life’s losses,
as well she shouldn’t, some losses are wars by definition un-winnable,
and me, drifting in and out of this poem in the early morning thinking

if I could get back to sleep, that’ll be a couple more hours used up,
don’t want to mislead, no answers any to the perennial flowering
question of where shelter can be found, this wretch like me, can’t see,
grace has fled (2), see it, rowing away, can’t blame it, I would too

so many come to me with pain, wasted opportunities, looking for
guidance, or worse, absolutions, the dishes in the sink, last weeks,
saying they deserve a second chance at a useful life and the coffee
machine flashes “Empty Grounds or Leaving Town,” a decent rhyme

don’t give a **** if you’re thinking this writ, gotta quit, too long,
take your tiring eyes and scram, skedaddle, mine until I get a decent
answer to questions that never let go, they’ll keep coming back and
somehow that prospect, is crazy way is comforting, for all parties

can’t let go, only thing that gets me outta bed, the need  reheat, reheat
old, cold coffee that someone stuck in fridge just in case, the electric
gets hurricaned, stormed, another tree comes down this time that doesn’t just miss the house, like last week, that a stupid way to die

answer to where shelter ain’t, gonna start a collection of awnings, keep one handy, no matter time and luck take me, a stopgap answer to the quest-ion at hand, I’m liking that word,  it’s emotive, aaawww-ing, comes ready, handy guttural name, & to the beat, flapping wind

thought I’d get answer by writing this all down, none come along, meaning I’ll write some more some day soon, when the eyes open, should they open once more-row, the questioning, the pandemonium blues, wake up beside me asking where I’ve been, they’ve been

waiting all night for some bad company.


(1) “Who knows where the time goes” Fairport Convention
(2) “Amazing Grace” Judy Collins
Where Shelter Jul 2020
all three came and gone,
I’m in the slow poke lane,

my days in the passing lane,
driving like a crazy man while
composing poems @85 mph

they, you, slowed me down,
teaching the old dog an old
lesson: new tricks are for the

children I’m leaving behind,
as they pass by speeding to
god-knows-where, and-why

there are no more queens in
my boogie nights, love a some
time thing, but what I know this:

when I ran, the wind was running
behind my back, and pushing me
hard to travel non-stop, what I think

about is this, my arms child-extended,
like a jet’s wings, the wind streaming
over my foils, I knew better-than-good

scratched my mark in the soil, still
finding my spot, to drop down and
write these words, to sleep in peace
Where Shelter Jul 2020
within, or rather in between, whomsoever was present.
like a good party crasher, he becomes the life of the party,
joking, dancing, womanizing (the sun so very much a man!)
singing his anthems, commencing with “Here Comes the Sun,” followed by every other  sun~song known to the celestials, concluding near around 4:00AM  with his rendition of Garth Brook’s classic:

”Ain't going down 'til the sun comes up
Ain't givin' in 'til they get enough
Going 'round the world in a pickup truck
Ain't goin' down 'til the sun comes up”

the ladies, especially Venus, all quite smitten, purring like kittens,
took that as a personal invite-ta-tion, and I swear that night many
comets were created.

If you feeling a surprising heating
in your bed tonight,
don’t be afraid,
it’s just me feeling sunny...

Where Shelter Jun 2020
majestic adjectives
of contrary harmonies,
adverbs in adversity
that modify our satisfactions,
gut punch our eyes,
scramble the taste buds,
now inoperable,
incapacitated to distinguish
what is disturbed -
what is sweet -
what is impossible.
my days ending is
nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of
what I’ve got left

stale panko crumbs,
here come they in
1000 radium-tipped
projectiles of
serious humorous
gifted to you!
my few
itinerant followers
peddlers brave enough
to offer shelter,
to follow me
into the deeps of
radioactive incomprehension,
of no particular disorders
a thousand times

bless you
richly, eachly,
name announced, pronounced,
we are all proper nouns.
Where Shelter May 2020
lest the best go to waste

~for the Grande Dame of Port Hardy~

this breathing fire, a coronating sense of mortality, internally
stronger than ever before, though unaffected, no visible signage,
his invisible labored breathing, the torn fabric of easy gone mentality,
yet so corrupted, his interiors polluted, his crying-out-loud goes

unheard, the sheltering alone in his head, which now is stretched,
way past the point of no return ever, this new strand of side-virus,
of dreary sameness, familiar but reimagined as an atmospheric cancer,
the urgency by which his olive oil words, from pitcher poured, astounds

no subterfuge, he’s made his Great-Escape, to the sheltering island,
his refuge, part redoubt, jagged coastlines a hardening shell, no access
until you declare fealty to the Ferry Captains, who let you board for a princely $2 bucks, if you meet their unstandards, upstanding, healthy?

to the old cottage where we have summered forty year more, The requested Crew assemblage by early dawn (no ****),  for animals unencumbered by time-stealing watches, animal mutual truce declared, mottled multiplying rabbits, squirrels who know not any fear, orange breasted robins, **** deer, mollusks, rainbow trout, osprey, cat-sized cawing crows, and the watchers, the sea-it-all gulls

even the Canadian geese send a scout, in the poet’s nook we are formed, nervous not for their safety, but worried for mine, a Memorial Day meeting very traditional, atmospheric condition cool-cloudy-overcast, party sunny a bold-faced forecasters lie-trick, for an island *******-bonding gloom, a glomming gray weight tamps the air down

Friends! My Audience for New Poets! (their honorific, now over-a-decade old): The Gods have tweeted, this year may not have a next, no Jerusalem for your human acquaintances, the luxurious slowdown of island life, infected by a new urgency, explaining the known and the unknowns facing the human interlopers

Where’s Shelter?**

a refrain, a greeting,  we have sung together, so many times, self-satisfied, fore we knew well, knew anew, we had the answer, here, here, though to life’s cycle we are not immunized, but now your human admirers face agents of death, by invisibility masked, giving us no pause, so we, all, write now, must forward on to:

live/write our best, lest, our partnership be for naught, always between us truce of mutual consent, a natural love of all living things
May 2020 · 764
for those who deliver us
Where Shelter May 2020
the anonymous who keep us fed,
allowing us to stay in shelter, hide in bed,
while they masked and gloved,
go about keeping us safe and living

with no glory, the invisible,
the shelf stockers,
the wipe-downers,
of our collective spaces,
disinfecting when we
are home in our heads, while
their families worry~wait

we are the indebted,
so our collective can prosper,
no one calls them heroes,
but we would be at greatest, fatalist risk,
if not for the burdens they accept,
for they deliver

so I when I ask nowadays, where is shelter,
the answer is, it is on the way, it is in their hands,
being delivered!
in NYC we are able to survive only because of this army
Where Shelter Apr 2020
~for her~

I put up a 7 1/2 ft. chain linked fence to keep the ****** deer out
of the garden.

Secretly, I wonder, if I had the fence built
another half-a-foot higher,
could I’ve kept out the
no-longer-unimaginable disasters
life has seen
fit to shower upon me.

If I had it made solid,
instead of chain linked,
with barbs that nicked only me,
would have misery passed
me by, unable to peer inside,
my anonymity, being my personal
guardian and savior.

My garden’s yearly renewal,
comes by human effort,
but my wondering is unceasing,
it’s living ache, a perennial,
an evergreen hemlock,
that cannot be cut.

until such time, at last,
it chooses to cut me first,
and the garden retreats to its
aboriginal wild forest state, and
both our cycles are completed.
Where Shelter Apr 2020
my nose now runs seasonallyfrom sigh droplets

every new season celebrated by the constant continuation
of its running from, running to ?, or as I joke,  
from  September to September inclusive

but something new, my eyes now watery, a permanente daily irregularity, the imaginary laundry lady whines consistently, as she cannot always locate, prior to machine insertion, for all my secret hiding places of the always everywhere ***** tissues!

“too many pockets, too many tissues,” she underbreath mumbles,
but secretly I observe her similarly daubing~dabbing of the eyes,
in this time of constant sorrow, no one immunized, the sigh droplets
pass through any mask and gown, and then become full time residents

wry thinking, “let he or she who is without stone, cast the first tissue”
but we are all ****** all the time, heavy heaving, eyes tearing and
noses running

it don’t take much, the continuous reportage batters me and turning
away from my electronics impossible, they now hard wired inside the maniac-brainiac, wifi’d, from every side, even a actual glance outside at the desert of our dehumanized streetscapes always amazes

we no longer worry that every sniffle or tear
is a warning sign of  a more serious ailment;
no, we understand too well this is a sad spirit inside,
it’s symptoms unleashed but un-lethal, the antibody
to a weariness that has no name, only tissues that

cannot cure nor disinfect
Where Shelter Apr 2020
the worlds illness so pervasive,
the pandemic horror stories are my-brain-endemic,
so pervasive, every ache, tremor, is now virally suspected,
proof that my customized angel of death has arrived, I’m seizing up.

the latest wave session of walking depression, conflates both sides
of my brain, the intersection at right, left, the intellect is mowed
down with woe-down, by the stark reality of emergency facts,
apex or art, looking at months and lives ever trembilzed.

don’t even bother like I did at early firsts, when?
by asking where shelter, the raison d'être of my existence,
the poetry no longer synapses, the currents loop over and over,
the intellectual processes neutered by sadness virus un-encountered.

once upon a time I thought, even believed, that my life’s inquiry,
was answerable, with customized solutions for each,
but now, don’t believe in shelter of any kind, no,
acknowledging I’m so lost, no recovery efforts,

will be attempted.
Where Shelter Feb 2020


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

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

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 you, us, even me, all, with human warmth,
easy silences, no unforced errors of pressures

for when my arms
bear your load,
mine, halved
Oct 2019 · 394
May Cold
Where Shelter Oct 2019
May Cold

the tablet weather says 57 Fahrenheit
my ****** p.j.’s ******* say who the fk ya kidding?
May cold is different when it is chilled by ocean’s
known associates, cloudy and looking like it’s gonna rain anytime

May cold I think and the Lord laughs,
two weeks of snotty lungs ugliest congestion so bad,
the fancy people won’t sit next to you
in fancy place seats you paid for with last years loot

Your lungs looks ***** sound like a WWI trenches battlefield,
you’re sitting up at 6:00am, wearing
heavy bathrobe, hoodie, sweater and t-shirt,
but your sock-less feet scream whataboutme?

the pile of questions grow and the silence piano accompaniment
teasingly says you’ll never write again, what’s the point, so you write
for the one or two who will, maybe, wince along side of ya,
hoping first coffee delivered by a passing EMT will salve a declining body for an hour

May cold body and soul, left for to see waves, when human traffickers
who work regular jobs not-like-you, you who can’t get hired to spit in the subway,
yeah yeah everything is fine though I know the big D is coming for me,
tingling in the places where the tingling ain’t exactly next to normal

now that time’s only question is the priority of what to read first,
and first thought is of the list of reading things is so big, who knew,
it’s easier to go to pretend-work and waiting for calls that don’t come,
and the home quietude is a welcoming envelopment maneuver but the list chokes

S is fine though my slow slipping under is dragging her down invisibly
to no one but me, and only the grandkids of the crazy parents
make her light up like as only a woman can, carrying three on her horsey back
at age 72, while their couch bound mother scans Facebook thinking she’s crazy

somehow I get trapped in pictures others take and my gross weight
says delete this photo, leave no evidence that the slow killers and his minions
are coming for you, and every advantage you possess is a weight around
the skull that says, you see, I’ll still embrace you if no one else will

worlds insanity trumps the little joy I get when studying birthday photos,
knowing they will be surrendered up for sacrifice someday to a world,
where fresh running water is a past thing, and their DNA will determine what
line and place they are permitted to stand on, the antisemitism roaring its head

took a two day dump finally, which is better than gastric pain sudden,
which comes so stealthily that twice, **** my pants, just avoiding
public embarrassment, “barely,”  he writes smiling, but the credit card bill
always is due, when you get no credit for ******* up a body for68 years

otherwise I am fine, though few read my poems without a caffeine jolt,
and months went by with nothing to add, and then they hauntingly come
as often as I blowout my phlegmatic guts, and write them down to expel them
from a mind that cannot remember words for the thing that changes tv channels

so you ask, and now, maybe you will worry too, the last thing I wanted,
so hard to understand that silence was my gift to you, and every email you send,
makes weep from the idea that someone cares how I fair, and how unfair
that is to the one who cares, and I took 60 minutes to type this, and,

I love you man in ways so deep, I could fertilize you lands soil and your soul

and there could be a poem in that last line but my pointer finger is busy
wiping away tears but don’t worry the tissue box is always nearby
out of date
Where Shelter Aug 2019
lay this body down, where shelter is..


maybe you’ve been here, HP, awhile,
faintly remember the nook of poetry,
the four old soldier chairs, worn to a gray shade indescribable,
facing the merge of the river and the bay, lookin out southwest,
today, in nearly summer over Sunday best,
wearing a new old navy lime t-shirt,
ancient Champion grey cotton flannel shorts,
summer uniform of the generation that went boom and bust

as the sun escapes through apertures of now and then,
interrupting the partly cloudy forecast,
lazy me risking an end of summer skin reddening chastisement,
but life without danger, no life at all, especially poetry danger

the windy breezes jabbering quite excitedly,
deep in conversation with the waves
that loudly enough are washing the shore,
beneath my feet sitting in the poets nook

the gulls are squeaking their point of view,
at will, saying to me,
who asked you poet?

discussing they, the day, when the humans will be leaving,
they tell day and season by the degree of temperature reductions,
knowing full well it harbors hints that our departure sooner,
till next we poetry nook

the Adirondack chairs, with no cushions, are now described
as “scratchy,” by the Wendy of my life,
two and something granddaughter, who returns next weekend,
with new insights and open to opportunities to “use her words”
to teach me anew how to see the loveliness that is my blessing

sometimes a human takes an inventory of life’s stuff,
the ex and in-terior terrain, wades through the moraine
that his glacier has dragged behind, the coarse detritus of his course,
de icing/deciding what to keep, what stone skip throw into the bay

I could sail from our dock to the Atlantic,
meet you over a pint or a pinot, or head down to the Panama Canal,
north to Portland or Seattle, cruise the Willamette,
go as far as Vancouver,
before the spring winter runoff,
show you my shock, the shock of well past gray,
now the white feather of my head, signifying...old warrior, as it
falls over my forehead, a new signature of my ever changing body,
the city doormen see, shocked, now call me honorifically “abuelo”

read a story from a harvard doctor who believes living past 75,
makes little sense, cause we use up more resources
than we could ever add back

no, not saying go die, but give up the meds,
the artifices to extend life
once you pass past the inflection where you’re nothing but a taker,
which maybe explains why wrote a dozen poems this weekend,
trying to expel what resources I can add to the world before I

lay this body down

the cloud bank covering the southern fork of long island,
thickly viscous like fresh honeybee secretions, after which,
some will

lay their body down

next weekend is labor day, and maybe I’ll labor more,
disgorging poems too long and too varied, perchance you will
enjoy one or two, as we both be closer to the day when labor ceases,
and we can unhurriedly

lay this body down, sheltered at last

from wind waves and gulls jabbering,
the alternating current of cloud and sun


Where Shelter Aug 2019
your thoughts and prayers ****
highly ineffective,
they are defective
ain’t rendering no mo’ to god
and his good old timey thing,
righteous slaughtering of the innocents,
such fun for what does He care

what we got to do is do
something about on it earth,
time has come up,
the hurricane has begun,
and world is shaking from the movements in our bones,
for now is the hour
when we sail to the shore,
and until we are done,
the sun will not respect our faces

accept this introspective invective,
politely keep them guttural BS noises to yourself,
you know who’s the guilty ones,
that would be me and you

write to the congressmen,
who have been shot,
asking what ya got, forever protection,
the crazies know where you live,
state senators from places they don’t you represent,
all that we adjudged them lazy guilty, guilty of laziness,
and don’t forget to add a p.s.

we adjudge ourselves guilty as well,
too many knew in advance, the dangerous ones, who were
lurking, them waiting, us in desperation hoping,
it wouldn’t be happening then delaying one more time
all over again

”Oh the foes will rise
With the sleep in their eyes
And they'll **** from their beds and think they're dreamin'
But they'll pinch themselves and squeal
And know that it's for real
The hour that the ship comes in.

Then they'll raise their hands
Sayin' we'll meet all your demands
But we'll shout from the bow your days are numbered
And like Pharaoh's tribe
They'll be drownded in the tide
And like Goliath, they'll be conquered.”
(Bob Dylan)

8/4/19 12:10
there is no shelter anywhere from madness for the madness
is ours, inside, and we have learnt to live with it’s reoccurring.
Jun 2019 · 212
Where Shelter Jun 2019
beyond just exist, what is the motif of your life?

the lucky few who know not the ordinary,
lives without the stolidity of repetition
who know their motif, write it live it,

pity? yes...
they are the few
their motives are their motif.
In narrative, a motif is any recurring element that has symbolic significance in a story. Through its repetition, a motif can help produce other narrative (or literary) aspects such as theme or mood.
Jun 2019 · 412
infinite memories
Where Shelter Jun 2019
water falls, evaporates and returns to the clouds,
and over and over again, the process infinite from first day

i can no longer tell the difference between future dreams
and events past, the blurred process infinite will be resolved finite

i see the difference but cannot tell the difference,
finite events
repeated independently they are linked inexorably
in marches to the past that pass forward that re-define

not a loop, but a path one unified, a reversible coat
where the inside warms and the outside protects

memories of the future indistinguishable from the future yet to be
May 2019 · 627
A Wilful and Wanton Woman
Where Shelter May 2019
she was skilled.
a super heroine.

WWW long before there was the internet competitor,
defender of the Weaker ***,
from when that was still an
acceptable insult,
that she crushed, when found the pronouncers,
and the foundering it was of causal, her rescued army,
oblivious to the injury she risked and
completely aware,
injury she was hoping to cause.

woman. wonder, women.
and my mother,
my shelter unquestionably,
between her legs, me standing,
little boy bravery infusing,
she was his blood, his tea, his exemplar,
his teacher

drank so deep that when he was at last man-dated,
her honoring was in the reciprocal,
when he was anointed
Wonder Man.
A Willful and Wanton Conduct is a willful or wanton injury that must have been intentional or the act must have been committed under circumstances exhibiting a reckless disregard for the safety of others, such as a failure, after knowledge of impending danger, to exercise ordinary care to prevent it or a failure to discover the danger through recklessness or carelessness when it could have been discovered by the exercise of ordinary care. [Henslee v. Provena Hosps., 369 F. Supp. 2d 970, 977-978 (N.D. Ill. 2005)]

Willful and wanton conduct means “acting consciously in disregard of or acting with a reckless indifference to the consequences, when the Defendant is aware of her conduct and is also aware, from her knowledge of existing circumstances and conditions, that her conduct would probably result in injury.” [Duncan v. Duncan (In re Duncan), 448 F.3d 725, 729 (4th Cir. Va. 2006)]
Where Shelter Apr 2019
the unthinkable is our specialty


there are special periods of varying length
when we are given grants of capability
where solutions transferable like shared salt drops
and red gummy bears

you need, I believe, and the
no contract is signed and commissioned,
belief is suspended,
for the eyes have the evidence,
the ayes win the nomination,
the shaken but unbreakable longest kiss
secures the deal,
and the local island newspaper banners a headline,

“miracles on the island expand contagiously!”

this is when
this is where
one walks the streets and the dirt roads
sing song smiling,
the tide always incoming,
the peeks of sun
perfectly strong,
installing a feeling
of safe and home and not alone

where is shelter?

here here,
here is shelter,
hear is shelter,
in words and deeds and on our
embracing fingertips


April 11, 2019
Where Shelter Feb 2019
~for Allison~

she loves your poetry,
ok you think,
cause you just love her his-stories of her/here life,
the children, the musician, nominate her as daughter,
her poetry and her yay’s spontane-us,
we are fan fanatical
of each other

and she describes us perfectly -

“So I am an idiot standing in a sad storm of letters that are unrelenting”

ok you think,
not bad, for surely
only the most precious things in life are

Where Shelter Aug 2018
my second fight today with god

the first involves gods correctable errors of judgement

the second,
am asked to deliver a eulogy for someone
I never met and no is not in the range of acceptable answers

alone and misperceived as forsaken, despite calls and poems
glorious and galore, I was slow to realize, now fast,
was I meant to be
her here,
where shelter,
the first, will always now be
too late

you break off pieces for the needy, forlorn,
the ones you might of loved, it’s costly for
both the giver and the forgiven, but I am the unforgiven in giver,
a redeemer failure, the question mark and the short dotted flat line,
uniquely marked human,
the Cain marker forehead now forever a
carved minus sign, meaning I am lessened, lesser and
insufficient was

read out loud, an old soft tender, inspired by hers,
a missive sweetness tinged with affection, writ by a human savior who did not
do a good enough job, nonetheless,
everyone slaps my back later saying beautiful bespoke,
and when you going home, stay a few days, she’d appreciate

a thank you smile but can’t, though the dead will follow you,
that goes unsaid, but you will know
grander grief yet, as guilt continue-us,
and the tune playing non-stop stop isn’t yours,
but you spoke it  to her once as a justification explanation,

it was true but a nile river-red-colored plague
that added to her dissatisfaction, come disastrous for one  
who didn’t ever get to leave egypt

guess i’m admitting its my fault
not gods;
so I let the  ******* off the hook on this one,
but I’ll get even I swear, it/he, nah,
just laughs,
but this will be one of life’s allusions
I will recall and wonder when will that tune cease,
but get no answer from nobody

that tune?


Go 'way from my window
Leave at your own chosen speed
I'm not the one you want, babe
I'm not the one you need
You say you're lookin' for someone
Who's never weak but always strong
To protect you an' defend you
Whether you are right or wrong
Someone to open each and every door
But it ain't me, babe
No, no, no, it ain't me babe
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe

Go lightly from the ledge, babe
Go lightly on the ground
I'm not the one you want, babe
I will only let you down
You say you're lookin' for someone
Who will promise never to part
Someone to close his eyes for you
Someone to close his heart
Someone who will die for you an' more
But it ain't me, babe
No, no, no, it ain't me babe
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe

Go melt back in the night
Everything inside is made of stone
There's nothing in here moving
An' anyway I'm not alone
You say you're looking for someone
Who'll pick you up each time you fall
To gather flowers constantly
An' to come each time you call
A lover for your life an' nothing more
But it ain't me, babe
No, no, no, it ain't me, babe
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe

by Bob Dylan
farewell babe

12:48 pm a blustery Saturday
Jul 2018 · 357
needs to fester first
Where Shelter Jul 2018
this one, needs to fester first

the ideas come apace
but the white spaces between them are uneven and irregular,
though not on sale

3, 4, even five when the time is plentiful and the need even
more so

but some need to fester
low grade infection, completely unaware what’s gotten into you

the creative is engaged in low gear and you clueless unaware,
then it boil bursts and it is messy

you gave me sixteen personalities
no test required

I am all of them

unhappy sweet sixteen
this festering will not end quickly

until we answer
within which
can I say
the fester is now festival,
inside here is shelter
Where Shelter Jul 2018
People who are experiencing depression use different words than people who are not

By Elizabeth Bernstein
June 11, 2018 9:33 a.m. ET

Feeling down? Pay attention to your language.

Language changes significantly in both content and word choice in people who are depressed, according to a growing body of research using computer programs to analyze speech and writing. People who are depressed tend to use the pronoun “I” more, indicating a greater focus on self. They also use “absolute” words like “must,” “completely,” “should” or “always,” reflecting an overly black-or-white outlook.

Scientists have long known that people change how they speak when they are depressed—their speech becomes lower, more monotone and more labored, with more stops, starts and pauses. But newer studies, including several published this year, have found differences in the actual words depressed people use.

People who are depressed “don’t see subtleties, and we can see this in the words they use,” says James W. Pennebaker, professor of psychology at the University of Texas at Austin, who studies how language relates to a person’s psychological state.

The study of computer-assisted language analysis for depression is still a nascent field, but apps and other technology that track language could eventually help doctors and patients identify a depressive episode more quickly. Since there are no biological markers for depression as there are for cancer and other diseases, therapists currently have to rely on a patient’s self-reported symptoms and on their own analysis to diagnose the disorder. Both can be highly subjective. The apparent suicides of designer Kate ***** and chef Anthony Bourdain last week underscore just how challenging it can be to identify and treat depression.

How to Talk With Your Dying Loved One

Conversations about death are among the most important, and difficult, we may ever have. Too often, we avoid them, Elizabeth Bernstein writes.

In research published online in March in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, researchers at the Universities of Arizona, Zurich and Texas, as well as Michigan State and Georgia Southern, gave questionnaires designed to measure depression to more than 4,700 people at six labs in the U.S. and Germany. Participants were asked to write about their lives, a recent relationship breakup, their level of satisfaction with life, or just their general thoughts and feelings. Then software analyzed their language. The results: In addition to using more negative, or sad, words, people who were depressed used more first-person pronouns or “I-talk” than people who were not depressed.

Pronouns show where a person is focusing attention, says Dr. Pennebaker, who is an author on the study. Someone who is really interested in another person will use the third person “he” or “she.” Someone closely focused on a relationship will use “we.” “But if you are thinking about yourself—if you are more self-conscious or self-aware, as depressed people are—you will use the first-person singular ‘I’ or ‘me,’” Dr. Pennebaker says.

Depressed people also tend to view the world in a concrete, black-or-white way, using words such as “must,” “completely,” “should” or “always” that express absolutist thinking, as shown in a series of three studies published together in Clinical Psychological Science in January.

The researchers, from the University of Reading in the U.K., used software to calculate the percentage of absolutist words used in messages by approximately 6,400 members of internet forums for depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation and a host of control forums. They found that approximately 1.5% of words used by people in the depression and anxiety forums were absolutist—which was 50% more than those used by people in the control forums. The percentage was even higher for people in the suicidal ideation forums: about 1.8%.

Why are absolutist words so bad? People often don’t realize they are using them, and they can amp up negative thoughts. (Think about having your barbecue rained out. Saying “this always happens” is a much harsher thought than “sometimes the weather is unpredictable in June.”) Absolutist words also require that the world correspond to your view. (“I must get that promotion.” “My children must behave.”) “If the world doesn’t adhere to what you demand of it, that is when depression and anxiety set in,” says Mohammed Al-Mosaiwi, a Ph.D. candidate in psychology at the University of Reading and lead author on the studies. The more flexible you are, the better, he says.

Psychologists say people can use language as a tool to help them reframe their thoughts. “Very often, what you say is what you internalize,” says Mr. Al-Mosaiwi. Here are some tips:

Remember that the actual words you say matter, not just the thoughts they convey. Even if you are unable to replace negative words with positive ones, try replacing them with more accurate neutral ones. Instead of: “This party is horrible,” try “This event is not for me.”

Banish absolutes, especially in relation to your goals or relationships, where falling short of your expectations can be particularly depressing. These words and phrases include: always, never, nothing, must, every, totally, completely, constantly, entirely, all, definitely, full and one-hundred percent. Replace them with nuance. Instead of: “I can never catch a break,” try “Sometimes things don’t work out.”

Write. Keep a journal. Try a stream-of-consciousness writing exercise. Compose an email to a friend. Then analyze what words you are using. Are they too negative or absolutist? All about you? Tweak those sentences—and stay vigilant for those words in your speech.

Ask a loved one to help you identify absolutist or negative words or sentences and suggest reframing. It is easier to notice someone else’s language than our own.

Create a mantra you can use to override absolutist language. So instead of saying “This always happens to me,” say “This time. This happened this time.”

Put your mantra on sticky notes and place them where you can see them. Make it your screen saver. Have a needlepoint pillow made.

Pay attention to your use of the word “I.” If most of your sentences have “I” or “me” in them, you are probably too self-focused, says Dr. Pennebaker.
Where Shelter May 2018
trigger warning:
Hate long poems?  move on.
Love words?  pleasure your self


drought and famine of the spirit,
over-staying summer
house guests in an overly sun blanched,
voided, white outed, mental abode.

faculties parched,
overly starched,
compositions lost in transition,
why can't they make it ashore?

It's after 2 AM, and though
ferries have stopped running,
mainland hangover hangerons are
working overtime to prevent
"author"izations, so all I get
when I press send is a whole lot of
"permission to cross," denied!

causes of vexation undisguised,
dual natured and manifold,
luxuriating and drowning in home grown,
city organic insipid,
makes one quick to blame
nobody in particular,
but yourself, repeatedly.

reasons many, the distractions of
rustling contradictions populate,
another life road fork looming,
a track record for choosing badly,
colors the blacktop even blacker and
ramps up desires for a janitorial,
but first do no harm, status quo.

Need a beer.
Need a distraction.
Need a homework assignment,
which I buy at the IGA market:

obey the eleventh commandment
which every writer knows;
you think you're Mr. Bigshot,
so pudding prove it,
write it,
one true sentence,
let it be a constitution for all,
with the lengthy consistency,
of a Hemingwayesque,
one true sentence.

dearth to riches occurs
as fast as a basketball
three second violation,
inspiration dripping like
windshield condensation,
got so many true sentences,
how ya gonna choose,

O sinner man?

sadly you don't hear or feel
my background music,
stringed surf sounds playing
Perlman's Mozart low to
the thunderous, sweltering,
swells of applause of
90+ degree heat
w/o a Crescent Beach breeze
to console the disowned

these superheated thoughts
now focused,
emerges a bill of sight,
lading my heart's many heresies,
staccato thoughts now,
rapid fire rebel,
a pre-discourse insurrection,
voices of words lash out -

pick me - immortalize me,
I wanna be,
a constitution for one,
one true sentence.

The Moment of Ownership.

Hillel did it,
standing on one leg,
a Sanskrit mantra,
not by me,
not for me,
not through me,
even more succinct.

full clarity unobtainable,
begin when fighting thru
the static of each nerve,
knowing that
each thought,
each emotion,
is a constitution
of sorts,
recognizing life is a series of
moments of ownership,
but that are truly ours
only when relinquished.

each one, a true sentence
when writ, spoke,
but only when disabused
of notions of possession
only true, when gifted away.

Lucian Freud painted those whom
he knew best, their portraits,
fully clothed but wholly naked,
a painter of revelation
thru the skin tones of the flesh.

exposeur of skins interior
displayer of old and ungainly,
left us eyesight more true
than an honest mirror,
with poetic brushstrokes overlay,
gained entry to what his
grandfather named id and ego,
artist's superego, his reflections,
a continuous judgment
on a pool of stretched canvas
that makes me despair that:

I will ere succeed
to cross the borderline
that modernity insists upon,
self preservation, neurotic fears,
impositions on my psyche and
that my moments of ownership
will be n'ere be stamped "transferred."

I take back my life,
by giving it away
this alphabetized self portrait,
a wrinkled sketch of me,
my ownings, undertakings
needs taking by you
so I can disown it.

these words are my own,
their conjunction is a
junction to you,
and a constitution for me.

once this expiation
is in your purview by the voted
election of Send,
bonded by a mutual
Moment of Ownership?

so net net,
bottom line,
these are my
one true sentences,
summarized, constitutionalized:
I am yours, for the taking,        
so come by, for and through me,
in many moments of ownership.

p.s. let us shelter together in place, an island growing
lost for many years; for Mary Winslow
Feb 2018 · 217
trigger warning
Where Shelter Feb 2018
Trigger  Warning:

I am about to advocate moderation and restraint,
counsel that has been known to spark
uncontrollable fury  in those for whom
anger has become a way of life.
Oct 2017 · 3.5k
BPM (beats per moment)
Where Shelter Oct 2017
an average human creature should such a mythical exist
in a lifetime will celebrate about 2,200,000,000 heartbeats,
billions of heartbeats per minute (I prefer moment)
but like everything so essence human there are
those very few heartbeat moments,
the ten or twenty maybe forty total in a lifetime
that you total truly remember,
recalling the cream and sauce,
swell and the hell,
of the pounding so slow so hard,
each one a volcano of
a moment until that day
you don't remember-anything

when she said yes and you're shaking and beating in a
*****-tonk rhythm cause you were heart undressed unsure
and truly afraid of a rejection that makes a heart stoppage
disallowing visions, to be exponentially happy future imagined

you're feeling your heartbeat
in your knees going weak,
when the doctor says:

congratulations healthy swell
some years later,
I'm so so truly sorry, hell

when they hand you a long handle shovel no instructions needed and that scoop of earth weighs two tons and the sound of slow reverb in your head hurts like hell and you lack the strength to move and they move you aside quiet gentle like
but inside the temple of the two headed hydra-heart,
it's the rock and roll of slo mo, the violin crying, the drumming of
heavy metal chords plucked so slowly, it's you froze screaming

a billionaire of heartbeats you are,
but only ten or twenty maybe forty total in a lifetime
you total truly remember with the perfect clarity and
forever renders into your own unique orchestral symphony,
your true net worth, the stripes you wear
upon your shoulders skin,  
the tune when you hear it and melts you into rigidity

you fall to your knees wherever you are,
that is where you will find me,
just listen for the cars horns blaring
cursing the man lying in the street, re-listening to
ten or twenty maybe forty heartbeats total in a lifetime

you alone total truly that concert set recall and
the win-loss record inherent, inhiment,
in both of them, tears and the rents, all there in the tunes,
of forty beatings you took,
somehow it feels like here is, there was,
the answers to
where is shelter for the heart,
the answers that have gone and come and gone and someone says,

I don't feel a pulse
what reading poetry is truly about: the endangered art of listening well,, a sustained exercise in empathy.
Where Shelter Sep 2017

for all the Ella's of the world,
who wonder
"what the seagulls talk about all day long. while looking up at the gentle sky mixed with blue and purple, their white feathers glisten from the fiery sun."


one day when you arrive,
visiting, at my isle,
of Where Shelter,
(with signed parental permission slip),
resting upon weathered worn, Adirondack non-slip covered thrones,
in the official Poetry Nook,
a seashell throw from bay and dock, where the seagulls
thrive and dive, in between pooping, pollinating, and
rest up after day trip visiting the town dump

together we will write a poem about
what the seagulls talk about all day long

having employed them long time as co-conspirators,
editors and a test audience (assayers of my essays),
sadly must report they
occupy themselves in mostly matters culinary,
local gossip of my neighbors and other avian interlopers
(geese and osprey)

hoping this doesn't disappoint,
but know this,
it was the sand, the breeze, the trees,
the moon and setting sun, the waving waters,
animals of all kinds,
that together, taking years,
taught me to write like this:


the sun 7 o'clock afternoon sky low,
warmths the world, as did its morning glory reciprocal,
a dozen hours earlier,
both a low heat,
a sky stove top
'keep warm' setting,
a desirable global warming temperature

recall that promise not to burden you
with a hundredth scribing of his
lottery luck, this poetry nook and the
idyll of its surround,
its childlike insistence,
while stomping on the greenest sea grass
of this portly world, insistent,

"write of me, attention must be paid!"

the lightest breeze of excellent sufficiency
asks the trees to shake
their compatriot leaves
as if to applaud,
one more time, a lord of the ring serenade,
an evenstar song of
the solstice of perfection

a cloudless night but for
an occasional wispy white blemish,
hinting that the orb's final bow tonight will be
a forever remembered,
standing ovation performance

in an hour, to the dock we'll go,
joining  the congregant gulls
in appreciating the edging lower of
an immaculate inception
of a dying day's deceptive departure conception

my troubles, those that
furrow and till the brow,
105 miles away, as the crow flies,
for now,
suppressed into non-existence,
as we drink to la vie en rose,
our wine glasses, ****** the salmon pink
of suns rays rippling, tippling and reflecting
upon humans, who too reflect,
upon their good fortune,
this single and singular
peeking at the peaking of their perfection,
each wishing this be
their journeys end, their final solstice

to walk into a funnel upon the water,
into the sun and the
horizon in attendance faithful,,
alighting upon the wings of the most glorious of  inviting,
dying rays of setting,
answering the question, at long last,
a finale,

here is shelter!


so be quietly patient and never
write in regret,
for you are but sixteen years old,
and could teach to this old grandpa,
(who, by the by, has an Ella-all-his-own that is
of your proximate age,)

how to write
with the simple grace,
and the fresh wisdom,
of being
sixteen years young again

f r e e l y.
all alone on the evening beach. able to take in the moment alone.
slowly falling back into the sand. as if I'm trying to sink and hide into it. grabbing the sand in my hands and counting each grain because I have all the time in the world.
  letting the ocean crash unto the shore, slipping me it's deepest secret. making me laugh as the Novembers chilling air plays with my hair, trying to convince me it's secrets are much more scandalous than the waters.
  wondering what the seagulls talk about all day long. while looking up at the gentle sky mixed with blue and purple, their white feathers glisten from the fiery sun.
  I stand back to run freely, away from my daring problems. as I run, the wind whips my face, blowing my hair back. making me feel the need to let my arms back.
Jul 2017 · 2.3k
The Vineyard Mist
Where Shelter Jul 2017
raise ourselves, rouse ourselves, rising to race up versus the sun,
to ferry dock, to catch the first, the 5:10am to the mainland,
which is just an island-too-but-longer,
on the first boat of the workweek, the first leg
of an island to island to island journey-poem, but that
for another morning, unless already writ, but forgot?

the north fork, an herb garden of vegetables and fruits,
family farms & rural suburbs, towns of English & Indian names,
all cheek to jowl, corn rows, tractor museums,
high school football victory banners of a prior year,  
and alas, always fresh, aged-woe reminders,
too many streets, ferries, bridges named for young boys who didn't return from foreign wars and whom we all knew by right sight

me, a summer sojourner, a summer visa, an off-islander,
a Hebrew, living among the native island born hareleggers,^
the Methodists, Quakers, and the rest of a varietal potpourri of "Egyptians," come here by choice, all, living in a paradisal
farmers market, all faiths enjoying seven times seven
years of plenty

Country Road (CR) 48, plainly named, snakes it way to the city,  
a  hundred miles, a hundred miles, as the song says,
to a distant, invisible emerald mecca,
which magically emanates
waves of gravitational pull powerful,
where I heard that human city folk go to do derring do,
battling with numbers, creativity and keenest human instincts,
game playing for a throne that may not even exist

as we go west, the sun sneaks up behind us
spotted in the steve sideview mirror, watching our
winking red tails,
moving away, asking us why, are we somehow dissatisfied,
with the rich purple soil of this little refuge it protects?

this soil, blessed, brings forth the babies of summer,
truly a fruited plain cornucopia, the famed potatoes,
fresh eggs, for sale by unseen and oft unattended hands,
plant it and it will come, the peonies flowers, the sod, tomatoes,
the Christmas trees, local duck and fresh caught striped bass,,
over flowing fruit stands endless,
where they debate no politics but only
which fruit will become tomorrow's pies?

and always, first and foremost, the vineyards, the vineyards

not yet six am, sun still too weak, to do the ***** work burn,
fields full of snow white mist lying over man tall vines,
the mist, ground swelling up to the chest level, then north
to the nostrils and head, intoxicating the lungs, the brain,
inculcating the chest with a salve of moisture,
a blend of sea and farm fresh air,
containing the designer's secret arts of earth creation

the fine mist so thick, no different than a snowy white out,
leaves me marveling and a-wonder, why do I leave,
dictated to by boxes on a hardware store calendar?

why not bide and hide in the morn mist,
never will-would we-be found, the vineyards and corn rows,
my protectors, the bay and sound, my natural moats,
is the music of wind + leaves, symphonic insufficient,
isn't the theater of the birds, wild turkeys, families of deer, osprey,
tern, visiting Canadian geese, and the hard to spot, Broadway stars,
those little foxes, wondrous enough?

this guising vineyard mist offers solutions to questions
I should not be asking, especially, primarily,
where is shelter,

for that is asked and answered
July 2017
for the island and the fork folk
Where Shelter Jul 2017
alas, the same promise,
yet again, broken, no more writing of
the lightness of perfection so real,
it cannot be a truly,
a man's one more poetic homage to improve upon nature's gift,
nary a single craft to be seen,
tho somewhere, a motor hums nearby,
a mechanical reminder that men
will intrude, even if unobserved,
not necessarily then,
a picture complete

the sun 7 o'clock afternoon sky low,
warmths the world, as did its AM reciprocal,
a dozen hours earlier,
both on a low heat,
a sky stove top
'keep warm' setting,
a desirable global warming temperature

that promise not to burden you
with a hundredth scribing of his
lottery luck, this poetry nook and the
idyll of its surround,
it's childlike insistence,
stomping on the greenest sea grass
of this portly world,
"write of me, attention must be paid!"

the lightest breeze of excellent sufficiency
asks the trees to shake
their compatriot leaves
as if to applaud,
one more time, a lord of the ring serenade,
an evenstar song of
the solstice of perfection

a cloudless night but for
an occasional wispy white blemish,
hinting that the orb's final bow will be
a forever remembered,
standing ovation performance

in an hour, to the dock we'll go,
joining  the congregant gulls
in appreciating the edging lower of
an immaculate inception
of a dying day's deceptive departure

my troubles, those that
furrow and till the brow,
105 miles away, as the crow flies,
for now suppressed into non-existence,
as we drink to
la vie en rose,
our wine, snatching the salmon pink
of suns rays rippling and reflecting
upon humans, who too reflect,
upon their good fortune,
this single and singular
peeking at the peaking of their perfection,
each wishing this be
their journeys end, their final solstice,
to walk into a funnel upon the water,
into the sun and the
horizon in attendance faithful,,
alighting upon the wings of the most glorious of  inviting, dying rays of setting,
answering the question, a long last finale,
here, here is shelter!
a  sincere apology for writing of, again and again, the perfection of this place in our lives

Silver Beach, Peconic Bay, S. I
Where Shelter Jul 2017
maelstrom meltdown on Third Avenue**


the crushing came from nowhere external,
walking calm, southbound on Third Avenue, 7:00am,
found myself lost, slumped up against an unopened bank

copious weeping an acceptable addition to the malignant,
maelstrom meltdown turmoil, turbulence,
such tumult that weighed so-heavy that my disordered confusion recognized no boundaries of shame,
all chaos fission fussing into fusion

new friends, passerby's all, asking, even pleading,
offering water, coffee, solace with milk, counseling kindness,
the inexplicity, thereof, a suited man, so normally workbound;
the timidity, to inquire what's wrong, fearful of an answer's danger,
the enormity, thereof, worse, the hollowness of any responsive words

there lay I, till the police asked me to move along
or be arrested; I moved on for was I not already arrested?

my vortex, center of a swirling eddy,
a wind whipped maelstrom whirlpool,
shortly to consumed, bedlam no more, and the blood in me revererbrates that mournful prayer music of my child that cohabits,
never departs or wavers,
n'ere ceases or changes,
Les Miserables
"Bring Him Home"
supplanting the desperation of a living sin,
mine own breathing sounds

as I said,
the crushing came from nowhere external

for Steve and Tonya
"Bring Him Home"
(from "Les Miserables" musical)

God on high
Hear my prayer
In my need
You have always been there
He is young
He's afraid
Let him rest
Heaven blessed.
Bring him home
Bring him home
Bring him home.
He's like the son I might have known
If God had granted me a son.
The summers die
One by one
How soon they fly
On and on
And I am old
And will be gone.
Bring him peace
Bring him joy
He is young
He is only a boy
You can take
You can give
Let him be
Let him live
If I die
Let me die
Let him live
Bring him home
Bring him home
Bring him home
Where Shelter May 2017
took and tucked her in my pocket

a rare Monday holiday, and whomever, undoubtedly
an impractical man-someone, (always our fault),
decided to dampen the lawn and the entire countryside with a steady, not drizzle and not rain, something in between, and a dolloping, artisanal, organic, grey creme fraiche fog that
permits hinted glimpses of sea and land, home from away

a perfect day to finish that overdue library book,
and the deletion of unanswered email notices of your ever increasing criminal status,
both a delicioso rainy day, deep dish pizza pleasuring

go for a "walk and talk" in the rain with oneself,
properly attired, naturally, in a yellow slicker and silly hat,
(a perfect car target)
observing how the bay gets refilled, and the elm and the oak
drink themselves tipsy on an all-day-grey goose ******,
all the while looking for side-of-road weedy, wordy poems
that will look nice in a vase day or on a colorful plate from
Saint Paul de Vence

more a "walk and compose" insists the brain,
denying the legs and feet the full advanced three credits,
for providing nothing more than cerebral transportation,
poor brain, inferiority complexion, thinking the female does all the truly heavy duty thinking stuff and of her,
nobody ever thinks or kisses!

so I took and tucked her in my pocket,
(your brain's gender contrarian to one's lower physical gifts),
and poem-picking, away we went, to wet sand beaches
looking for shells, bones, forgot plastic buckets and shovels,
i.e. articles of inspiration incorporation composting composition

just me and she for the other 'her' chose to curl,
herself upon her spot under the always shedding blanket,
watching Richard or Henry or one of the Mary's plotting,
on what we agree must be a perfectly British style
spy's rainy day, or an Agatha ****** mystery
or a visit to the Towers

a little pause between showers, the seeding clouds,
catching a breath, allows the birds to exchange trees
in what appears to man as suicide by diving musical chairs,
while the seagulls oink, "perhaps a cucumber fish sandwich with a nice hot cuppa?"

alas, alas, only flowers that must perforce remain unpicked,
here and there a solitary dorming daisy uprising,
from cracked concrete protruding, but nary a poem of somber consequence found

so to home and hearth and some telly,
me and she, where upon arrival
took and untucked her from my pocket,
my empty poem pocketed persona somewhat mocked
by she who regales splendiferously on her couch throne

our composure discomposed and discombobulated and wet,
instead wrote this trip report and submitted it to the teach
as a homework assignment

5/29/17 8:00am precisely,
upon the where shelter isle
for the overdue book keeper, daughter of the recliner, story teller, sister,
mother to cat, babes (including one that shaves), patron
of empty student minds,
one homework assignment submitted
Where Shelter May 2017
The Prism Through Which We See Clearly


light saws our untrue selves with acute angles,
piercing our holistic pretenses, daily disambiguation features,
our sheltering disguises into our essence refractive elements

this is not a cute rainbow poem - run from here

it is a dissection of our true nature
why belabor, why elaborate?

through the prism
you color-coded self, tracted,
a mapping of your intersections,
what each color speaks, needs not an explication,
your hidden humanity comes to my eyes, in full revelation

at last I see you clearly

the lost and black withered limbs,
the stirring, leaping, enflamed flaring, never ceasing, breathing elements that mark your singularity

did you know your eyes are constant singers?

through prism, each note heard distinctly, as it rises uplifted,
your song, mine for observation and weeping exhalations,
your song, the production number of thy own composition,
through prism, our interior visual disinterred and released,

here I must cease, for what seen, grievous weeping deepens,
from the glory and the pain my blurred wetness overwhelms
the clarifying crystal useless when tear coated

through the prism,
before the full length mirror,
my own, unowned, never could be owned,
'mirror mirror on the wall,'
warped weave of tissues, mine,
the song sounds, mine,
from lungs disgorged
myself, diagnosed and displayed

of what I see, spitting speech
ceases and desists,
the only thought permitted, repeated,

where is my shelter now?**

5/13/17 6:49am
Where Shelter Apr 2017
I The Hard Part
~ be a good friend

II The Easy Part
~ write what you feel
12:00am April 5, 2017
Where Shelter Jun 2015

my shelter,

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

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

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,

Where Shelter Mar 2015
Tapping Your Heart's Savings Account

always a decision -
conscious, despairing
maybe..maybe not...
maybe just don't think about it

when the heart
on only
two cylinders,
the stroke weak,
the "I love you's"
worn, not warm,
you gotta decide

tap the savings account
of good memories,
reasons for
to keep on trying,
to reviving
the investment
of loving her

dreading the drawing down,
watching the balance
wrong way creep,
but you do it
for old time's sake,
rather than forsake,
it all...

but the tap tap tap
is just a raving
drunk poetraven
from Baltimore,
saying over and over again
you don't want to decide what exactly
will be
so tap tap tap
Where Shelter Feb 2015
(this poem don't matter much
unless you balk with ***** to essay upon,
thyself, thy valentine failures,
children and ex's who have ex'd you out,
sad love songs
one more time,
even joyous ones,
foolishness human,
then this intro source code,
is an unnecessary winter weather advisory)

a phrase, song~played, scratches,
brain self-commands
via electric synapse
To: the current in-resident body
extrude denude private places

get to thy work,
decompose on them words:
in the private places*

play with the lowly lowest ranking,
private, who by nature, sees
finer the dirtiest,
privy to the privy,
privilege them
to the most personal,
some or none of it all,
cause the scratch is the
poetic salvation to that
*****~itch, write

the best you get,
dispossess the beastie best
in the pvt. places,
ain't much/no difference
tween beastie and all the crapper rest

draw from the private places,
cast up to light,
revelations devaluations sensations
well kept secrets

if you can say it good,
then draw it up from the well
where the private places
were|where sent to drown,
and if you can't,
no bother brother,
after this exculpation excavation,
I'll go back with you
to adding a rock to the
bottom of the pile,
the mountain of superficial crap
Where Shelter Jan 2015
are you seventeen yet?

have the berries and the shells
stained impossibly
your youthful heart permanent,
have you matured and learned
to end sentences
in question marks?

surely certainty and
alack, its absence,
all your waking poems,
wonder does your mother know
what you’ve purloined,
stored in you
from her withins?

so young, so much love
oil spilling,
do you wonder about
the depth of the field
you are drilling, extracting -
is the soft supple supply,
so, close to the surface,

life so far is but a draft.

take copious notes
for the best is yet
and I await patiently
the novella of your
Where Shelter Jan 2015
bare it straight...

the knight-fool referenced here,
me, scrabbled, scrambled writer,
moat-surround builder,
petard hole-blower in walls of captivity.
letting those inside out,
letting those outside in...

all the beloveds from
ailments hurtful,
in and ex ternality
fearful of eternality

guise of knight errant,
salve and solve,
two pocket protectors,
needy, downtrodden, love-hurting,
slip inside and hide till ready
to come out on acceptable terms

entrapped, locked down and in,
show me the walls for to break,
make the solitary unobligatory
hands holding you will lead us,
all writ on clean new chance foolscap
open sourced coded for sharing

knock knock knock
come calling,
my calling...
to come...
I love cheap money

I love giving it away

cheap money is
that which you give
to the the brave ones....

not much of a poem

because it is the least expensive
way to justify your own existence
and better someone else's

someday I will write
actually share,
the poem long dusted on the bottom
of the pile entitled,

**Just Money**

a long tale of how I learned
the value of monetizing

but let us ask where shelter,
shelter is in the human embrace,
like I said,
not much of a poem,
more a good look
in the mirror

and the shelter of liking
what you see
Jan 2015 · 1.8k
cheap money (where shelter?)
Where Shelter Jan 2015
I love cheap money

I love giving it away

cheap money is
that which you give
to the the brave ones....

not much of a poem

because it is the least expensive
way to justify your own existence
and better someone else's

someday I will write
actually share,
the poem long dusted on the bottom
of the pile entitled,

Just Money

a long tale of how I learned
the value of monetizing

but let us ask where shelter,
shelter is in the human embrace,
like I said,
not much of a poem,
more a good look
in the mirror

and the shelter of liking
what you see
Jan 2015 · 3.1k
the toilet seat is up
Where Shelter Jan 2015
bed unmade days,
kitchen ****-all-around-roaches
email me thank you notes,
cockaround gratingly grate full

the dry cleaning unwrapped,
the plastic sheets dust covered,
can't recall why it matters at all
any of it

but she,
but she,

pass by
the bed,
see the sign,
"to let"
on the toilet seat

lie ever inwards onwards
idiots who let little things come
wishing there were
ever still,
and so very

— The End —