No one dies twice, keep living each momement, making love and money, heel to toe, step by step, always ahead, stopping only for poached eggs, buttered toast, and grits, reading the Times, sipping coffee black, a cab to the Park Avenue office, calls to Lisbon, meetings with subordinates throughout the day, sometimes laughter, sorrow lurking bemeath smiles, all the while pretending, Central Park filled with joggers, solitude in the sky, a bagel with cream chesse, capers, and lox, a new tie at Brooks Brothers, memories of Andover, sun-bleached benches, Columbia beating Princetion, Harlem hidden, a chapter or two of Dostoyevsky, daydreams of ecstasy, a hotel room at the Pierre in mid-afternoon, her golden hair brighter than the sun, covering her shoulders and one of her young *******, the rest for loving, an endless stream of searching souls, thousands making millions on Wall Street, vapid, vacuous, empty endeavors, dinner at 21, a long stroll up 5th Avenue to 63rd, back home that had never had been a home, a kiss on his wife's cheek, she always meek, no one dies twice.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

Just bemeath chosen words
And rewrites,
There clamours a poem raw
And true,
Free of likes and critique,
Above bandwagon scociety,
There a poet can believe in
The art of the experience:

I am alive between each word,
The hand on fire
As sudden urges froze me
In the actiin of my words
To jot them down,
What captures my life like
The inspired word,
And the need to capture a moment
On paper,
Where I was is now instilled
Like the metaphor of life,
And I am one with the unspoken,
As i have stopped and
Undone.
Words pause me,
Propel me,
And I freeze in the flow
Where life happend
And i stop all things
To write it down stuck
Between the stanzas.
The poet can write life,
Rarely does the experience
Saturate the time of a writer.