for my Ian
~
Sunday morn in San Fran,
chest, a mish mash
of conflicting
poems
that someday will be written...
the titles I have,
but not yet, not now,
his flesh, unentitled,
to the measuring cup of words
to flesh them
into existence
tho solemn sworn,
hand upon the
bible of his beating chest,
oathed to the gods of his conceit,
these too shall be conceived,
pristine and parfait
avant someday,
when he as well,
be a work closer to
the rounding out of completion
poet's inner flesh is a mixology
of Pacific Ocean tide pools,
amber *** colored,
sea green chlorophyll
of absinthe
contentment muddled with anguish,
the wonder of children's tender undemanded kisses,
topping the texture,
the latency of life
Oh!
those holy kisses,
wholly unsolicited,
head the list,
conquering freshly reheated
crescents of inextinguishable regrets,
the long listing of life's
never enough, never enough,
never enoughs
day yawns before me,
possibilities are fulsome and many,
what drives me now at
preservation band of forever of this instant of life,
is a dialogue recalled
origin born by the Frisco Bay,
but yesterday
tween my be-loving and be-living and
believing,
five year old rambunctious boy,
and his absentee,
would be,
East Coast version
of an itinerant, twice a year,
grandpa
a conversation
re the possibility of
running away from one's shadow
the bight boy brighter with brimming optimism
viewing the day, and as far as he can see,
all through a prism
"of all things are possible,"
certitude of unblemished youth,
which welcomed as a
body wash for cleansing
an old man's soul
the old man's lungs,
his interior thesaurus,
covered with
ne'er do well shadows,
of hard gained experience,
that are
among his very own uneraseable,,
great unwashed,
misbegotten, missed opportunities,
the impossible dreams unfulfilled
old man knows there is no targeted
radiation or chemotherapy,
can history rewrite,
that proof positive,
can conclude that running hard, running away,
from,
or even running back
to those shadows
that will perforce
travel and travail,
that can e're prevail,
o'er man-inescapable need
to morose compose upon his
nettled, untitled,
foretold and foreseen,
own decomposition by
the weights of regret,
of those shadows
never to be
caught, erased
but he does not share this knowledge
with the boy*
~~~
two fourteen sixteen
7:53 am
Market Street, San Francisco
Valentine's Day
2016
running on Fishermans Wharf,
by the SanFrancisco Bay
~
maculated -
marked with spots; blotched;
impure; besmirched
