for Sally, Bex and Tonya, Denel and my beloved

<>

gods do not seek forgiveness,
or comprehension,
desertion, desecration, ascension
or condemning condescension

but how how they crave
just a good conversation,
to get a word in edgewise,
a nice chat,
entrée à, la tête-à-tête,
entre deux, deluxe-amis

a casually talking,
absent of
words of need and beseech,
reason and causality,
and no I or We pronouns,
sans enunciations and annunciations,
false hopes for incarnations, incantations,
set asides for life's grievous aches
all human requests, and some of God's commandments
for now, set aside,
annulled

just a talk,
some repartee,
but mostly an open ear lent,
an early morn quiet listen
over tea (he/she) and coffee (me),
paying attention to
both sides of an interactive story

as recompense for my willingness to be,
his engaged counter party,
my mourning gloomier cloudiness,
quick exchanged for instant,
rising sunshine warming glorious

my vista
of a bay dancing
to Tchaikovsky Swan Lake ballet music,
deftly inserted between
an Agnus Dei and an Ave Maria

mood music he said,
and we chuckled,
he/she was god and orchestrated
my tastes,
Adele et Dudamel,
comprehending my undesirable apprehension,
by granting my needy wish for
poetic inspirational composition contentment

all exchanged,
for just a good listen,
no judgements, in either direction

I am the god of love,
the one who makes you weep,
when you study your beloved's rising chest,
each uplifted breast heaving,
a confirmation blessing,
that her life is present
for at least the next second,
ready for your magi adoration

be not fearful,
this day we talk only,
as I pass by,
I have no business to conduct,
on your island of sheltering redoubt,
but to engage and unburden
for even gods
are required to confess,
and aging godheads do adore
a human shoulder
upon to rest,
a great invention,
(If I may say so myself)
and to whom better to address
than my only love poetry
poète personnelle

here he off-guards me
with a favorite injection,
Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings,
music so sweet that it never fails
to weaken my knees,
sweeping my eyes unto weeping
priming me with this first coat of
sounds so elementary soothing

he half-bows before me and says,

forgive me human, for I have sinned

in Dallas and Nice,
just this past week,
with forays here and there,
doing god's work

read your bitterness and struggle,
anger and forgiveness all in one crust,
furious curses and wails so plaintive,
my heavenly musicians weep from jealousy,
at the cries emanating from the fired fury song
of human hearts torn and love plundered

I am the god of love

and

the god of pain and all that is the

anti-love

(and to make me better understand,  
Schindler's List score, so sweetly,
he plays for me,
to clarify the atmosphere,
that death and love -
and the courage of understanding,
so oft go hand in hand)

write me a love poem for me,
no hymn or sonnet do I require,
for love is essence of forgive,
there is no perfect union,
that cannot stand,
with out this emotion of
conciliatory intermediation

tell me you understand
that the scales
of bereft befallen,
disparate chance interrupting randomized,
must periodic perforce
sometimes weigh more,
than the good of simple

balance tip that creative god spark within,
of which you write,
away from my bloodied, unsightly hand

write me one more love poem
a frisson semi-sweet and cleanly neat,
of good things sad,
but worthy of remembrance

you are not the first for this bequest to receive,
other poet's before and after,
will Jacob-wrestle with my angels,
battling to find the...

no matter

"my love to thee is sound sans crack or flaw"^

let your love poem
to me
be of whole healing,
for these disarrayed feelings
cannot forever persist,
the perfect balance you desire
is not on your Earth existent,
unobtainable

these cracks and flaws must and will come


and yet

love poems
will be our common language

and then he/she left,
leaving this poem behind,
born from my mind, yet,
carved on my skin,
written with the nib of my rib,
sealed and signed,
future undefined,
but dated upon my
cleansed hand's lifeline,
hand held outstretched
as if to say

“and yet"

your name on my lips,
a whisper in the night
-ten thousand enunciations,
do you even know my name?
what’s my name?

they fall like rain
white and pink and red and blue,
fluttering wings, little butterflies
you call them pretty,
as they cascade to the floor,
little whirlwinds,
tiny storms.

roses, roses,
they all fall down,
pick up my petals
i’ll be ashes in the ground.

in my dreams,
you twirl me around,
soft hands in my hair,
eyes on mine,
golden mornings and moonlit nights.

each morning, morning i wake in your arms,
every night we’re under the garden’s bridges,
a soft waltz,
for softer caresses,
and yet the petals fall all around.

roses, roses,
they all fall down,
pick up my petals
i’ll be ashes in the ground.

i don’t dream anymore,
all my days i lay in the sunlight
-dreams of mornings fill my head,
as i grasp rose petals,
strewn like dreams all around.

summer turns to winter,
spring won’t come for me,
the last spring i’ll ever know,
there are rose petals on top of me and i’m six feet below.  

roses, roses,
they all fell down,
you didn’t pick up my petals
so now i’m ashes in the ground.

A sharp bark wakes me.
Tears begin to fall.
Distant growls ring,
tinged with pain and laced with loss,
reminiscent of an all-too-distant past.
It roars and bellows anew
as though intent to bind me to this wakefulness
so I might be a witness to this spectacle of grief.

A fine stage night makes,
for in deepest darkness
the enunciations of anguish are all the more potent.
I lay and listen to the falling tears,
the rhythmic backdrop to this soundscape of sadness.
The fury ebbs as the night deepens,
but tears continue to water the earth
long after the thunderous voice has resigned itself to silence.

perhaps i kept you like a secret, but
you spilled and overflowed into everything i did
lingered oh-so-noticeably, like an expensive perfume
perhaps you left me, but you also left your presence
like coffee stains on my journals, like, despite my wishes
all of your reserved enunciations and misspelled mannerisms
still shadow alongside every line that i reluctantly write
my parents say i am selfish, and perhaps they are right
my friends say this is hopeless, i hate that they're always right
perhaps i still sing about how we were "right person, wrong time"
perhaps i still write about a different us living out a different life
one where getting to love you is still a privilege of mine
perhaps i've finally stopped writing about the day we reunite
perhaps i can't move on, perhaps i lie, perhaps you'll understand
when i tell you over lunch, on the verge of tears, that i'm afraid
that i will suffer a case of unrequited love until the day that i die

A.

afore the blush of placid cheeks is A
proffered crop of luscious fancies
limpid groves of silken corpses (mingle
deftly apathetic death) maligned posies
stinking of bloodless roses; their amorphous skin
blotting dusty shelves pages tumble
briefly sleeping verses profess loving tongues
rasping effigies unlike the clamour truly divine
milk of feminine ambrosia

grotesque the statued poses, a love writ tawny
embers litter blossoms strongly and indolent
they sparingly divided, ample thighs crossed,
leak no pleasure (but taunting accurate plush
). so to luna breathe in the excellent pools of
lipless fantasies piled in ardent devotion about
roots deeply sensual aphorisms. and metastasize a
plaguing remedy breeding steadily in residence
my cracking synaptic core. every thought enamored
to her cause

2.

a symposium of muscle more perfect never did
reside in flesh as well so as this splinter static
in repose sighing hues unsightly, a rainbow of burning
sin blisters the empty air between our pumping
artifices;  CHAOS: a tumble of dry nothing spits
from an oral sanctum in ownership of I and numbly
splitting vocal cracks i dare pray to evoke your
crass symptom of beauty, in every hillock it doth lash
your frame, to reside on me its angles.

cHEW the gristle of my fatty words, if be the flavor
to the liking of your buds may i lay into your
frame the vestige of mine will and blossom about your pearl, hid
in denim armor, my mouth in every effort of its loyalty
to the sanctuary of thy splendid yoke. and yoked to thy
the chain of my hips. weaving dainty clouds of "yes"
from the soft cavern of your prim voice?

*

Froth, the sea, my lady in waves of festering verbs
a shore, mine, they do land in manifolds of colour
loving every cut of these sharp enunciations; some claret,
i do well from the clefts. cells reticent of the screams brewing
in their nuclei, it's an ideal clove shod in scents somnambulant.
a territory of my libations to your flexing presence,
may always be you by the side of i

but waits the coldest sleep and the heaps of soil
generous on our boxes; so shall i make to you an offer
of my life. in hope, thou shalt accept its filigree and
decree it upon your soul as have i so we may be
in eternal blessed sickness of our amorous lace
bands fingers circling, do denote the promise of
my hands.


                 TO THEE. TO THY. me

Nostalgia (Part II)

Most of my days are heavy with thoughts of you.
Contemplating, pondering, ruminating;
Who tattooed your tongue with righteousness?
At what point in your life did you remember my name?
When did you stop snorting your past away?

I remember the temperaments of you,
The kicks, the snarls, the growls, the enunciations of your
*******'s.
I remember the folded sheets tucked under me
To protect me from you, dad,
The late nights of laying awake
Listening to you slur your words,
Your tongue rolling around curse words,
Tying planned intention to mumbling misconception.

God turned his back to you,
Turned a blind eye to the doings of you,
Left us here to our own devices,
And I wonder how it would feel to wrap my hands around you
Choke the ******* life from you,
Hug you, love you, hate you, and be done with you.
Most days I wonder where we will go,
Whether I can ever let me love you.

It's not easy speak
or a Speak Easy
when conversing with him,
dark'ling gremlin toothless grin
but he's your friend so I carry on
with Yoda in the corner of my mind
"judgmental you must be not"
and Comicon's collective excitement fading
as the light will do in the west...

We speak easy with the circling
of the communal pipe
crystal peace in mists of glass orbs
oil burner fog horns
piercingly in & between my ears
but its not so easy to ignore
the scent of death in his halitosis

We spoke of Superheroes
their idiosyncratic identities
His secret celebrity crushes  
envying Green Lantern’s ring finger
he speculates on Cyclop's orientation,

"Y don’t you make me an X man, professor?"

Informatively encyclopedic volubility,
Mike speaks queerly and toofless
yet well versed on oral
said he rims pacific beach boys
(And I can smell the white lies
wafting from his mouth)
as I color at his studly fairy tales
and his idolatry of prepubescent innocence
the hyper kind of *******
as he verbally recalls the taste of how sweet
the sweet untouched were...

"The most gorgeous boys I’ve ever seen
in **** or anyplace on the face of the planet
comes from and are probably ******* now
in Europe... Mmm, European boys...
I want to use my life’s savings to go there
enter the war zone and come back wounded..."

I can't even imagine
Shrapnel jacked backside, points and protrusions
grandiloquent mouths and holes full of
enunciations...

"Fourteen is the age of consent there..." he is smiling
a caricature of a wolf *** fang less
Such a pseudo wanna-be
possibly already
******* friend from the broken rainbow factory,
how I chuckle uncomfortably
shake my head disbelievingly

oh the humorous horror of it...

(I'm grinding my teeth, until I notice myself
doing so and get an image of him
with a gummy grin,
I preoccupy my thinking
nodding as I half-heartedly half listen)

Who am I to blame for this embargo on words
so suddenly placed in my throat
it chokes me
stifling much needed expression even as my fingers jump
from strings to keys
from pen to soundless paper
life has number and pitch
but no definable English syllables or even enunciations
I am at a loss.
For years the ability to relate chaos and joy
to little notebooks and folders has been an escape
but it is a trap in itself
when there are no words to describe
that which I feel.
Breathless
I am breathless as I pace
aching to turn back the hands of the clock
and regain lost time
lost life wasted when I was a child playing a role
playing a game
breathless is the sensation
that feeds the euphoria of dreaming with eyes wide open
and never needing to wake up to reality
because they have become one and the same
I may be without words
but for better or worse I am chained to these hands
and this heart which can learn
to speak without a sound.

morose thing now,
this thing under umbrage
  of a maddened machine;
who is reluctant to give way,
an ecliptic passing of
an even madder woman.
this thing now,
under the pretense of shadow,
this form,
falling out, whiplashed, broken,
whose name of music is soliloquy,
this amorphous figure
   that gives so much    cadence
  to    things
     that    hold onto   long and monotonous
    enunciations like a bad hangover from
       a slackened night’s slug.

like the S on swooned
   or still the S on the double-grinned,
    parasol-intoned, punch-to-the-gut spoon;

or S in  seldom
     saved,   structured such  selfishness
saluting   sordid stories   soldering
       smashmouth  Suns   surrendering
   smoothly-sailing    stars,   supposing defeats
     similar to   sanguinaries such sweetness
         sings   surreptitiously.

I lost myself for a second,
for a fractal of a moment
as I stared wide eyed,
gooey and awed at the
artists on the altar of performance.
My perception crystallized,
specters of my past self
salivating at what my fingers
longed for;
spoken word and snapping fingers.
At the connection of my life to theirs,
at the links of my past mistakes
to the handcuffs of the present of exoneration,
at written art and verbalized
conceptual imagination
from the depths of my mind to the
comfort  of our living room of breathing
similes and metaphors,
of alliteration and repetition that emphasize
the triggering bombs louder than our thumps
will ever get to.
I lost my self for a second,
to the rhythm and the rhyme,
the o's and ah's,
to life being lived and poets allowed to
contribute a piece of their mind,
of their soul, of their being.
And I snapped and I cried,
my heart united between the struggles
and the laughter,
between love and the embers of futile
hatred.
Because, in the spark of a moment,
in the association of embracing lyrical
enunciations,
we became one of beeping heart
and symphonic sighs,
And we,
we lost ourselves on the moment
of great performance.

Downtown Mike’s Halitosis

It's not easy speak
or a Speak Easy
when conversing with him,
dark'ling gremlin toothless grin
but he's your friend so I carry on
with Yoda in the corner of my mind
"judgmental you must be not"
and Comicon's collective excitement fading
as the light will do in the west...

We speak easy with the circling
of the communal pipe
crystal peace in mists of glass orbs
oil burner fog horns
piercingly in & between my ears
but its not so easy to ignore
the scent of death in his halitosis

We spoke of Superheroes
their idiosyncratic identities
His secret celebrity crushes  
envying Green Lantern’s ring finger
he speculates on Cyclop's orientation,

"Y don’t you make me an X man, professor?"

Informatively encyclopedic volubility,
Mike speaks queerly and toofless
yet well versed on oral
said he rims pacific beach boys
(And I can smell the white lies
wafting from his mouth)
as I color at his studly fairy tales
and his idolatry of prepubescent innocence
the hyper kind of *******
as he verbally recalls the taste of how sweet
the sweet untouched were...

"The most gorgeous boys I’ve ever seen
in **** or anyplace on the face of the planet
comes from and are probably ******* now
in Europe... Mmm, European boys...
I want to use my life’s savings to go there
enter the war zone and come back wounded..."

I can't even imagine
Shrapnel jacked backside, points and protrusions
grandiloquent mouths and holes full of
enunciations...

"Fourteen is the age of consent there..." he is smiling
a caricature of a wolf *** fang less
Such a pseudo wanna-be
possibly already
******* friend from the broken rainbow factory,
how I chuckle uncomfortably
shake my head disbelievingly

oh the humorous horror of it...

(I'm grinding my teeth, until I notice myself
doing so and get an image of him
with a gummy grin,
I preoccupy my thinking
nodding as I half-heartedly half listen)