Beautiful summer day. You know you're gonna die
that's why you know no joy.
Obsessed with self, there is no answer
unless religion, tv, stories, sports matter.
So what if nothing rhymes and I don't
bring my life into an expressible state
or fight purposelessness, anomie. No one writes.
Running the gauntlet alone. A good day to die, the Apaches say.

For men like us dying's easy, it's living that's hard.
And since dying's much like living, that's hard too.
There's some contentment in letting community decide
your place in it. We're not talking to you.
Really, it's a perfect day. Every leaf is out
that's coming out. The grass is high
and unidentified yet another year. Being knowledgeable
is the best defense against your insignificance.

Can't stop the quince from blossoming
or my sons from smoking, speeding.
The best that can be done or said's a blessing.
Less tv, less guessing
about the effects of your anger unless
you want to be an angry man forever.
Coming from the funeral with friends,
talking on the telephone. OK about being alone.

Alive, almost sure of it. Whether I'm a visitor
to my life or the actual owner.
Mature poets steal, most are masturbators.
This house could use a good cleaning,
dusting for ghosts. I should subscribe
to the local newspaper, do my job well,
do less until one thing's done well.
What would that be? Old, and yet so young.

There are a million poets, I'm poet #500K.
Plenty of mysteries, infinite philosophies,
prayers, laws and unwritten rules.
That's why we go to school, life's complicated.
All I do not know: ATP, probabilities,
the glorious revolution, meiosis and mitosis
and all I'll never see, the bottom of the ocean,
the palm at the end of the mind, a wolverine.

There are certain indicators, undeniable,
inexorable. Forget-me-not, is that all I want?
To get lucky, you gotta be careful first.
To be great, you gotta be willing to sound BAD.
Although we cannot make the sun stand still
yet will we make him run. Brave revelers.
Signed engagement letter attached.
Attachment to self and to things to do.

Kissed his student.
Punched his friend.
Accused her lover.

What if China's navy asserts control where our navy also patrols?
Should we concede the South China Sea? Not on your life! Or maybe.
Lives may be lost but so what. There's so much biomass in the
      crosswalks.

Lord have mercy on my soul
Which means bring my confusion into an expressible state before it's
      too late.
Sal went to jail. I belong to the loved ones. Never may the anarchic
      man's thoughts be my thoughts. Not one.

It could be cancer or just a cyst
That killed Frost's considerable speck
Instead of considering its considerable intelligence.

Although bottomless ancient night stretches
From your short life forward, remember
It also stretches backward without measure.

There are few straight lines in nature and only one alternative to
      ageing, so **** it up!
Suppose everything's fine and you've wasted your time wearing
      sackcloth over your soul?
Start now knowing joy.

There was a message there for a second
But then state farm came in like a good neighbor and broke my train of thought
And that was beautiful in its’ own right
Like paint mixing to brown
As words only confuse everything
And emotions are like real gods

I bring you to the ends of our own expressible thought
on the edge of a cliff that cannot be crossed
a cliff and an asymptote
that is never perceived

Real Gods are in the pudding,
in relations between lines
in laws given and unbending
objective, quantifiable, and beyond my description
they are in the unending study and toil of the labors of love
a thought

but not in religion
unless you think about it like that
which you are always free to do

because sometimes the only way to show the inexpressibility
of life, nature and all is
is in raptures of revelation

Black lives matter. Me too.
Not my president. Give peace a chance.
Luck runs out. I like immigrants.
Power must be challenged by power.

Equal and opposite reactions.
God is the answer. Love is the answer.
Walk on the sunny side of the street. Meat feet.
Learn to drive. Wait for the train in the rain.

A girl gets sick of a rose. Mock orange.
Mediocre presidents, unnecessary wars.
Triumph and humiliation. Meditation.
Sometimes I’m tired of being me. Therefore.

Subaru. Suduko. Haiku. Hulu.
Stop on red, go on green. Orderly neighborhood.
Too tired to be angry. Too tired to do homework.
Tolstoy is the Tolstoy of the Zulus.

College campus. Saguaro, cactus.
Million dollar movie. Aliens in the bleachers.
Full length feature. TED talk, lecture.
Breathe in experience. Bring sentience into an expressible state.

Events pile up with or without an identity willing to organize them.
Events in their mere chronology make no sense.
Inability to transcend own interests. Inability to find one’s way.
Vacations and accomplishments accumulate late in life and early on.

Late in life I struggle against my insignificance.
The straight way lost. Concentrate on this: Thy will be done.
The straight way misplaced. Get over it. Someone tell a joke.
Love. Vote. Join a committee or a party.

MLK made the jump from race to class, dreamed of a brotherly nation.
Is this feeling nostalgia for the past or occipital neuralgia?
Knee surgery, plywood factory. Lost lover, lost city.
Old friends who are dead to me but still here.

Somewhere there are flowers among railroad ties.
True love between ****** partners. Dusty villages and vast cities.
Popper v. Niebuhr, impeachment inquiry.
Hassid and Muslim dress codes. French fashions.

Watch for war, **** and shower. Do the limbo.
Pay bills. The very thought of the rosy dawn makes Jack ill.
Big comfy couch, a nocturnal upon St. Lucy’s Day.
A long day’s journey into night. Truckin’.

Death comes for the archbishop. Private Ryan and Big Red One.
Absence of knowledge and intelligent beings who make things happen.
Life’s brevity and the time taken to carve the canyon.
Decibel level and ambient noise. Captain Carpenter and Mr. Flood.

Nothing but ocean, self-aware organisms and the longing they provoke.
Unit, corps, God, country. Zip code. The clocks and the docks gone and       no smoke.
Achilles and Hector. Wills and losses.
Continued existence and most of history.

A holy condition. A warrior’s position.
Walk with a limp. Don’t complain about pain.
Truth may be ascertained by considering your uncertainty.
If everyone votes and every vote’s counted, time is the mercy of eternity.

Insomnia and delirium, awake at 4 AM
The bed doesn't feel warm and cozy, like it doesn't belong to me
Everything that I desire goes against all I require to keep going
But I know I'm not the only one out here, there's more of them

I'm sure I''m not the only one who believes in love
Not the kind in saturated love songs
Or in nonsensical fabricated romantic comedies
But in the kind where the hearts beat out of time together and the sensation is expressible but the two involved can understand the ecstatic passion in their minds and bodies

I hope I am not the singled out protester
Against the back handed complements put upon those looking for a admiring passer by
The lone stargazer with a faithful notion that more is out there and we are so small in the scheme of things but just as necessary as the rest of the universe
The last of the proprietors of peace, I pray I am one of many

Raise your hand if you've felt one of the following and while your at it shed a tear for the fellow phalanges in the sky

-Enraged
-Frightened
-Skeptical
-Disappointed
-Ashamed
-Dism­ayed
-Abandoned
-Forgotten
-Unimportant
-Betrayed
-Hurt
-Humiliat­ed

Both of my hands are right along side yours and they may be *****, have scars and bruises
But you know what?
They still work and they're still strong and will grapple the next hardship I face
And your hand will endure to, with your heart and the sense of what you need and what you want

At the next show of hand lets raise them to see whose felt enlightened,  loved, courageous, inspired and proud

That way maybe none of us ever have to feel alone

Quiet, dawn, Covid.
Biggest accomplishment yesterday: buying toilet paper.
Thanking the young cashier for doing her job.
Feeling a little sick, wearing my mask and gloves,
Spring oblivious to the virus, an idiot like Millay said.
At least we’re not beheading each other—yet.

Symptoms mild so far. Today rest,
no long walk, no knee bends.
I think I’ve watched every possible movie and tv show
and nothing’s left that doesn’t bore me.
I could learn the calculus, chemistry or physics
but will I and what for?

Most poetry is chopped up prose. That’s harsh
but true. But that’s because most days
are prose or yesterday’s news. Win or lose
sumthins gonna getcha. Drug cartel assassin, the blues.
If not now, when? Some other Wednesday. Why wait?
I wish I had some wisdom to translate.

It’s living and helping others to live
that counts, I guess. Cast a cold eye and guess,
walk the extra mile, report from the besieged city, be wise or a ****.
I hope to get the antibodies the easy way,
mild symptoms, no brush with death, don’t intubate.
An existential bessemer process, strange quark,

chances are I won’t be able to organize this day into an expressible state.
A daily exchange with nature’s enough
to alleviate my fear.
When I thanked the cashier
her smile was like the sun coming out from behind clouds
or the end of the pandemic, as if I had not wasted my life.

Imperfect world, purposeless person.
I retired to pursue perfection
learn jazz tunes, woody and herbaceous plants,
read every inch of English literature,

Scientific American and Foreign Affairs,
have an affair with an American.
Oh, and by the way, before you ask, I'm from Mars.
Orbiting your planet, admiring the girls.

Paraphrasing prayers by George Herbert to share
with Jesus believers on talk radio shows
where we try to bring your lives into expressible states
before it’s too late and climate change inundates you.

Reversed thunder, savior-side-piercing spear,
one day you’re feeling fine, the next not.
We’re pretty matter of fact, clear about
the fact of death. Once you’re gone most of us forget

your face and previous accomplishments. The place
you lived is repopulated with the next generation (of aliens)
and that ought to be a comfort, a sort of restful
certainty all is well, nothing special need be done.

Bluebirds are back, crows are mating on the sky
and chasing hawks away from their nests. Juncos
and sparrows glean together. I hear pileated woodpeckers
jackhammering and barred owls hooting soothingly.

Herons smoothing feathers and spearing fish.
Everything is as one would wish.
Numberless are the world's wonders
but none more wonderful than aliens.

If a poem or essay can end with a conclusion or its opposite, either one,
Can it be of any use to anyone?

Do the discrepancies and disparities, dualities and densities, reflect only
      the dementia
Of the bearer of the pencil?

First entertain, then enlighten if you can. One stretches truth in order
      to pretend,
Another leavens with levity one's inevitable end.

Most days it's not possible to bring your life into an expressible state.
Disparate hopes, arduous chores, word choices. And, of course, the  
      state of the state.

Driven by ideas rather than rhymes, for it is not metres, but a
      metre-making argument,
That makes a poem. Convenience store or university English
      department

The day's disputes, down to the meaning of the weather, leave you
      indisposed
To share your heart of zero and your inner rose.

It is the strong force, the energy of the loved ones combined with
      cooperation for good or war.
Dad's years in New Guinea fighting ****, he said, were his best by far.

The best that can be said or done is Be where you are. Love the one
      you're with
Not necessarily an adult of the opposite ***, perhaps just a kid who
      hates math

And school, dresses goth, reads rarely but learns a lot from movies
      and YouTube,
Has the presence of mind to say I am who I am, deal with it. That's
      who I want to be

And have always been. Today clean the house, again. Woke up this
      morning to two thoughts:
How sweet to be alive! Life is tough.

This is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

Like tunes are inevitable without rhythm
And lyrics without devoid experiences
And them, without inspiration.

We know, no boundaries
We play with the highest & lowest frequencies
We sound just fine without a chord or two.
If you separate us, we’ll sound like a lucid dream.
Keep us together and we’ll find our voice.
Of all the enchanted hearts with no expressible bond.

Clouds are like a storm & breeze like a tornado.
We shall accompany you with a cup of tea on an empty chair

But, when the sky clears and you feel free,
You may forget our deeds over your feelings.


Incapable of love, but not of tenderness.
Mistake the one, & the other shall carry the baggage.
We carry the void of emptiness,
till you play your part in this peculiar life.

Coz what we had was like a one night stand,
Emotionally unavailable,
Juvenile and vulnerable.

Inspiration dies with lack of will & curiosity.
This is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

Untill we live happily (n)ever after.

I drink my coffee
Prepare my paper and pen
Cast my mind, focus

On expressible
Beauty. Where does it come from?
I wonder and think

Inspiration ebbs
Through ventricles of my mind
Wild fire through dendrons

Elephants, angels
Amongst the panoply
Of earnest visions

In streams of dreams muse
Communicates. Fluent in
Creation’s language

Muse plants the candle
Of ferocious divine fire
In my minds and hands

I meditate, brood
Let myself be overwhelmed
By life’s fruits, fullness

Like plucking apples
I stretch to yield the harvest
Of muses’ bounty

Each new thought excites
Like rare exotic candy
Gives a wild sensation

I express my thanks
As consciousness is harnessed
To poetry, I

Wake to muses’ touch
Insatiate, inspired
For augmented song

If I were a painter, I will paint you on the surface of water.
I will paint your love on the sky, so everybody that looks up knows you are mine.
I will use my brush and color to express the expressible.

If I were an artist, I will sketch your beauty on walls.
I will draw you on sand, so no one walks on it.

If I were a hunter, I will hunt the sweetest meat for you.
My back will be your ride; I will worship you.
You eat the best part of my game.

If I were a Goldsmith, you be the first to taste the work of my hand.
You would be showered with jewelry; yours is to name it, and mine is to command.

If I were to be a king, I will make you my queen.
When I die, you be my successor; you be the one to rule while I am on the throne.

If I were to be your husband, you suffer no more.
Do not worry about the house choir; what am I here for, my darling?

If I were to be a priest or prince, the rain will not fall on you, neither will the sun smite you.
I will bring the stars of the sky to you; I will command the moon to shine on your way.
Anybody that passes without greeting will be beheaded; I will not pardon the flies, neither will I pardon the mosquito.
Every living thing must know that you are mine.