~explaining light to the blind~


~for Suzy~

the insanity of even attempting

who among us, the sighted,
has the capability to clarify
an animate inanimate,
an untouchable invisible,
that can be folded, bent,
travel universes unseen
at its own chosen speed,
even to another sighted

and to the blind...

imagine then light
as something that
be recognized from the inside only with
in- sight

~think of the continuum from
warmth to steel furnaced heat,
that is an element of what is light,
the sun cheek kissing, the furnace of chests
when you grasp another’s body first time

think of light as water,
the faucet spigot a measured pouring,
that can overshoot, the stream behind the house,
a toe tickling masseuse caress,
a dam’s waterfall endless crashing,
a sea, wave licking sudden raging dangerous

blend these sensations that belong to all,
and you’ll know light better than most,
indeed, light is for those who cannot vision
except from the inside with a sight that can be
touched, felt, imagined, and which the sightless
command better than us ordinary thoughtless

indeed light is as simple to understand as
  abc,
which you have never seen, but creates the words
that we all
use
even share~

Created June 1st, 2011

I am not gay.
I am not straight.
I am not curved,
or warped or woofed
I am bent, cylindrical,
a burnt human.

but not weak, nah!

tempered stronger than
furnaced scarred,
hard-stained steel,
a fire shaped child of El.

The sum of,
the product of,
the multiple divisions of:

my hard-on
experiential, existential
hand to hand
combat learning,
life's red copper burnishing,
and my very own
genetic, tantric
commanded tablets,
my natural earnings,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}

obedient factotum to the
twists and turns of the
curve ***** and spitters
life pitches at my head,
that end up as
body blows.

multiple contusions outside
worn with pride inside,
I award myself a
medal of honor,
and elect myself,
Most Valuable Person,
an All Star of David,
for having survived
one more battle scarred
game day,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}

when I awake,
in the raceway courses
of my veins,
the speedways to my
heart and brain,
runs the bitter herbs taste
of fear of how
I shall yet again,
earn this day,
my body's keep and shelter,
earn some table scraps of
peace of mind,
that I may lay
myself down to sleep
if ever so briefly,

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}

When I prowl the mid of night,
the fever of combat fear,
my skin sears,
and there is no narcotic
that anesthetizes
even surficial  
the anxiety,
the ailment of
melancholia
that hallmarks my soul,
the overflow of which
spills over the ****
of my vocabulary

So every new day
is a new year,
and I start the diet
of my soul
yet again

and I guess I am just like
{you, man}

Once I was a soldier
who wore the
black and white stripes
of the uniform that stretches
to the four corners
of the world.

I used to sway to the R&B;
of someone else's tunes,
prostrate fell to my knees
speaking someone
else's words,
touched my forehead
to the ground.

but the melancholia that
sterling hallmarks my soul
never disappeared and
renewal was a gift
denied and refuted,
by the lack of clarity
to which I was not
part and parcel

and l guess I am just like
{you, man}

Took a new oath,
swore allegiance
to the alliance of
I don't give a ****
and acceptance of
the infection of
flawed humanity
inside of me
lies buried in the
permafrost of my mind,

So every new day
is a new year,
and I start the diet
of my soul,
yet again

The first new words
daily uttered,
chanted with vehemence
of an out loud prayer
to no one but we two,
me and you, man,
unashamedly clear and enunciated
not mumbled,
not muttered,
seven parts blessing,
three parts curse,
are these words.

l guess,
I am just like
{you, man}

Found and founded a brotherhood of me and
{you, man},
one mantra,
you and I are just alike,
now we have a new
holy romantic empire,
we are human
{you, man}
slaves to
nothing,
no one
but each other.

****, preferable,
but not necessary.

place your hands upon thy thighs,
the thumbs extended,
left to rest,
to fit in the designed, purposed crevice
between the upper torso,
where the soft belly
meets the legs.

your opposable thumbs,
too short to reach
your private part,
instead, your four fingers
to thrum, to drum,
driven by frustrated compulsion,
beat out upon thy exterior
the internal feel,
a basic rhythm.

the arms,
hard by,
press tight into the chest,  
the birth place of poems,
and squeeze,
as if it were a
Heinz Ketchup bottle.

the tapping fingerlings,
the now drifting yet compulsed mind,
the hard-sided pressure,
voila, words form,
heat-furnaced,
energized from within,
all at once will be extruded from
a poem's birth canal,
the heart.