Remember, that chaos first was a primordial deity,
Chaos; the nothingness from which all else sprang
headfirst and heartfelt,
half-naked and handsome,
hook, line and... halibut.

All of this,
every measurable moment,
every particle,
every object set forth in motion
sprang from a void so harmoniously
as if the absence of everything was kissed
sudden
by the presence of something.

Often depicted with wings, a bow, and a quiver of arrows,
Cupid, son of Venus - goddess of love,
son of Mercury - god of trade,
his story,
almost identical in Greek and in Roman
mythology,
his story, about a couple of gods
who seem so inherently human by nature,
jolted by jealousy,
dumbstruck by beauty,
hellbent on immortality,
his story has been hallmarked
as red hot velvet rose petal fine wine
and symmetrical hearts.
Wrapped in tin foil red ribbons
bitter-sweetly sugarcoated
dipped in thin layer of chocolate
taste-tested and lover approved.

Remember that scene in Hook
where Tinkerbell leaves her footprints on Peter's chest,
well that's you and that's me--
touch me where my heart beats
because I don't ever wanna be a lost boy.
I wanna grow up like a good bedtime story
with morals
and purpose,
I wanna have meaning.

You might say that Cupid found himself.
You might say that Psyche found her soul.
You might say that Tinkerbell was just faking it--
with the clapping.
Truth is, we can never know the whole story--
the complete truth.
Problem is, we think we can
and act like we do.
So the only time we mean what we say
is the first time we say it,
every utterance thereafter is just an attempt
at recreating a moment.

I love you
is a paraphrase
that deserves three separate ellipses
because there's a lot left unsaid.

I (distinctively remember shadow-boxing with)
love (against a star-dotted sky anchored to a
moonlight so vibrant it can only be compared to)
you (and your tidal waves).

And that's where I fell
headfirst and handsome.

I (was punched-drunk by a kiss so breathless
that it spiked my dopamine to a volume
that can only be described as) love
(in that every time my neurotransmitters feel) you
(they spin themselves dizzy and dance to your science).

There was a moment in the absence of everything
when I was kissed silent by the presence of something.

Hold me to your breastplate.

I don't ever wanna go back to the void.



*02/09/2010

Chaos first was a primordial deity.

And I'm Ralph Wiggum on Valentine's Day.
Even if every girl in class gave me a card.
I still go home feeling less like Romeo.
Lying awake trying to make sense of
why their sugar just didn't taste so sweet .

Lying in bed like a nebula
waiting for all my stars to form.

Chaos
--the nothingness from which all else sprang
headfirst and heartfelt,
half-naked and handsome,
hook, line, and
halibut.

All of this.
Every measurable aspect of
every particle that makes up
every object set forth in motion
sprang from a void so harmoniously
as if the absence of everything was kissed
sudden
by the presence of something.

Often depicted with wings,
a bow, and a quiver of arrows--
Cupid
son of Venus--goddess of love
son of Mercury--god of trade
his story
almost identical in Greek and Roman
mythology.
His story about a couple of gods
so inherently human by nature
jolted by jealousy
dumbstruck by beauty
hellbent on immortality.

His story has been hallmarked
as red hot velvet rose petal fine wine
and symmetrical hearts
wrapped in tin foil red ribbons
bitter-sweetly sugarcoated
dipped in thin layer of chocolate
taste-tested and lover approved.

Remember that scene in Hook
where Tinkerbell leaves her footprints on Peter's chest?
Well that's you and that's me--
touch me where my heart beats
because I don't ever wanna be a lost boy.
I wanna grow up like a good bedtime story
with morals
and purpose.
I wanna have meaning.

You might say that Cupid found himself.
You might say that Psyche found her soul.
You might say that Tinkerbell was just faking it--
with the clapping.
Truth is
we can never know the whole story.
Problem is
we think we can
and act like we do.
So the only time we mean what we say
is the first time we say it.
Every utterance thereafter is just an attempt
at recreation.

I love you
is a paraphrase
that deserves three separate ellipses
because there's a lot left unsaid.

I (distinctively remember shadow-boxing with)
love (against a star-dotted sky anchored to a
moonlight so vibrant it can only be compared to)
you (and your tidal waves).

And that's where I fell
headfirst and handsome.

I (was punched-drunk by a kiss so breathless
that it spiked my dopamine to a volume
that can only be described as) love
(in that every time my nerve endings feel) you
(they spin themselves dizzy and dance to your science).

There was a moment
in the absence of everything
when I was kissed silent
by the presence of something.

Hold me to your breastplate.

I don't ever wanna go back to the void.



[2/09/10 - Revised 2/14/14]

bent Hallmark card (for BJ Donovan)

”I'm a bent Hallmark card with no stamp. It won't reach my love”
                   BJ Donovan (HP gone, Gray Dotted, r.i.p.)

at the drug store, loose poems,
no right-sized envelopes left,
loosie cigs, for newly ‘underemployed’
both, thumbed, finger oil anointed-stained,
and
bent

all available for purchase
24/7, in these United States,
in national drugstores jailed,
kept in “chains” till discarded

therein hides the rub-bled best,^^
great verse writings, deadline-
inspired in a Ohio bullpen office,
@ corp. HQ by an Eng. Lit. major

composed, vetted, approved, yet
marked ‘failure,’ by quality control,
third Tuesday of every month, ritualized,
manager freshens display, victims chosen

Hallmark display, pruning the die-marked,
the no-hope cards, consigned, to a green
in-the-back-garbage dumpster resting place,
where you just may see me climbing-in

(and where America safe keeps its treasures)

droning on, as per usual, I’m kicked away by a
rent-a-cop, muttering insurance assurances, just
business, not personal, grab what cards I can, mine,
stolen pleasures, resending via insertion here ‘n there

my resurrection act, a new business, wife thinks
me stinks, but for me, a perfume of saved  words,
an act of rebirthing, god bless America, making it
great by giving Hallmark poems a second chance

gonna send one of those cards in envelope,
addressed to BJ Donovan U.S.A., no stamp,
inside note, your poems were ordinal, small
plates of sardonic pith, human foibles, on being

old, recalling youth, both celebrated, Icarus and Daedalus

pretty sure this poem may not get there but I believe
in poetry and the US Post Office, who delivers
mail to me, marked “Nat”^ and to Santa Claus,
which impresses, cause I’m mythical, he’s real

your compositions were breathtaking, literally,
miss your hallmarked witticisms, criticisms,
glad you escaped that virus nursing home jail,
if needed, write to “Nat, NYC, living somewhere
in a park, scribbling close by the East River”^

I’ll get it, like I got you, they know my special tree,
and the rock nearby, that too, is a known hideout,
no worries buddy good stuff may perish, but somehow
it gets a second wind, can’t keep a good scrip, down forever...

a very humbled admirer...

NaTTy

My battle,though not in Normandy is the landing beach inside of me,but
the war zone.
becomes a DMZ, as I and I cease hostility and come to an understanding.

You see,
I finally reached the beach when the tide had swallowed all those within reach and the Moon was on the wane, and understood that the battles like life were just a game,and as the good go on, the bad will wither away.

'The night of the long knives'

The cutting of life from the bough,we are leaves that will fall,hallmarked gold,assigned to be loved and to hold onto this,
we kiss like it's our first and our last,our future and the past slowly devours the remnants of...can anything last,would each day that has passed since we met fade away,who can say?

We are Olympia.


We are the races we run,the discus that's flung into the air,the javelin thrown and we become all we've been told and have known.The medals we wear, bright on our vest are a chest full of treasure,the pleasure we take,the records we make will belong to the future that goes on and on and we will rest on the laps of the gods.

Epiphany.

It was never to late to be replanted on the shady side,to be reinstated,able to grow well beside those who had grown well before and to sit out of the sun seems to give me more of a perspective on the times I have run through.In the gardens of grace where each face meets a face of the faces he wore,
if there ever was a war
I see that the shore is now silent.

Light years since chronological wave length of boyhood, when mull late mum and (strapping in his prime) dad bossed, dictated, fulminated, harangued, jointly lambasted, mandated, pounded, yet unsuccessfully sabotaged quintessential trademark MineCraft aversion cutting hair. Aye-kneaded lockets, which amounted to necessitating remonstrance, thus unveiling vocalization with yearning zeal ascribing clutching excessively to frizzy greasy hair. Silent protestations incited joyless kickstarter, mercurial, no-nonsense outpouring per querulous response. This traitorous underling vehemently writhed yowling stinging zings. Compulsion, fixation and obsession with hair ranked as thee most vital aspect when just a whippersnapper. Paranoia and suspicion re: long brown locks assumed outsize personification. I now admit such irrationality incorporated realm encompassing terrain that expanded outward into infinity. Even now, a residual facsimile framework scaffold of neurosis thereof to prepubescent peculiarity exists. Hindsight (ordinarily 20/20) cannot broker explanation. No idea why adoration, declaration, and galvanization with unkempt appearance (harried style and swiftly tailored rats nest hair prevails), despite dishabille wrought unattended imposing disadvantage, whether in hot pursuit of employment, female glorification, or tolerance from others. this external characteristic (re: non-groomed mass of matted hairs akin to nonverbal expatiation. this individual did not wish to be part of madding crowd. no matter onslaughts  inviting barbarous (er barber us), calumnious, and deleterious, comments among thine human body electric, constant comets zapped psyche with abominable, execrable, and inexcusable malicious, nefarious, and opprobrious provocation. even ma deceased paternal grandfather hook kept a full head of hair to his grave (Aaron Harris - listen up) called me Mary (and inflicted misadventure per ******* bowl cut), though choice to grow uncombed thatch clashed with his conservatively favored iron maiden linkedin unguent zztop,  which barbs became internalized only to manifest into anxiety with even less ambition to conform to au current presentable appearance. even me mother when alive and vibrant as a cockroach on a hot stove pulled no punches, when pronouncing her unsolicited feedback such as ” you’re going out like that"?, when she new of my intent to scout for employment, (which effort oft times characterized futility) with nary job offers. still unanswerable passive (now silver) streak radicalism prevails. hence this poem, qua "dress for success" motto, when social security disability (for anxiety, ocd, panic attacks, plus laundry list of other psychological maladies) bubbled to surface of my consciousness. as a breakout writer, (with Kosher blessing of Samson, who would be all smiles) exempt me decrees, honorably lauded pitched proletariat tendentious tinder of the establishment, which ink cube baited current rubric incorporates a much looser modus Vivendi viz appearance.

Beneath the salvaged chandelier from a great ocean, liner,
I sip Earl Grey tea from the finest, bone china
With a polite little man in half-moon specs
In the warehouse of treasures that he collects:
Of hallmarked silver in glass, display cases,
Porcelain figures with colourless faces,
Pearls, ivory,  pallid pieces of jade,
Diamonds set in a Damascene blade
And before a naked Apollo in snow white stone
Plundered by the Goths from his temple in Rome,
The polite little man in his tidy bow tie
Kisses me on the lips as he
Unzips my fly.

Doing anything, late in life, is for the moment.

No duty remains, all shirked, all left undone, long
ago passed down to the next hero's attempt.

Daily reminders from old mail lists, so and so died.

Yeah. So she did, so shall we all. I understand.

Each of us has a while, as each star has a while,
burning out from self's centermost being, shining

distant, single star, single mote lit for my looking,
first star wish, wished, and wished, and wished,

in vain,
at Venus.

-------------------

With myself, alone, listening,
hearing a human ****** interpret a novel,
a told tale of plottable inter-essential new

points of views, from within the author's mind,

seen and said, seen. Look
see the worth of such words, an authority

describing the scene, bringing life from words.

Telling thought shared as if,
if itself, the if in all we must imagine, saying

this is plenty, genug enough, this in us state,
as an awesome thing of many minds, elohimish,

in this atmosphere we breathe in harmony,
as each breath extends the reach of each word…

wouldn't we willingly want wishing work, word
work, daily dues to pay, waking, wishing, will
would
you join the dance?

Did you laugh? Life is all game.

----------------

Slow knowing, seeing guns,

thinking game plotted paths,
rewarding reality with possibilities,

triumphant miniature thrill of victory…

essence of history, we won, we won, we won.

And then, the new formed governing mind,
the officially united, naturally selfish mind

representing those whose national will,
continues to revere the pioneer, pawn

queened, by no more noble cause than,
following the rules used to progress,

across the board, each step a stage
in the game, scaled to seem relatable

to royal rules uses made of lower worth
pieces in the arsenal of this one, black,
against that one, white…

clearly… contrasting points at the edge
of the grayscale, light's own, none to all,

whoa,
look, in broad day light, light
alone, lacks any gray but  
in reflection, none
from our sun.

----------------------

Some axiom from our Hallmarked past,
tells us to hang in there… hold the line,

only find time to filter for wisdom, enough

to imagine making up a mind from nothing,
Helen Keller had touch, imagine a spirit's mind,
intangible,
made up
from mere words as metaphors, holding
thoughts, thoughts called feelings, but not,

thoughts, states of patient grace, thoughts, if

we both think, between each letter, those thoughts

in the realm between us, in the medium of thoughts…

no eyes or ears or fingers, even so, imagine
knowing all the time redeemed for now,
is being used to make us useful, hmmm,

as om, oh my, ahh-ooom, mmmhmmm, soon….

Makes no difference,
we think as if difference is essential,

day by day, difference referring to load,

how worth thinking is a line of reason?

-----------
Behold the happy thought,
hooking hope where no hope was imagined.

What harm? None done, none intended,
none available for take away.

Look, he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth!

Yeah! you were there at the delivery, I suppose you were
actually carrying the blue ribbon-ed package containing the silver spoon!

I put it to you, you were born in your Social Wefare State, with Child
Benefit Allowance, free Medical Treatments, Free Weekly Milk Allowances, Free Education to University Level and Unemployment Benefit if you can't work and of-course, your rent is paid for you.

Ok, with all this, what did you do?
Oh, you end up a drunk wastrel, hooked up with a career Burglar and three dysfunctional kids all raving in your dysfunctional home, living your dysfunctional lives

Yes, off-course you're right to break into your neighbour home and steal their property. Its what you do, its the nature of the beast and anyway, why should an immigrant fare better than you.

Oh! I forgot, he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and you were there carrying the blue ribbon-ed package containing the silver spoon!
Was he by any chance, like you, born in your Social Wefare State, with Child Benefit Allowance, free Medical Treatments, Free Weekly Milk Allowances, Free Education to University Level and Unemployment Benefit if you can't work and off-course, your rent is paid for you.

Sorry, did you say No, you mean No, he wasn't born like you. but you know for sure, that he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, because Great Britain was exporting Solid Hallmarked Sterling Silver spoons to all its Colonies.
Hmmmm... I see!

Yeah! I can see why you resent them so much and break into their houses to steal from them. First they buy your Sterling Silver spoons and then come to your country to graft for you, when they should stay at their birth places and just eat with all their Silver spoons.

Hmmm...Yes I see