a short poem

<•>

kept women

my words are all kept women;
an old fashioned term
that has no currency today
but true for me

they but be the heart of my hearts,
when they leave my employ
keep them well, these yeowomen,
good fellows all,
for they will always be your
one true reciprocating lovers

keep ‘em

please

<•>

lie

how many gray April Saturdays are inventoried,
that we be bequeathed yet another this dull day of the 7th of the 4th month,
of errands and tax preparation and poem initiative-nationhood

the city backyard is a dulled green, energy ****** by one three too many nor’easters in March that  “Sherman-through-the-south”
came marching double time,
leaving the leaves, airport-delayed
and the spring poem planting, struggling

buy milk, lie and get a refund, do stuff and
don’t forfeit forget to
do laundry and
lie

write the longest short poem in history
that green-shots nature won’t provide,
so Me absinthe wills into existence

<•>

this English Woman

tomfoolery’d me continuously,
nature comes to her on knave-bended knees begging for
a verbal sword tap upon each shoulder for a knighting of a periodical glorious poem.  

She provides.

Does woman live in a glen, upon the wetlands,
walk moors
in moons grasp,
or upon a table way in the back of the pub, drinking pints of imagination?

man will die disconnected for so many “reasons”
but if his passing precedes an answering to where,
wherever she locale composes,
man will haunt her residential terrain  happily

<•>

Seven Hours

the clock implies that the body sleet-slept, probed deep-dark for seven hours.
disbelieving, then recalling the dues Frodo-Friday eve paid:
three and half hours with two thousand others at the Opera,
hours of Placido Domingo,
extracts from the body
emotional  countenance,
homage to artistry exemplary;

the pharmacist denies having this drug among the sleep aids
so to the opera must return to earn my occasion occasional dreamland refreshment

a well worthy trade: innervation trust rest from enervation must

<•>

idiosyncratic

all my idiot life wanted to be
syncratic
unique something special different

then I realized that’s what
everyone wants and we are all idioticsyncratic

so much trying, exhausting life,
it’s wonderfully human and classically

idiotic

<•>

* Postfaces*

Postfaces are used in literary works so that non-pertinent information appears at the end, to not confuse the reader.

this very short poem was born, birthed, on a salty grey Saturday, April Seventh, Two Thousand and Eighteen,
precisely between
Eight and Nine O’clock Eastern Standard Time

The opera was Luisa Miller at the Metropolitan Opera,
Lincoln Center, New York City.  

Everything Everybody is a factual fiction of your imagination.
Short Poems are copyright, copied write from the tissue of a man who is epistemologically incapacitated in a life incapable of writing a short poem, post facing forward.

(Too **** bad for you).

oh my gosh oh"is that what ur saying sir? umm excuse me but thats just not me, i always say the lords name in vain. and all the subliminal marketing of your consumer artistry is making meweak an gag, im puking out all over in the bathroom upstairs past the solid maple tables past the circle murals in pairs who is there going to hold onto my hair when ur busy drooling about grandfather clocks high as **** doppelganging 2 levels flourished below me  all the tans and the colors of the north arre closing in where everyone and everything are turning into furniture store manikins stubborn geriatric commercials with one foot already on the conveyor belt to heaven and i just stand here and put the chips in, wrist here maam, forehead here sir just lift up your skin, living memory card into your left hand so u cant forgot all the horrible **** that u did, and ur on your way again back from indecision wht the **** else could u invest everything you worked for in, i can tell you
where to place your last faith in, you are going to die, people tell me laughing almost every-time so what the **** is the point of warranting anything, invest in a quality product that completely dissolves your thought process and rockets you into purgatory, where all the other good spirits are prostrating begging to be inventoried all the dead fathers and husbands and all other price tags shes still floating on that ocean signalling ships in with her omens and they are driving into the rocks just to hear a second of her laughing