Friday night immodesty

theater on East 4th street @ 8:00pm,
so the girlie stuff commences on schedule
90 minuets a-priori and the medley music
(adele+amy+alicia+ pink bach for some zing)
a harbinger, a pioneer Greek heralding of
Friday night immodesty

the clothes laid out upon the bed, the shoes,
pumps selected and already on,
(always a puzzler to me,)
the subdued lower east side jewelry possibilities,
on the dresser drawer,
indifferently hoping for selection, but
casually beaming quietly,
like those kids waiting for interviews in the waiting room
of the college Admissions Dean’s office,
all with serious smiles
and tiny tearing eyes

aside:
helloooooo, I am in a poetry polo with my best jeans ready to go
2 hours before the curtain calls out,
hellooooooo

she sits at the makeup mirrored desk,
clad in only her underneath garments of varying utility,
when I sweep in imperially
and with one hand twist gentle her hair upwards,
betraying
her neck nape which is again
the sujet of a poem aborning

lips,
like a Greek lyre strings, pluck, the tiny hid hairs never seen,
her instant moans at the never fully expected motion poem,
beg more mercy but no quarter given despite repeated cries
of you’ll mess my makeup,
the best defense known to a lady!

god gave men two thumbs to lift up,
simultaneously stimulating,
slide down each of the thin black brasserie strap invitations,
upon each, a writ,
upon her flesh colored shoulders,
stating
“what was she thinking!”

my lips,
now polar explorers, those power (filled) poles side by side,
(east/west for the designer was a smart
bipolar guy-person);
the lips play silent night progressive jazz,
tinkling with higher noted keys,
nape to shoulders moving down to the back’s prefrontal lobe,
the small of her back, the body’s quivering,
a con-federate flag of surrender

her last defense swept aside, we drink honey and milk,
celebrate the week’s mellifluous finish with immodest touching,
the lower east side will belong tonite
to only the hipsters, the millennials,
as our hips are milling and  otherwise
pre-theater and post, occupado

some hours later, watching TV and eating delivered Chinese,
she laterally and literally arm punches my arm
intensely to mark her discontent,
still annoyed,
for I

1) messed up her makeup,
2) best blouse to the dry cleaner and
3) the tickets wasted, and worse,
hits me again!

after I laugh and giggle upon proffering
most modestly, most assuredly,
seconds of
onlylovepoetry

9.21am Saturday
thank you all who liked this tale of
the poetry in the details
of our lives.
olp
melinoe immortal Jul 2017
'Healer' time take thy poor, black sheep,
and stop it from wondering
in the dangerous corners
of the mind,
because heaven and hell collided
inside a body and in unity they came
in the presence of all those
who conspired to it.

From the frontal to the occipital lobe,
dark thoughts obstruct
the brain’s watershed regions
and thanatos they bring.
The soul cannot take this coffin
anymore.

The stone is too heavy to carry;
sliding down and pushing up,
every night the pushing starts,
for the dawn, the courage to crack.


It may be like Hooke's law they say,
but bodies break down,
when people apply the extra force
and so do the souls,
long before.
Everybody, including me
Wanted the Wendy they had before
She does not exist anymore
I am not sure when she disappeared
Was it when she got T- boned
Or when her brain was sheared
Either time
---Either way
She is a different creature these days
It is hard to put in the past
Every July reminds me of the change
in my life that will forever last
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY
To my change of personality
Drastic changes every seven years
who knows 2025
May be
The year I truly come alive!

July 14, 2004- T-boned
July 21, 2011- Temporal Lobe surgery 2018- diagnosed MCI memory loss
2025-----------
~~~~~••••~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~••••~~~~~
Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.
JOSHUA 1-9
Of where I found it?
Oh that is the tricky part.
It is not in my soft yellow skin,
or my angelic avalanche blues.
Nor the way I reveal their tricks -
or my perception of them.

It is not in my frontal or parietal lobe,
not my hippocampus either!
Perhaps my eagerness knows of it,
and my care too!
Between the skin on my nails,
or in your mouth - or hers,
we haven’t spoken.

They tell me it does not ship,
that they’ll return to sender.
That I’ve got thousands of synapses,
and recovery files to date.

They say you will finally find it
when you learn to stop looking.
Or when you find yourself
in a better place.
So I guess, too bad I never had
anything nice to say?
get it...lost my mind...      ok forget it i know its dumb

— The End —