I mashup me, myself, and thee: Part II

Excerpts from my poems about poets, poetry and the process of composition. In chronological order, from the earliest to the most recent.
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The three poems went about their business,
Bringing heaven to earth,
FYI, even Angels can't be everywhere, so,
God invented poems to do his ***** work,
Cleansing souls.

They rode in~out of town on a prankster wave,
A cheering throng was not around,
But a singular poet saw, recorded the vision,
And thus, this nameless poet,
Below unmasked, unsealed,
Cleansed one more soul,
And that soul, this soul, as required,
Paid it forward.
~
Nothing produced from this place
where routine means the gorge tastes bile,
When surcease is welcome relief,
Where dancing on ice in bare feet
Is step one to ripping your chest open by your own hands,
The toxins thus released rejuvenated by salted air,
Can be finally be transcribed onto paper
And realized.

Warn them once and then begin, you,
Get serious, delve, with hurricane unambiguity,
to torrential words upon the unsuspecting,
let them taste the rawness, only the truth provides,
let them know salt tears so briney,
They will flee this place, n'er to return.
~
One day she intro'd me as her fav poet,
To which I acknowledged by addressing her as
My number one fan,
Which seems to have stuck,
so I acknowledge her as such,
And always add a polite, respectful, winking,
Yes ma'am!
~
Like this new day,
there are always
new poems

Like last night's sunset,
day's efforts reviewed,
a special light,
a yellowed marker,
highlighting a few deserving

Take them home,
kiss them goodnight,
rest them in the poetry file
that is no file,
but a large fabric box where
sewing tools once stored

How appropriate and
how happy that makes me.
~
Yo! Yo!
Remember your first real high,
That moment
No absolution, no return.
That moment
When you admitted, confessed,
to yourself:

I am
Forever forward,
A home-grown poet.
I am
Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both,
Addict and dealer
A ****** poet

Yo! Yo!
So you do recall,
The exact moment,
God-spark-within, ascendancy gained
You lost control,
Wept words instead of tears!
A ****** poet ******!

Yo! Yo!

Sophie's Choice.
You chose writing over breathing,
Worshiper of the purest pleaure,
******* in deep the smoke-high of
Head-nodding discontented contentment
Stealing anything you saw
For to satisfy the need, the craven
Craving.
****** poets!

Yo! Yo!

Don't you're ever sleep?
Hear that the city, the state,
Gonna methadone your kind
In a special program
Teach you only language to sign.
**** poets!

I am a ****** poet.

The first step taken.
Admission.
Poetry is my default rest position,

My drug of choice.
~
Have you noticed here

Each poet declaims his fellow
The better one, his teacher,
From whom they shall learn and gather up
Inspiration

Gonna run for Congress,
My first bill, Poetry-care,
Will make it a requirement that
All citizens must contribute,
Exchange once a day
To this peaceful place,
Even just a syllable, a single letter,

K?
~
Literally my eyes see words awaiting coordinating,
Poems flying by, needing plucking,
How a child eats his morning cereal,
His rituals informing, of the man yet to be,
How our bodies lay, hair unbrushed,
Tying us into a conjoined knot...

No matter that plain words are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say, about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?
~
The ice of poetry,
glassine smooth
but
charged hardness,
hits you, ****** you,
unexpected snowball in the face,

the fire of poetry,
cherished phrase, a patois,
comfort food when
whole winter skies
swallow you bleak

mutual contradictions of poetry
savaging the soothed ego,
revealing the raging id

what's in a word anyway?
~
Please Pop, pick wise,
the life and lies, the faces and disguises,
I will need employ to achieve success
in the eyes of my reading beholders,
who own the liens on my soul
because of the promises I believed,
when you sang me
glowing lullabies of my future days,
how everyone would love my stories,
my poems, someday...
~
Place your ****** hands upon thy chest.
Let them melt thru and come to rest,
Inside, the battle ongoing, under thy breast.
Watch, eyes open, knowing, fearful.
Swiftly, with no hesitation, from within,
Rip open your body, exhaling the best,
And the worst of what you got.

The cool air rushes in,
Stirring the inside stew of:
Infected grime, shameful desires,
Secrets that should not have been exposed,
The ***** stuff that you alone know exists.

Contact with the atmosphere makes
Self-pity dies, blue blood turn red,
The TNT tightness explodes,
Ashamed, you have only one escape hatch.

Now, you are ready to write.
~
My life is on the boring side,
So welcome gents to look inside,
The surfed sites, the emails, hardly slimy,
But stay the fk away from my poetry!

Tis obvious from your midnight editing,
That my wordily, working body has been discretely
Simonized,
My data,
Googlized,
My poems,
Scrutinized,
A comma, a colon, a verb, out of place, capsized,
Little threads kept in door jambs, their alteration,
Your snooping presence, a confirming revelation
~
Where I write, here, all comes so easy,
Every glance a poem formed,
Every phrase a title to a poem served,
Every conversation overheard and those wind-lifted brought,
A seed, a germ, a word~worm hooked to the pole crook of
My finger saying, see man, time to get more ink and paper,
Go and catch us a few poems for dinner

The snapper weakfish word colors are
Running past my-by the thousands,
We will need a basket to catch but a fraction
Of what you see, more than more enough to share,
Only Happy Poems for all

It is this rhyming way I view the wold,
That is my freedom, is my-present essence,
How the poems come, how thy flow,
Peaking, I cannot berate, rarely eat,
Sleep a thing of the past (as you be aware, beware)
There is poetry in simply everything.
~
But if my aura be a comfort insufficient,
Let this surprise poetic gift awaiting your arrival,
Give you rest, from crying surcease!

For when the who, the why of me interrogatory posed,
Describe me in a brevity I ne'er possessed, say:
He was just a poet, and I,
Just, his lover, number one fan.

This truth eternal, never to change.
~
But I am open to learning, the arduous task
Of raising a teenage daughter,
After I have my head examined

Though I am just a bunch of eclectic electrons,
I got powers a few, like making life's happiness
Hearted happier, encouraging your forays into
You-know-what,
And when tables turn, a hasty retreat you beat,
For imaginary cappuccinos and poems we will meet,
Comparing notes on who felt lousier when...

But what I can do 100% is assure you
There is no lone nor lonely daughter extant,
Your voice not just clear but soft-edged,
For I have poetically adopted you,
Here and now, assuming you sign on the
.............................................................­line
~
Take these words at plain face,
and look not askance
at this fair warning,
for I am but a tragic,
empty vessel for you to fill,
you are the raconteur,
me, just a  
poet poseur extraordinaire,
street urchin, word merchant,
all my verbally, wordly goods expropriated
from the wind,  where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly,
unattended
~
Guiltless in life, we but survived,
Hurting no one, no thing,
Yet, here we lie, ignored, unattended,
Yet, you fail again to see our connection?
You do not recognize us?

We are the shells, the husks of you,
Your poems unread, you labors unpreserved,
All wasted, for unless they are read, they die,
As you will too.
Some fast, by water, some slower, time-eroded,
All, ended, by drowning in the Sea of Who Cares!
~
What sourced this elegiac distich,
Too many poets, fully disclosing their downbeat, aroma of defeat?

The world is in a **** mood, not one of us, got nothing
Good to say, seems that love storms ripping hearts
With no trace of mercy, the radio has elected nonstop
Taylor Swift and Jonas Bro's
Just to make the point!

It is so easy to feel ******,
When the sun is unshining, elegant distich, **** me.

Thinking back, getting a good idea,
Found some long necked Corona overlooked,
Turn on the tv, pretend I'm a real cowboy,
And for god's sake, shut down poetry,
Good Bye Poetry, for the rest of the day.
~
once upon a time,
a traffic light rainbow,
stopped n' go, was a word design,
demarcated visions of spun sugar,
bodegas sold me
magic beans by the pound,
masterminded into cups of delight,
treasury's bounty overflowed,
now, dregs drain, sink stained,
as are my writing utensils,
my ink stained, us-less, fingers

come visit me, unknown stranger,
let us exchange fluidity, barbs,
a contest of kissing, eye lashing
wit ands shared vision stashing,
and together, once more,
write with our feet,
while holding hands,
becoming once more
poets of the street.

Only, come quickly.
~

But reading thy cries, an exercise,
Teeth-gnashing frustration.
It brings no relief.

So sad girl,
Write till you are righted,
May be it will snow on July 4th,
And tho unnatural,
So is thy grief.

Nonetheless, write me write me all about it,
Right us,
For tho snow falls, its loveliness,
Makes the heart rise up in gladness!
~
She brings me coffee in bed.
I propose a violin accompaniment.
Some babka, with nice-crumbly-in-bed
Streusel topping,
A concerto we could make!

Her derision snorted so loud,
The mollusks on the beach
From their shells come out.

"Good luck with that,
Put that fantasy on
Your **** poetry site,
Cause that is the closest you will ever get!"
~
For she will be my heroine for all time,

These words to expand with rhyme and verse,
T'is a welcome task, one familiar, but anew,
Each dawn each dusk, a daily trust, a love poem diurnal-birthed,
As if god created the world, but left upon completion,
With a grievous thirst, a new notion, he did burst.

He created the Eighth Day, for celebration of his
Most cherished invention, the idea of love.
This is where, the secret writ Eleventh Commandment occurs,
Love thy Poetry Gods, Honor them with daily verbs.
~
Officer...you should see me gut a

Poem,

Slice its belly open,
Sometimes straight, sometimes Askew,
Feed the gulls them
****** insides on the dock, by-moonlight,
Can ya cut me some slack?

Mmm, I see here in your license,
You are a disabled guy,
A **** poet ******,
Who often does his best work
Legally all alone in the HOV lane,
So I'm gonna let you off this time
Just with a warning!
~
We can share words, we can grant tiny easements,
We can weep with you unseen tears,
We can etsy you little homemade gifts
Like this.

That you can take and keep, and break out in time of need knowing full well that these words will not spoil nor rancid turn, cannot be out grown,, or torn, or rent asunder in anyway for once they are shared
They are irrevocable.
~
When you write,
It as if you write upon our
One skin,
For I am your tablet,
Your sole/sol/soul composition.

So stop kissing me
and
Write upon us.
~
This will not be the hardest poem I e're wrote,
But if there is no inspiration
For you to smote,
And armpits refuse to provide perspiration,
To source juices for a new creation,
Try this trick,
I promise you
No one will lick your ice cream cone,
Nor mistake you for Leonard Cohen,
But when you are done,
You will be High Priest of
Hello Poetry for the rest of the day!
~
You think you can write?
Then employ  a word outside your comfort zone,
Go it alone,
And write four sentences that will make
The hopeful reader stand up and
you twice as much, and shout

Hallelujah
*******.

Work. Poetry is work. Hard work.
Don't fret. But, think on it. Have the sweetest dreams.
In the morning, when you but awake,
A poem will be aborning in thy mind,
And dare I say it, you will find a new freedom
In free verse.
(I know you will slip in a rhyme or two,
I can't help but do it too)
~
Had myself forgot,
That a poem needs a
Frame of jungle gym sounds,
An aural aura resonance unbound.
Purposed to make the heart lift
Your ears say:

Say what!

It needs a tune,
An internal music,
It needs a lilt!
A cadence, that both
Marches and swings,
Even when'd urgent dirge
grief pours forth.
~
This Sabbath day you fog-hide
Your gift of bay and beach
So quiet implore, beseech,
Keep the sailors safe,
And your poets saved.

I ask much.
But I ask for all of us,
There are so many such
That are booster-chair needy
That I am succumbed, overwhelmed,
Enormity fearsome needs help even from a deity.

Small words, big hopes.

If you cannot grant it,
Won't wait for intervention,
Do it myself, answer prayers one and all,
Best I can, starting now with this
Po-hymn.
~
I used to sleep
With pen and paper on my nighttime table.
Nowadays, my iPad tablet rests upon my chest,
Not only does it keep me warn,
It takes my poems from within, Fresh Direct,^
Edits, credits, and delivers them to your door,
While I'm still sleeping.

Which is why they come at all hours.
It is also why they call them,
Love's Labour's Lost saving devices.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
**So I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
Can't stop, cause it's my daddy's dying curse.

I am both: Addict and dealer, a ****** poet ******.

Sonya lay on the bed in the Parisian hotel room. It was a small room with an adjoining bathroom, a bidet and toilet, with French windows that opened out so one could see and hear the busy streets of Paris below. The windows were open and sounds came into the room with a summery warm air. She lay there in a blue skirt and  white blouse; her feet bare, her legs curled up in a fetal position; she wore nothing underneath, she seldom did; it gave her a sense of daring, of a hidden freedom. Benedict had gone out for cigarettes and a breath of fresh air as he called it. She had a book in her hands. Kierkegaard's Either /Or. Her favourite philosopher. He kept her mind fresh; gave her life a direction. She looked down at another book by her side: Benedict's Dostoevsky novel: Crime and Punishment. It had a page marker about half way through. She could have gone out with him, but she wanted time alone, time to reflect on her life at that moment. She lay her book beside her. She thought of her husband on business in New York and her two sons in boarding school and not due home until the present term ended. Her husband Erik knew she was going to Paris, but he thought she was going alone to research on her proposed book on Zola. Benedict was in Paris on vacation and having met Sonya in a wine bar near her home when Erik was away for the weekend and the sons at school, and after a deep conversation and feeling low, she and Benedict made love in her bed at home, and arranged the trip to Paris between them. Erik was a lousy lover who had become increasingly lousier, and they seldom had *** as he was always busy, and she not in the mood. But Benedict was different; he made *** exciting again, made the whole process something alive and daring, and not just a set out process of mild urges. She lay on her back with her legs out straight reaching for the end of the bed...Benedict bought cigarettes at a small shop in a side street and spoke in English as his French was almost non-existent. The woman who served him understood him well enough and they talked of London where she had stayed for six months few years before. He loved Paris. The whole city seemed alive and full of history and art and literature. No one knew him here; there was almost no chance of him meeting anyone he knew here or who knew Sonya. A sense of freedom invaded him. He and Sonya had had *** that morning and he needed to get out to buy cigarettes and breath in the Parisian air. She was an exciting lover; willing to explore different angles and approaches to ***. The night before had been one long episode of ****** games and experiences and moment of just laying there catching their breath and reading to each other from their own books, then *** again and again. And there was the factor that she wore no underclothes, so that when they went out to a restaurant, they both were aware of this factor, and he got a kind of kick knowing, and she got a thrill knowing that she was free, and walking out on a limb of acceptable behaviour and dress code...Sonya wished that Benedict would come back again soon. She wanted him, wanted to make the most of their time together, their days of freedom to be together, and eat and drink and have *** as often as they wished, and for as long as they wished, without fear her husband would be home at a certain time or that neighbours would see them together and tell Erik. She pulled up her skirt and lay there as if waiting the return of her lover, letting herself feel the freedom of laying so, of not having to worry about her husband walking in on her as he nearly did one late afternoon when she lay on their bed bringing herself to a poor organism...Benedict sat on a seat in a small cafe smoking and sipping from a coffee. He would return to the room after his coffee and smoke. Later they would go out for a meal, and see the city, and feel the history of the place about them. He knew it would come to an end in a few days, and she would be back with her husband and her boring life, and he back to his job, and in his own place sharing with others. Make the most of. Take to the limits. Explore and live and enjoy...Sonya wondered where Benedict was. She missed him being there if only for a short duration. Once their days together were over, and she back with Erik, it would seem like a dream, and her own regular life be one big bore. She ran her hands down her thighs. Sensed her fingers. Soft, smooth. Erik never explored her. He was a five minute and over and done with type. More like a mechanic than a lover. Benedict had taken her to places she had not been before, explored her and brought her to the point of bubbling over and out, leaving her feeling that she was empty and vacant, and yet so alive, and buzzing like a beehive...Benedict made his way back to the hotel room. The coffee had refreshed him; the Parisian air made him feel like a new man, a man of freedom, a man on the edge of a huge abyss, with his very life tingling with new excitement of the big dare. Sonya would be waiting for him, brimming like a *** on a  hot stove. He had released her of her hang ups and held in senses; had unbutton a new area of excitement, and sexuality and sensuality. And she in turn had opened up for him that arena of experience which he had only dreamed about in his tossing and turning nights at home... Sonya heard the door open. Benedict saw her laying there like Venus on a beach of blue and white and bare, a radio playing a Delius piece, filling the air, and he, Benedict, so alive, ready and waiting, and going there.

come on now, you didn't think you were going to get away with not dreaming about the undead after all this business at work, did you?--that was the problem with you thinkers: all you ever did was thinking!--the truth is that you thought far too much--you should've been out there living, trying to get laid, trying to knock the hell out of the world with your next verse...but instead, there you were lying awake for hours, literally hours, and all because of what?: some witch at work who wants to run everyone's world by being what she can't help but being?--you'd even said it to yourself driving home, that she wasn't a bad person, she was just a petty and sick ******* who had to make everyone's life that much lousier, that was her "power," if you wanted to call such a thing power...but it's not like she was your boss, she'd just said something that had injured you because you'd allowed it to injure you, because it had been true a long time ago that you'd let it appear that you'd "****** up" when in truth you'd saved yourself a ton of misery by doing so--the thing itself was so small, though, that only someone who was picayune was ever going to know that you'd still felt ****** up over it...it just so happens that she had remembered and that she was just petty and picky enough to throw it back in your face at the exact right time...but how often had you said to yourself that you really needed to combat such ******* behavior by thinking as clearly as you could in the moment, by just knowing that you hadn't done anything wrong, that in most cases, you were probably smarter and more capable than whoever it was who was accusing of something ridiculous or trying to make you look bad for whatever reason...and how often had you failed in taking this information to heart, facts that would make anyone else feel good about themselves, but with you, it was just another reason why you made yourself miserable: you just couldn't translate all of these individual positive things about you into a more cohesive and positive whole--to you, you were always doing spin control to get yourself back from the edge you felt they were all pushing you closer and closer toward--and when you got there, and if you went over, what then?--only what had happened last night, which is what was happening all the time...you lie awake sleepless and fuming over feeling like you were made to look bad even understanding in the moment that you would never remember this ***** or anything she said, that you'd even forget her name in time because people like that were nothing to you, they meant nothing to you--but how long would that take?: five years, ten years?--you wanted to forget all about her now, but it's not like you weren't ever going to see her again, which is why you were getting all stressed out, because in a few hours, you'd have to drag your sorry carcass out of bed and go back there and do it all over again--so you were going to have to figure out a way to evolve through this experience, you were going to have to sort all this out in your head and get right with it somehow because in fewer than twenty-four hours, you'd be right back here, crawling into bed and asking yourself if it was going to be "another one of those nights" where you got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and when you returned, found it impossible to get your mind off of anything but what had happened involving this woman, this creature, this **** who was a bought on all womankind--yes, she was really that bad, maybe not a bad person per se, but bad enough to lump her in with all the other ***** you'd ever run across in your travails in this world, these bleeding animals who just wanted the world to serve them in one form or fashion and who didn't care who had to lie facedown in the mud to do it--in such a scenario, that doomed fool lying facedown was you...but you didn't want that to be you, and at the very least you'd wanted to have your slice of revenge by having your slice of life have nothing to do with her, by being able to crawl into bed and get good sleep and if you couldn't, then let the reason be anything but having to do with her--god almighty, how many women like her had you encountered in your life, and already your father's voice was drilling down to the very core of the question: how many times had you met people like her, and how many times had you let them get to you, bother your harass you, ******* up, make you look bad, ruin your sleep, ruin your day?--and you still hadn't found a way to not give a ****, you still hadn't found a way to disconnect from caring about whatever it was that made you feel like it was your reputation on the line?--your old man was right in his own way, though: you cared far too much about how you were perceived than you wanted to believe you did, and wasn't all of this, wasn't your insomnia over this ***** the proof of it?--and now you were going back to your old nervous habit of chewing at the dead skin of your fingers, watching them become gnawed and decayed and all because of this nonsense you had let go to your head--and you wanted to think therapy had made you better somehow, that it had opened up the pathways in your mind to the "self-talk" that was going to save you?--did you call this bit of torture salvation?--but no, it wasn't like this every night, it really wasn't...only when things got to you, only when you were stressed out...but still, the question should be, "why do you allow yourself to get stressed out over situations out of your control?"--invariable, it all leads to these dreams where the undead find you wherever you go to run and hide, and last night you'd gotten especially clever and told yourself if all else failed, you could hide in the walls, and yet, you had seen her climb into those walls, which is when you knew even your dreams were smarter than you--enough was enough though, right?--no way on earth or in hell should you allow any of this to continue: you were a grown-*** man in his mid-forties, you were a hard worker, you were good at what you did, and more than anything else, this ***** did not get to decide what kind of a person you were--you needed to detach yourself from the idea that she was going to make your life a hell, that she was going to do this or that to you because what was all that anyway?--it was just worry atop worry, and all of it was useless and needless, all of it was based on fear and as you'd been asking yourself for the last few decades, when had fear ever served you?--all of this only seemed like you were in prison, but it was one you had built for yourself...wasn't it bad enough your old man had drilled into you not just those words of criticism about how you'd let everything "get to you," but also that he'd made you care so much, too much, about what others thought because you were always trying to please them just like you were always trying to please him?--and how often had you been able to do this successfully to the point where you didn't have to try so hard anymore?: never--you had never succeeded in such a venture because there was always another hour, another day, another task for you to accomplish to another's satisfaction...this was the paradigm you'd been locked into...but it wasn't too late, for look, just look at how you'd analyzed all of this, at how wonderfully you'd dismantled all the **** that surrounded the real reason why you wasted others to accept you, to find you and label you as "good"--that never would've been possible before, you would've just stayed awake the whole night long and woken up in a foul mood and let it ruin a new day...but not anymore, right?--well, almost: because while the slogan "knowledge is power" seems like an empowering one, what is it really?--do you feel any more powerful than you did before you started having this conversation with yourself?--were you going to be able to make all this ******* in your life disappear just like that(!) because you'd suddenly figured out that you wasted people to think highly of you because you'd never been able to get your father to think highly of you?--no, no, because there you were turning over and over in bed trying to unlock the thing that would let you live again, that would let you sleep again...there you were begging for mercy, for a clue as to how to do this nightwork within you, for it felt like you were being made to dig your own grave whenever this happened to you, and the deeper you dug, the more out felt trapped in that hole you'd just made deeper--what else could you do but make it deeper?: but when had you looked up, when had you asked if you couldn't just dig your hands into the packed earth and climb out?--this is how and where your imagination had failed you, for yes, you had managed to fal, back asleep, it hadn't conquered you quite so much...but here you were being presented with the facts all over again that it would happen again and again and that you were doomed to allow it to because, really, who didn't want others to think well of them?--you were always going to be human--

Teachers? I'll give you ****** teachers!
There was a lazy old worm
dodged him most of the term
he would let you go home
if you bought him a tome
that stimulated  shedding of *****
another thought he was fine
but at lunch he would sup on red wine
of english he thought that I could do nought
and mocked me all of the time
another for boredomes sake
found a rule he thought he could break
smash the lid of a desk on a boy he detests
then tell him the  tears he does fake
then there was Mr pereira
how we wished he was fairer
never gave a toss 'cos he was the boss
but there was one even scarier
Red-Neck....
Big and crazy
very lazy
beat the ****
out of me with his mate
for reasons they found hazy
used the dap
I wouldn't cry
so they got
metre rulers
and they did try
the brass bit cut my leg
and ripped my trousers
bullying *****
which was lousier
all I did was come in late
was depressed and sick
and full of hate for school
but a good boy not a fool
scarred me a bit
ha! they were all full of ****
when I passed my exams
they resented it
Best days of my life?

DOWN WITH SKOOL.....

Sorry to inform you, I have adopted you to be my teenager daughter
(I really am crazy)**


Someday we might meet,
But meantime semi-officially informing you
You've been adopted by me,
With all the rights and privileges thereof

You get to beat up on me,
When you need to beat on someone,
Like everybody needs to sometime

You get to weep on my shirt,
Cause I keep an extra nearby at all times,
In case you have teenage sadness *** blues

You can try out your poems on me,
And if they're trite, my limitless sprite,
I won't reveal, for you have a thousand more inside

My repute as dad is hardly assured,
Two sons would might give me a maybe stolid high five,
On a scale of one to no jive, premised, dads are just necessary evils.

But I am open to learning, the arduous task
Of raising a teenage daughter,
After I have my head examined

Though I am just a bunch of eclectic electrons,
I got powers a few, like making life's happiness
Hearted happier, encouraging your forays into
You-know-what,
And when tables turn, a hasty retreat you beat,
For imaginary cappuccinos and poems we will meet,
Comparing notes on who felt lousier when...

But what I can do 100% is assure you
There is no lone nor lonely daughter extant,
Your voice not just clear but soft-edged,
For I have poetically adopted you,
Here and now, assuming you sign on the
.............................................................­.....


P.S. Someday with you I'll share my most fav poem of all times,
Entitled "Why I Always Carry Tissues"
Which by the by, I still do

I left 2 months ago.
October 7.
It was late.
I wore boots.
I had 23 glasses of water.
Rid the tears, tiny blue tears.
Swallow.

I went with the women who wear their hair back with pins
and drink wine with dinner.
Bed time 8pm.
Prayer 6am.
Soul searching for big answers.

I was sent on a job by a note in the mail,
delivered to secret agent M.
It was a take down.
It took 14 days.

I was driven home late last night
by a man who spoke poor English and lousier Spanish.
I chipped off the pink and plan on recoloring tomorrow.
The next question, what color.

I circle in dark red the ad in the local.
"Hiring Spies."

I start again....

  but this time with a new name.

And I thought
But you thought first
Then I realised I thought best
In another life
Where I could find myself after some quest...

You didn't!
No, you didn't.
You didn't make me feel embarrassed
With 'my poor choices,
My little strength,
My little pesky sorrows,
Petty I am.
You didn't!

No, you didn't make me feel superior when I was only something I won't name:
It is prohibited by my good common sense.
No, no, no.
You didn't.

You didn't make me feel embarrassed with getting born...
The story's too long.
Let's cut... You know...

No, no, no
You didn' t make me feel upset with myself
And the whole world.
Oh, no, no,
You didn't.
You didn't.

You didn't make me feel less than you need to be,
No, you didn't.
Creators of something you must be...
Out of nothing the anger of the paradise you always lose
Because your pride was greater.

~ Too bad, the truth is, pride always wins... No matter? No matter... no more matter and We're done forever with this! ~

No, no, no.
I felt no embarrassment with your empowerment of others....
"Ta do ****! "
Please, look for the worthy,
I have nothing good for you.
"Oh, now you do remember me!"
Nothing but the impression of greatness to you.

No. You didn't make me feel all to embarrassed compared to your chosen,
Chosen beloved, your wealthy doing great...
Only the very poor curse, the very poor for not being the elite.

Only the very poor can make of the poor even poorer…
Help the cause of the devil...
Only the poor can make of a king a poor thing.

Teachers of today teaching others to stay poor, be poor and awful.
Teachers teaching us lessons, great lessons...
On how to be lousier.
Teachers...
Teaching us a lesson, putting one there where they belong...

You didn't!
No, you didn't.
You didn't make me feel embarrassed
With my poor choices,
My little strength,
My little pesky sorrows,
Petty I am.

Even my choices to get out of the gutter and be okay was too poor.
Even my aspiration to real good,
Real beauty real love,
All petty and sorrowful,
Damnable a thing,
Something for you to ****...

It will ****... Don't you worry.
My choices to fight: all too wrong for you.
My kindness, not mine.
My sorrow, not mine.
My everything not mine...
Nothing.... Mine, mine...
All of my choices so wrong...
So wrong that they were all right for you.

My aspiration to the good I want, I know I can be...
All Petty.
Oh, my poor choices, my poor wishes
Were too heavy for you
But it's alright...
You'll manage my *** goodbye.

It wasn't too much for me too,
I didn't feel all too embarrassed,
This world is too good to be true;
The **** am I doing here?
"Exactly. ******* poor choice!"

No you didn't make me feel okay! Their choice was losing me,
Making of me just another piece of a product I won't name.
I need my good common sense to be the Blame.

Oh, the honour!
I should feel great.
No, you didn't make me feel embarrassed with your choices for me...
You didn't!

No, you didn't make me feel superior when I was only something I won't name:
It is prohibited by my good common sense.
No, no, no.
You didn't.
You chose to lose me,
I chose to fight
Feeling embarrassed that you had the strength to **** me,
Still for the best...
You didn' t,
No, no, no.