life is our poetic reality,
you are the best ever
metaphor,
the one poets
keep stealing from
each other,
at the intersection
of our eyes crossing
your disruptive crying poetry,
bring to me in NYC,
and I'll take you to
poetry slams,
tango parties, a real Chinatown,
blow smoke up your nose,
Waltz step on your toes,
drink with you
in Central Park at five am,
visit half a dozen museums,
take you to the ballet,
and then you can maybe,
cross a few to-do's
off of our mutual
intersections
care taken,
if you want hide deep,
but to late for thee and our world,
your name on the roster
of poets by night,
tinkers, soldiers,
and some who tailor
poems bespoke
for the ones who
dare not reveal their true (s)elves
in the words they write.
1431
poems in ye old inbox,
genteel knocking,
whispering thru stolid front door
love me a little lot,
little lot, love me?
these are the holy-of-the-holies
attention-me-crystal-cries,
prayers, wry observations, nature collations,
me and thee adorations,
heart rendering
screams of need,
these are the moments in your life
raw-roughened gifted
or threaded smooth cursed,
but tendered unto my caring
am old man.
my poetic voice is just
memories that are
repetitive lies and lines.
speak in simple sentences declarative.
this is nature's way.
darkness approaching is indeed my
au courant poem, mon actuellement.
I have seen betterdays
ain't young enough to be afraid no more
write what pleases me.
this day leases me
what pleases me
and this is as close as I can come
to being human
and writing my flawless poem.
Anything I can do to keep you,
happy and poetry-free
from midnight
till the **** crows
and slumber trumps
the restless words
that will wait
till mo(u)rning born,
and the kingdom of poetry,
awoken,
comes alive
These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger,
by force majeure,
Declares, here, poem aborning,
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied.
Al, what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me
long have I searched for my
flawless poem,
knowing it my be
my next one,
each a doorway to the next
this one, and the
one before,
never good enough,
keep the essay going
in fourth gear
I taste skin,
like a good poem,
the cheek, the shoulder bare,
the in between spaces,
the minty hint of décolleté,
the ankle chain,
turning my breath heated,
tips of red noses,
I take and
I keep
and no,
no refunds, no returns
nowadays,
grandpa's tools
outdated, shelved,
in their final
resting place,
blades dulled,
the technology
of his verbiage,
rusted by old age
the reads diminishing,
his touch, antiquated,
his best days, resting on top of
the ocean internet waves
his summertime buddies,
sand sun grass and
sea air perfumes,
singing,
"awe, we got ya,
cosy and comforted,
awaiting you in your chair,
overlooking our truest
sheltered applause"
so I write for me,
write for her,
for with her,
in love's sight,
life is
easy like Sunday morning,
and
that's why I'm easy,
like Sunday morning
wake up unscrubbed,
sleep still in the eyes,
dream crusted,
probably unaware, child,
that you are a poem
sleeping
when a little girl,
reverting, designing
real from dreams,
processing, reforming,
the dreams lusting
to be poems
to go awandering
don't
let the sin memories
of ancient words,
black gold bubble up
with the first striking of the blade
Delve
(excavate your soul deep)
Not
I did not come this poem to write
I did not come to repeat
Solomon's poem,
nothing new under the sun
don't,
daunting
wish to delve into my delusions,
my original sin
the deceit
the conceit
I am unique
I am original
*Experience anew,
Each time,
Say:
This is my first time,
This is my first work
I do not need your validation.
I validate myself
and in doing so,
who else
comes along
for the ride
on our tide?
create with no shame
create with no measuring stick
only this:
everything that is done well
is good art
Be Fertile and Radiate
Excerpts from stuff written between late March and early April.
I write about poetry, writing and their intersection inside of me, probably too much.
