Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."

Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,
I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?

Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,
where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA., friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,
of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.

even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.

Good on You (a love poem),
this one, is, good, on you.  

phrase uttered, measured, apace,
each comma,
a paused breath of:

admiration, enveloped by
a secret pleasure coating,
saucier prepared,
the base, the pleasured secret in this
mans minds eye unseen.

each comma,
precisely the carbon copy of the
comma curve of dark hair that
falls from a forehead down to the chin,
in a museum quality photograph,
as if it was intended to hold, contain,
your sly blunt moody,
and full plated whimsy,
when that half-smile poesy is in place.

good on you,
slow please,
not
goodonyou.

did you think, I did not have, a special bottle,
a Grand Cru,
a pinot noir, in the reserve,
inside the locked cellar of me,
to be used to anoint mine own
English Duchess of Burgundy?

well and proper aged,
but unlabelled,
till you provided
the appelation, the domaine,
good, on, you.  

the bottle dusty, the feelings, not.
if we never meet, matters not,
the gentility, tous les bons mots,
good in you,
hid in in all of the
astounding incredible poems
I well-addicted need,
those archeological mounds of a life,
I excavate and well heed,
going from one to the next,
me, the bumbling bee,
pollenating, following the path of the
watermarked tracks of
the King's Cross,
alas, they do not offer a couchette,
from Terminal 4 to London Bridge

unlike a teenager
happy to confess,
I am even younger,
an old fool, a geezer,
in love with a museum quality smile,
as he totters down to the Tottenham Hale station,
to catch the blue colored line, to the station after Vauxhall)
(oh dear, what's it called again?)
walking 10 to 2, saying ta to all
who assist his
two hands on an old man's bent feet,
steering the wheelhouse heart through its tubes

this is an undedicated poem,
retuned and returned,
addressee unknown, yet I know
by the greening dew droplets decorating faces,
that come so easy,
not a one wrung out,
you know
the who's of the true ownership,
the clarification,
in the bread crumbs,
fully disclosed,
left by me,
but for me,
in order to retrace my steps,
to find the railing,
when the steady on need arises

some Tuesday next,
will disembark from a riverboat,
at the old Tate,
spending my afternoon,
staring at an imaginary museum quality photograph,
till the guard surly reminds the pesky Yank,
its past closing time,
the man who will not be moved,
for already he, past overcome,
so why be thinking on why leaving,
for he will only be back again tomorrow.

so different.

mine, simple declarative sentences,
typically matter of fact,
so **** presumptuous,
those ill mannered,
know it all Ameddicans.

yours, lace doilles,
in a pub, with Hilda and Bill,
drinking pale ale,
from a porcelain cup,
and I am laughing,
Why?

It is all,
Good on Us,
a, love, poem,
indeed,
no kidding kid.

Cal-i-fornia (verb) the state of being golden.
                                                                                                                                                    
Can you see the way the sand sparkles on the shore?
Golden shards of glass, or broken dreams.
Who possesses the Midas touch now?
The crushed gates of Atlantis on our shores.
Aphroditic bronze goddess of the sea,
Hair blown by the breeze.
Sea air & salty &
more than anyone could need, or was used to.
                                                                                                                                         Giant sequoias stand
                                                                                                                     As mighty and proud protectors
                                                                                                                             Behemoths of lifetimes past.
                                                                                                                                 Explosion of seeds inside
                                                                                                                           Fireworks waiting to explode
                                                                                                                      Pinecones, little grenades of life.
Ghost towns reminiscent of the Wild West
Mining camps from the Gold rush days.
Tumbleweeds & reptiles & powder fine dust.
Some say the earth is red from the natives’ blood spilt, and sunk in,
Reality – Oxidation turns iron in the dirt to rust.
So that’s why Mars is red.
                                                                                                                          After a bad storm in San Diego
                                                                                                    Dollars lie broken & shattered on the shore
                                                                                                               A bankruptcy of marine proportions!
                                                                                                                                       Just go see for yourself,
                                                                                                                              The sand dollar apocalypse.
                                                                                                                              We were echinoderms too.
Life gone dormant, and violent beginnings.
As if Calliope’s harp needed to be retuned,
Sun god, Apollo & Helios with his chariot in the sky
When did we become so heliocentric?                                            
                                                                                                                         Solitary white cross on the hill.
                                                                           Never did anything to harm anyone, yet they fear you so
                                                                                          Enough to try to remove you from our presence.
                                                                                              Mount Soledad, or their SOLEs-are-DeAD.    
- You know San Onofre is a power plant right?
- Radiation, is that a problem?
- Only if you want to have kids or stay cancer free.                        
- 25 foot sea wall -- To keep the waves out, or the kraken in?
- 4,000 tons of nuclear waste, who’s gonna get rid of that?
Ghostly tendrils of death
Blown fifty miles down the coast.
They call it SONGS, how quaint.
A symphony of catastrophe.
The greatest arias of death and destruction.

a human tool, a drawing pencil, shedding snakeskin cells as
lead from no. 2 pencil

am **** and blood, skin and hairless,
all-to-come-to-go,
return retuned, at their own chosen speed,
gen of regeneration of disrupted oils and heavenly blessings,
morning cracks and orifices, filling and emptying obediently,
to the tidings of the grieving gravity of my moon’s decisions
that govern the lunatic cycle

you may kiss me with all your heart unto a robust welcoming,
scorn with spittle and deem unfit,
I know the difference and it is inconsequential

see me as combustible or flat, airless and empty,
as a new or a two day old leaking birthday balloon, or a haiku
that makes the reader gasp for the reasoning for breathing

think of me as a meme who responds to the touch of
your nippled forefinger, but my powers are unlisted,
therefore unlimited

for I am neither cyber or cypher though aesthetically they
appear as parts of my humanity, a human machine
forever reprogramming to new stimuli sensating,
the temperature of your breath, the many odors of you
as inputs that bear newborn children notions in
my chested gas chambers, the belligerent bellum bellies of my brain

my digital describe in thousands of computers do hide,
but to comprehend the interacting calculations that are
my constancy and my inconsistencies, you must make a tour
if you are awake between midnight and dawn when from
wells the visions, the fluids - the words are drawn

they, the residuals of a man’s ******* with
other humans, kin akin, and the thriving discourse between l,
man and parental gods of invisible powers, that offers insanity
as a viable solution, to cracking the codex human DNA
in the vial labelled Medusa

Who else?

I Am Eleven Different Shades Of Regret Tonight.

One For The Way I Left You. Hand Prints In The Quick Sand Of Our Last Memory.

Two For The Way I Was Too Afraid To Love You The Right Way, Blade In Left Hand, Afraid Of What I Was Capable Of Doing To Myself, And To You.

Three For The Heart Break You Wore On Your Sleeve, Unafraid To Tell Me How Deeply I Hurt You.

Four For The Emptiness I Left, The Broken Promises, Picking Up Your Prices, Scarlet White Lies, Written Up The Length Of My Skin.

Five For The Way I Waited For You To Tell Me You Needed Me. Over. And Over. And Over Again.

Six For All Phone Calls I Never Retuned, The Facebook Messages I Never Received, The Text Messages I Didn't Said Because It Was Easier For Me Not To.

Seven For The Self Hate

Eight For The Way We Turned Out, Afraid Of Our Own Shadows, Empty Handed And Worthless.

Nine For The Way I Missed You

Ten For The Empty Jaws We Held All Of Our Resentment Inside, Bared Tight Until They Bled.

Eleven Because I Never Said It.

I Am.
So.
Sorry.

Broken hearts are taken for granted,
their sunny shapes are torn;
their tiny windows are doomed and forlorn.
Broken hearts are never noticed,
they are no more than abandoned,
they have never existed;
as far as people can recall,
or as long as their sanity allows them to.
their truths are denied,
no attention are they given by their lords.
Broken hearts are injured,
their wounds probably incurable,
their eyes are now full of hate, pain and recurrent danger
that will never be healed.
Broken hearts have been deceived,
tricked, stained, disregarded, and disgraced
without ever being able to be fixed or retuned.
Their minds have been scattered,
their fragile little fingers that feel sore,
and nobody with their vanity will ever know.
Broken hearts feel lonely in their loneliness,
sad in their sadness,
cry in their doom,
weep silently their misery
in the center of their darkening rooms.
Broken hearts are never known,
even when they are truthfully true,
even when they are as subtle as glue,
when they feel that they are nowhere in blue.
But above all,
their honesty is graceful praised,
their patience is sacred graced,
their courage and loyalty regarded embraced.
They were lied to and thrown away,
they were betrayed and laughed at night and day,
they were kicked out and are now withering away.
They have hands that are now crippled,
their eyes have lost their cheerful sight,
their smiles are false and sort of painful.
Their waves are nothing but smoldering red anger
in their murky oceans,
they roll and roll without ever glancing backward,
and soon they forget who they really were
and embarrassed are them,
deciding to turn away and never bother to look back.
Their carols are never sung,
their chords have now flown away,
their melodies have not any single remembrance of themselves.
Broken hearts have desires that are never fulfilled;
destiny that is never reached,
and craves that are never satisfied.
But truly,
their devotion and humility as sacred and holy.
Unfortunately,
everything is just never more than unfair to them
as if they deserve to be humiliated
and for their prides to be consumed
and cruelly torn
into pieces of irreparable tears
when their deserted nights appear
and the massive lies start to bring out their fear
to haunt their very innocence,
their breaths, and flashes of sadness.

You are carlights through white window shades,
You’re moonlight on the shore.
You are sun before rain had a chance to fade,
You’re bare feet at ocean’s floor.

Your voice echos atop the hollow waves
that we sleep to every night.
Your laugh is your heavy heart being saved,
all silver shadows fighting golden candles’ light.

I am grays and blues and evergreens,
I’m early sunlight reflected in clear eyes.
I am ever changing and ever seen,
I am pastels trapped inside thick black smoky ties.

We are a single whispered chord, retuned and redefined,
We are coastal byways and yellow dotted swerving lines.
We are deep navy skies inhaled by wintry crystal night,
We are watercolors cooled by the sea then cast in firelight.

I was lost. Lost in the echoes of the ancient
rhythms pleading to play, sifting it’s vibes
throughout me. I become a mannequin,
with strings that do not pull but glide as a
breeze to a snowflake away on a blissful
journey, to places unknown but ever
welcoming. In the midst of this transit a
single wave, unique from the lot, kissed the
shoreline of mine. With connected vibes I
felt her beat slide up my limbs, nest into
my flesh, and wrap around my core as lush
ivy rising towards the light just to fuel my
fire. Two rhythms that crossed for one night,
one place, one time; One. Hovering on
limber limbs I reached into you and we
retuned the frequency of our hearts in sync.
Catching each other on every missed beat
we unified till we became a dynamism that
could make the planets align. Your waves
tickled at my toes, trickled up my spine, and
coursed through my lips erupting to a
frequency that birthed a super nova, killing
our very sense of survival, leaving us with
nothing other than Being.


I am still lost. The season’s winds have now
spread us away from One as two leaves
from the same tree that never fully lost
their color. Yet I still feel the rumble through
my bones when you echo your thoughts of
me from where ever you may be. In that
moment I vanish once more in our limbo
where time and space are at a stalemate, a
place where the impossible looms, a home
where Being awaits. It is said that these
waves never cease to move, that they
traverse to the very edge of the universe only
to bounce back; forever changing while
changing all in its path.

Where are they going?

What are they looking for?

Why did You find me?

She was born 7 pounds 7 ounces
So clean and beautiful
Untouched from the dirt of the earth and the corruption of society
The stars shined so brightly for this one
Riveting mountain hills and green valleys beamed when they heard the news
The ocean's tides grew momentous and spilled over the beaches in joy
Nature had gained another unstained soul
The sun selfishly, but necessarily, tried to shield this one from the elements of others
The pain and the suffering
The sadness and the melancholy
The sun couldn’t see another one of earth’s babies grow up to become lifeless
For the sun would not allow the moon to take another
Another baby that belonged to the moon’s dangerous night sky
The moon reeled in these children with the promise of a sky painted with glimmering stars that could spell out your name
And brighter lights that shined adjacent to tall buildings in a buzzing city
But this was merely the moon’s treacherous trick
And the rain was in on it as well
For once the moon gained a follower
The rain would join in
Buckets of liquid depression would pour and pour from gray skies as they broke through the clouds that couldn't hold the weight of sadness anymore
Then these children would sleep while the sun bared its face and heat
And become insomniacs when the moon would reveal itself
This way, they’d be forced to look into its lonely face all night
And realize themselves how forlorn they were as well
So now they crave the color of night forever
They wish to see the color black eternally
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She was born 7 pounds 7 ounces
And was retuned back to the Earth within 17 years
The knotted roots that brought her down thanked the moon

*It was so cloudy that day
The sun was nowhere to be found

Infinite flake of destiny fall
upon outstretched broken hand,
cursed by ages dying
in some distant abstract land
in some abstract distant land,
in some land abstract distant
in some ritual, literal heaven.

An old eye watches all
flickers ////
blinks ----
in a crowded empty room
that fills my gut with a fear larger
than I dare Imagine - blank cells
crawl away, consume lining.

A gilded sense of depths of desire
riddles the head of my Medusa mind
with tales of half borne inquiry and
half formed sensual prodding
to daze me in the dead of night or morning
(can’t remember which or cannot tell)

Lift self up on the crucifix - feed the totality
tone of self sacrifice until that day the sheep
finally fold and swallow their own tails

till the end of time - to the end of the matter
borne from it, until universe is crushed under
the weight of it’s own promise
retuned again to zero point.

Rain down a halo upon this ancient marble
witness a black Rainbow
forget the ***** that chew at skin
and fly
into
the
sky
and
dreaming of black rainbows beat the tune
of aching hearts set to 11.

for oh so long you stayed,
ripping my heart and brain to shreds,
stealing away my innocence,
willing me to do awful, dreadful, things,
that sounded beautiful coming out of your mouth,
you said it was the answer,
and I was foolish enough to
believe.
you said it would help, and it did and didn't.
you said that it would make me feel better,
you pried and pried and I caved.
and let my mind take over my actions.
and let the feelings sink away.
and so you hid,
ran away to a little corner,
making me believe I was free of this addiction, free of your grasp, free of your pounding fists upon my lungs,
and so I tried, and tried and tried and tried,
and it wasn't worth it,
because your drag me so slow that,
half way back, felt just like the beginning.
felt jus like a half real smile, felt like a half way honest comment,
but you see,
your imaginary leave of absence,
led me to believe,
I was out, I was done,
I was
better.
but, maybe you should have just stayed,
because,
now your back,
and while I thought I was climbing, I was sinking,
even lower than before,
where there is no branch for me to use,
where the light, is a figment of my imagination,
so your back, and thriving, feeding off of there beautiful comments,
gaining control through someone else's words, and actions,
so you have retuned.
will you stay, or put me under that spell again?
will you finish your intentions,
or will I prevail?

the reluctant apprentice, trained
with brown paper and string.

the redundant book binder, left
to the world with care.   hoped

to eradicate a lack of training , gold
leaf tracing a memory. retuned eventually
through mappe mundi, national libraries
all ancient tape and frogskin.



chained.

the books are bound.

sbm.

i wonder why i do this to myself,
make it seem like it could be.
i find myself falling for every man i see.
what makes me think you'd want me,
the way that i want you.
i always overanalyze every little thing you do.
maybe one day it will happen,
my desire will be retuned.
until that day however,
i'll continue to feel burned.

I am but a man
I posses none
And none posses me
My spirit I give freely
And experience more freedom
The gift of giving soon becomes the retuned gift

The leaf was attached to a branch for decades
Every year it retuned
Suddenly one day the branch was no longer there
It had disappeared
Into nothingness
The leaf lost its anchor
The leaf fell free
As it floated to the ground
It was lost
With no grounding
No home
No protection
It only had
Sweet memories
To offer comfort
The lost leaf

Johnathan was a faithful friend to David,
A friendship that never faded.

From the first acquaintance of David and Johnathan,
A love spark penetrated the heart of each one.

Johnathan loved David more than his own soul,
To promote him to the Kingship was his goal.

Johnathan and David made a covenant of friendship;
Jonathan demonstrated his love for King David,

When he removed his princely robe and  his sword and bow,
And gave them all to David that he might defeat every foe.

Johnathan, the son of King Saul,
Saved David from many a fall.

When *King Saul,  in a jealous rage of anger,
Sought to **** *David, because *they were friends no longer,

Johnathan intervened and saved David's life,
Not just once,  but more than twice.

Now Johnathan was a courageous warrior,
And was known everywhere as a vicious fighter.

Twice Johnathan invaded the Philistines camp alone,
And retuned victoriously with out even a broken  bone.

But as death is Divinely appointed unto all,
Johnathan died honorably in a battle against
The Philistines, led by his Father, King Saul.

Johnathan and David are great examples of
Faithful friends.
                          From Jerry Howarth's Book of Poetry