Half full yet...
I keep
dripping,
spilling,
crying,
breathing.

Everything creeps up,
and I empty myself.

I empty... myself?
They empty me.

Thoughts past zero degrees,
ice-cold breaths give me a mouthful of red.

empty cup, empty head,
an efficient way
to keep myself there.

were you a 50's
godchild in the city,
wing-tipped feet
running the streets
all week, ketchin hell...
then you gots that check
come friday
and needed a taste of heaven...

you and the dog pound
swung mid-town
to broadway & 47th
after 9,
and joined the line spilling
from the royal roost round 48th...

by 10, the joint was jammed
with gents well-coifed,
matching honeys, and the sounds
of money being made:

chime of silverware ~ cling,
and the cash register's ~ swish cha-ching,
and the chatter of guests,
servers and bartenders
doing their thing ~ wah da bing

then the lights dimmed
leaving a semi-dark haze
of gray smoke swirling
over the crowd,
and mc symphony sid
grabbed the mike:

"...welcome to the friday nite jam session
at the metropolitan bopera house
ladies and gentlemen...."

hysterical hoots and applause
followed
as  the circular spotlight paused
center stage,
unveiling:

~ the miles davis nonet ~

featuring,
max on drums,
john on keys,
gerry and lee on sax
and a genius
on trumpet

'twas the birth of cool
and soon the rhapsody
of modern jazz
waxed hypnotic,
casting a spell
over god's children
when budo chased lady bird
down allen's alley,
spittin'...
          riffin'....
boppin'...,
          po­ppin'.....
superfluidity
like acid through
varicosed veins

the earth stood still
it seemed
for 4 thrilling hours
as heaven rained a rifftide
onto the lucky crowd...

and dewey's sublime trumpet
exorcised the devil
from the week that was...

~ P (Pablo)
(7/24/2013)

Mini-market

supermarket

hypermarket

we are overfed!

It would not be for want of words
that I regret but my reckless superfluidity
I pour them out in mindless torrents
betraying their trust and blemishing their purity--

hushed,  silent, solemn, reverential
I should learn to be in this my journey
perchance the Grand Council of Words some day
would grant me a second chance to write poetry.

This is my room, these are my four barren walls.
This is where anxiety keeps me in chains,
this is where I shield myself from the hurt.
Here I’m alone, nothing will rip my soul in twain.
This is where I wear my heart on my sleeve,
this is where darkness will find no home.
Here is my life, like superfluidity,
flowing free as a waterfall with an infinite drop.
This is my room, these shadows are mine alone.

Poetic Satisfaction
Still trembling at the finger
Tips

The scale of all for all to see
Like open arms’ embraced

A word
A song

Such depth and
superfluidity

Ever longing for...
more