The fifth poem I put on HP; few* read it so I resubmit as Lost In Space III.
I tinkered with it slightly... O yeah, based on a true story....

Multi-tasking your body

Kissing your eyes,
Sense the tipsiness of your
Trembling lashes,
Drinking a poem from
My poetry birthing place.

Between  kisses and rapido exhales,
Stutter and lisp
Uttered word-wisps,
Shockingly bad love poem stories.

Right hand strokes thy chest,
sensing/sending heartbeats upon my palm to the
Forever keep part of my
Treasury memory chest.

All the while my left finger
Catalogues, indexes.
It, mesmerized, it memorizes,
The curvatures of thy face
To be stored in the
Never-forget, always-place.

My tongue restless to participate
Goes wherever it feels like,
For the tongue is the only body part
With a mind of its own,
And enjoys getting into
What it calls, the best kind of trouble.

My eyes, my eyes, see only the
Totality of this moment.
When mastery of multi-tasking
Is the single best poem this man ever
Penned with his entirety,
Of which not word survived
For its unspoken silence was its glory....

May 19th
Laguna Niguel, Ca.

Multi-tasking

Kissing your eyes,
Sensing the tickling of your trembling lashes,
Between kisses and breathes
Utter word-wisps of
Love poetry.

Right hand strokes thy chest,
sensing/sending heartbeats upon my palm to the
Forever keep part of my
Treasury memory chest.

All the while my left finger indexes,
Mesmerized, it memorizes
The curvature of the face
To be stored in the
Never forget always place.

My tongue restless to participate
Goes whatever it feels like,
For the tongue is the only body part
With a mind of its own.

My eyes, my eyes, see only the
Totality of this moment.
When mastery of multi-tasking
Is the single best poem this man ever
Penned with his entirety.

May 19th
Laguna Niguel, Ca.

Mashup

Part I (and there is a Part II & III)

I mashup me, myself, and perhaps thee too.


Excerpts from my poems about poets, poetry and the process of compositions. In chronological order, earliest to latest.
---------------------------------------------------------­------------------

With words we paint,
With syllables we embrace,
Tasked and ennobled,
We are forever fully employed,
Missionaries to all,
You too, are one as well,
Your fate can't be renounced,

when the rusted unborn poem notion is almost done,
but remains unpublished,
for no beginning, no title, can be found,

Then I recall the cornucopia days,
when poems spilled forth like
there would never be a when they wouldn't,

I revisit my old friends, couplets, twins and triplets,
seeded inside every tear, happy or sad,
sweetly and freely,

my old friends, reread,
words rearranged in new combinations,
old poems, plants bearing new fruits,
re-titled all of them, one name,
a collection entitled,
My Solace.

My eyes, my eyes, see only the
Totality of this moment.
When mastery of multi-tasking
Is the single best poem this man ever
Penned with his entirety,
Of which not word survived
For its unspoken silence was its glory.

My compact with you is to
remind us all, through
music, dance, words (poetry) and love,
This is the only compact
with the power of human law.

Color me flesh ****,
Color me blue bottled,
Red ripped asunder,
The sweetness ascribed to my love poetry,
A subtraction of the bitterness of a failed life.
Colorist of my seams, my woven words,
I am white now, my canvas completed,
Waiting for another poet to write over it,
And chaining new words to what was prior writ.

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.

You ask me how I find the time,
(To write)
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition.

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was, yet is,
because of you, in poetry.

Awful poetry, some good, you will write.
But write and write till your heart be calmed,
For even ancient kings felt the anguish  of the soul,
And we profit even today by King David's psalms.

This wizened fool has his hands full,
Mouths to feed, bread to earn and bake,
As midnight is almost nigh,
He rests prone and adds a verse to this old poem
He long ago scribbled down, grimace-smiles now,
Realizing there is little difference tween him and the
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland.

For poetry salves his wounds still, even now,
Unashamedly, he thinks, hallelujah!

The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.

The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.

To write but a single line,
That uplifts the heart,
Eases pain, gives delight to strangers,
And makes you laugh out loud
With shivery pleasure,
That usurps a whole day and night,
That is a poet's true measure.

Mastery of the poetic,
Measured not in quantity,
But in tears of satisfaction
When others love the taste
Of newly born stanzas
Upon their lips,
couplets born and transcribed
In the wee hours of the morn.

You can have my love, my soul,
But leave to me the labor of poetry.
Loving you with words is my domain,
The speciality of my terrain,
So no more hasta la pasta if you please,
And by the bye, I would love some
Tonight, say around eight,
At a restaurant where the moon is
The only light illuminating our faces.

Until you have bent your ear to Shakespeare's sonnets,
Till you have laughed with Ogden Nash,
Wept with Frost, visited Byron's ghost,
Read the songs of King Solomon,
And once you
Despair of being their equal,
Shed your winter coat of worry,
***** your courage to the sticking point,
Begin to write then with reckless courage,
Unfettered abandon, make a fool of yourself!

Scout the competition.
Weep, for you and I will never surpass
The giants who preceeded us, and yet,
Laugh, cause they thought the same thing as well...

All I can say is
En Garde!
I will be coming back soon enough.
because you are my best poem,
and the there will always be another stanza needed...

I am no Houdini, it's quite simple,
After 5 years, I read her like a book,
A book of my poems that she has inspired,
Entitled the Mysteries of True Love.

Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows,  and the one that follows.

Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....

Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.

When I hear Shakespeare
My own voice is stilled, it's poverty exposed,
I am ashamed of every word I ever wrote.
Hush me not, for t'is true,
Yet I write on for an audience of one, on but one subject,
A subject, a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered, even after decades of trying.

My poverty exposed, unmasked
for what it is worth, or not.

Lest you think this is paean to men
Another grand male boast,
Be advised this ditty be writty
By a man who, while no longer gritty,
Just put jelly on his scrambled eggs
And ketchup on his toast!

Mmmmmmm there might be a poem
Lurking in that too...

So baby,
shut it down,
turn me on,
make me warm for real,
glide your now practiced fingertips on my grizzled cheek,
whisper a phony "ugh,"
cause I know, you will read
this iPad love poem
and cherish us for evermore.

Soul of brevity, poetically,
I'll never be, this insightful critique,
("Your poems are too long")
I've received in multiplicity, from sources internationally,
perhaps, lucky me, you've read this far?

Surely still a chance that an angel will touch my lips,
my internal parts sign a final treaty, inside an armistice,
night sweats sighs a thing fully forgot,
poetry writing can now be dispatched,
maybe that will be my Act III,
if I can stay awake for it.

Walk a Single Word.
To write a poem, a single word select,
embrace it with a fullness that lovers, family and friends
and the *** who cut you off in the middle lane
do daily provide

Grasp said word, walk it onto a yellow, blue lined, legal pad,
touch said word with the whisper of a single tear, a single curse,
like a pebble in a pond,
said word will miracle expand
hugging you with concentric circles of lines of poetry,
visionary words and stanzas that almost complete themselves
and you

The rhymes you will require, the meter you will select,
no need to struggle, hug your child and as Abraham told Isaac,
God and Google will provide

The simple trickster, a wordsmiths, even your average poet laureate,
got nothing on you that you don't already possess, to offer them
Plenty stiff competition.

Therefore,
My life is mine to take,
Should I wish to choose the
Place, date, the time
To let the poetry cease,
I will announce it mostly gladly
with a blessing of
Shehecheyanu* and a
Smiling "by your leave."

Sometimes the pen, unnecessary.
The poem, fully formed, in his mouth, born.

Silent back labor, unbeknownst the existence
Of such a thing, yet knowing now
His contractions, coming fast and furious,
Eyes many centimeters dilated,
The sac's fluid breaks upon the poet's tongue,
He pronounces in a single breath his
Immaculate Completion

When his hand to mouth, goes,
Like Moses, when he touched the burning coals,
The words are signaled, freedom!
The words announce:
We are now created, conceived and
This new oxgenated atmosphere is now our
final resting place.

This child, the poem, this exhalation,
Once freed, is lost to him,
It's been renamed, retitled,
by hundreds of newly adopted parents as
Ours.

Words needed to create another love poem for my beloved,
Nose and toes, ******* and eyes all regularly poetically,
Cherished,
Now I have knuckled under
And competed a full poetic body scan
And have paid tribute to each n'every part of you,
Even your knuckles...which I am busy kissing
While writing this poem in my distracted mind.

The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.

I am exhausted. So many gems to decorate
My body, my soul. I must stop here,
So many of you have reached out, none of you overlooked.

Overwhelmed, let us sit together now
And celebrate the silence that comes after the
Gasp, the sigh, that the words have taken from
Our selves, from within.


On and on thru the night,
Riffing, rapping, rambling, and spitting,
Ditties and darts, couplets and barbs,
Single words and elegies,
Free verse and a lot of fking curse words,
It was a moment, a time
that deserved
to be preserved,
and so this poem got writ

You may think this story apocryphal
Which is another way of saying untrue,
But I got his boarding pass and it is signed,
To this crazy poetry dude, long may you rasp,
And it is signed by Mr. P. Simon, a big fan,
And it has never since that day,
Left my grasp

Some poems never end,
Nor meant too.
Alliterative phrases, invitations,
Add a verse, a word, even a sound,
An exclamation of delight,
A stanza in its own right.

Unfinished work, forever additive, collaborative.
Modify mine, pass it on.

Read somewhere some poems never end,
Now I understand that better,
Cause there are no bandages, stitches that can close,
Cause there are no pills, switches that can shut off,
The ripping sound, the cutting noise, the raging inside
Heard blocks away, almost reaching a house where you live,
And dying in the same **** place that
Poems come from after midnight.

And even if I am stranger now,
I'll prove useful to have around,
Giving you poetry precisely couture designed by command,
So I fully expect to be hugging you happy
Soon enough.
You'll see.

No matter combo or organized, a good nights sleep
Elusive
So poetry is my default rest position,
My screen savior.

**So when I warn,
All my poems are copywrighted,
My meaning simple, words crystal,
They belong to us, but mostly to you
Who are reading these words

You were forever finding some new play.
So when I saw you down on hands and knees
I the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay,
Trying, I thought, to set it up on end,
I went to show you how to make it stay,
If that was your idea, against the breeze,
And, if you asked me, even help pretend
To make it root again and grow afresh.
But ’twas no make-believe with you today,
Nor was the grass itself your real concern,
Though I found your hand full of wilted fern,
Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clovers.
’Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground
The cutter-bar had just gone champing over
(Miraculously without tasking flesh)
And left defenseless to the heat and light.
You wanted to restore them to their right
Of something interposed between their sight
And too much world at once—could means be found.
The way the nest-full every time we stirred
Stood up to us as to a mother-bird
Whose coming home has been too long deferred,
Made me ask would the mother-bird return
And care for them in such a change of scene
And might out meddling make her more afraid.
That was a thing we could not wait to learn.
We saw the risk we took in doing good,
But dared not spare to do the best we could
Though harm should come of it; so built the screen
You had begun, and gave them back their shade.
All this to prove we cared. Why is there then
No more to tell? We turned to other things.
I haven’t any memory—have you?—
Of ever coming to the place again
To see if the birds lived the first night through,
And so at last to learn to use their wings.

My magnificent mundane.
Tedious tasking and chores galore!
Unappreciated.
And disregarded as un-glamorous duty.
But there is something to be learned in folding loads of laundry.
Patience.
Satisfaction through servitude.
Attention to detail.
And most importantly... attention to Love.

Multi-tasking mom & wife

She’s a beautiful woman and she was angry that day
Many a harsh word she did say.
Beneath that exterior lies a gentle heart
And all that surround her want their part.
At times thou – even the gentlest heart can become weak
And any escape they do seek.
The pressures of daily life- of being a mother and being a wife
Then the washing and cleaning and doing the cooking too
How can it not get to you?
She works outside to help pay the bills, and a compliment
From you is such a thrill.
When she finally sits down at days end
She would like you to be her friend.
To Sit down alongside her and give her your thanks
For all that has been done
Working from morning to setting sun.
           THANK YOU !

watching her deep water,
pilled sleeping,
her chest congest,
her cough, orange,
clockwork regular,

watching tv,
an old Law & Order fav,
major crimes gets an
innocent man freed from jail

watching me
in the tv screen reflection,
write bad poetry,
and laughing at his own hair,
rebelling in sticking up shapes
that would make Einstein jealous

occurs that this mot not
multitasking, that multi-inaccurating

Nope

multi-sensing, multi-asking
for
moments of quiet crumbs,
of seconds of satisfactory,
merely passing unpadded grades
would be sufficient

life needs no cogent reasoning,
no over arching philosophy,

but if Sheldon were to
find the unifying string theory
that could tie and string these moments
together,
that would be most excellent

cause "whatever"
just don't quite cut it
as a way,
a purpose to exist,
but moments like this
do

perhaps if you have time,
take a moment to read the
predecessor poem in the notes below first,
in order to better understand this one


<>

the love poetry curfew so lately announced
misshapen, growing without respite, by hate extensions distended,
poet's sanity uncomprehending, for yet another! sabbath desecration,
debating internally, how long should this cessation be extended,
for the pockmarking of earth's face with fresh bloodshed,
continues unashamedly, swiftly apace, these unholy days of dread,
all haggard his mind, hazard his eyes, harden his heart
no muse could sway

but shocking himself,
poet's mirror image stares and dares
with a finger-pointing,
his own specter's absurd challenge of

"and yet, now more than ever "

when children are killed like bowling pins,
there can be no satisfaction in revenge
cannot expiate evil deeds with avenge
measure for measure add-on sins,

and yet,

poet thinks quietly, repeatedly, self-surprisingly,

and yet,
love poetry, now more than ever

asking confusedly, almost ashamedly, out loudly, yet secretly,
how can this be, for there will be again, more painful awakenings,
is it the end of days, of greeting sunrise, with a love for love poetry?
with madness come and confusion everywhere rampant,
'tis a doubtful thought, the carnage having wrought
an insoluble dissolution and can love poetry be any solution?

in poet's Adirondack safe place where life tributes were
birthed, bred and trials borne, a right writ place for unmasking,
a private soul in equal parts of joy and shame,
love and pain, loss and gain,
here the weighing scales bore equal measures
of old bereft, and life uplifting visions of,
what will come, what will be, the unforeseen,
the hopeful yet of

"and yet"

a dotted line of whitecaps  beckons the poet to tread upon,
the glassine bay's waters that lay before him, go, walk on water,
a path to point where and whence the quaking waves
have gathered, calmly begging, Oh poet!
provide  assurance, explanation, comprehension,
querying him as if all sanity, has flightly, unsightly, fled
from the home shores of human sailors, gently asking poet,

"your fellow walking earth-beasts have all sensibility killed,
these times so human terrible, we waters, cannot understand"

poet's rebellious soul all so confused, asking and answering the
waters in his head, the waters that address his eyes,
seeking wisdom words from a place where logic
has been whittled and willed away,

and yet,

love poetry, now more than ever

now is the time when a love poem beyond merely necessary,
poet's eyes cast downward in shame, his thinking, hesitant and wary,
time for prayer, not madness distraction of a love poetry commentary

the waters dissatisfied at his confusion,
part as if by Moses's staff, majesticly powerful rise up,
confronting poet with the sweetest tasking
as if they were the downtrodden and the hurting, asking...

"we storm, drown and take, for such is nature's angry periodic way,
something beyond our control no matter what we say,
to another's dictate and momentum, we must bow and obey,
but you human, have choice, and we have none -
choose love poetry and let it comfort like no other"

and the poet sighed and wrote

this poem

this poem of love,
realized and conjectured,
with inserted verses of

"and yet,"

for though the poet possessed no well of well words
more than these few saddened and impoverished,
wearied, hard scrabbled ones

and yet,

gasping and grasping a potent notion, a portent of what if,
of a world with no love poetry,
a planet that could not ever-overcome hate, dooming itself,
for love poetry and all its cousins and associates,
the only method to confiscate
these grill blackened marking silent barbell weights
so let this be ,
this is a love poem,
and now,
this is the time,
to let

"and yet"

vindicate...


<>
6:20am
Saturday July 16, 2016
and yet

I am going to promise you nothing
I can't promise to walk with you forever, everyday
because life's too short, can't be certain I'll always be there
I won't promise you paradise when
I don't even know how that place looks like
I won't promise you comfort, it's not something we often find
It can't be all smiles,no, there'll be a tear
I won't promise to always face the monsters,sometimes I will fear
I can't promise I will never let go of us
even if you are in too deep and too dear
I can't promise I'll always hold you tight
Before I retire,how can I be so sure that I won't lose a fight
I won't promise you an umbrella each time it'll rain
some things we can't predict, they happen time and again
I can't promise I won't drive you crazy
there's a **** along the road I will be too distracted to see
and hit the breaks too late and you'll madly scream
"OMFG we could have died", you'll hate the bumpy ride
I can't promise I'll never break your Heart
what the Hell would I be thinking while promising you that
where would I find the guts to think you'll never get hurt?
I can't promise the road will always be straight
even rivers bend and you're not some fish I'm trying to bait
I can't promise it will always feel this awesome and perfect
we won't forever be together from Sunrise to Sunset
things will change, time is a continuum
I'm just stating facts,stuff that happens, don't be upset
Romance is a trip,we won't always have the money
that makes beginnings entertaining
we're now focused and looking forward to the adventure
imagining how colourful the ends of the promising rainbow are
wondering what awaits at every stop on our map
we've spined the globe, made up our minds and changed them
at the moment we're flexible, life's just a game
we can kick the ball this way and that way, we can afford to kiss all day
we're having a good time and it's tempting us to think we have control
I'm on the driving seat and I guide the wheels as you laugh
the car is filled with gasoline of faith and amour
crazy but I think you could kick Angels out of a beauty contest,
your heartbeat is loud enough, especially since I'm listening
and my ears are still vibrant because the centrepiece is still in place
they haven't been deafened by the many love songs we're going to play
and the wax of doubt that will collect in them overtime
the centrepiece will be eaten by termites of familiarity
and guess what, things will start falling apart
our feet are still clean,we cannot predict the dust they shall gather
the perfumes are still fresh on our Suits like the antiperspirants.
the elevators will always work, we think,
not knowing someday we will even fail to find a ladder,how sad
the wings of now, the hot *** that sends us sky high
comes with the chains of tomorrow,the responsibilities
the kids who'll make us careful while rolling in the hay and exasperated
and we'll forget the pleasures, thinking romance is exaggerated
when our minds are blocked by their wrangles and cry
that's the perspiration, that's when the muscles will start aching
that's when our freshness will be lost and we'll stink
the adventure will **** and the love left will all be but faking
Love is just a song, yes let's enjoy it while it's still hitting the waves
time comes when it'll be like the desolate Dead in their cracking graves
I'm not saying we shouldn't enjoy the moment, no
all I'm saying is we shouldn't count on the moment lasting forever
and forget the challenges awaiting at the end of the honeymoon
the burning sun at noon, the dark side of the moon
I'm not saying we shouldn't kiss violently till our young lips bleed
we should,we should feast on the moment with greed
after all nothing can stop karma from taking the lead
let's fulfill all our youthful adventurous need
let's smell the flowers before they wilt and lose their scent
explore the jungles and know how it feels like spending a night in a tent
Let's dangerously walk along the edge of the world, on the fringes
let's vigorously open new doors whilst many still bear rustless hinges
let's drink till we can not remember our names
wines and even the millet brew while our youth carries its fatal flames
for a time will come when these smooth skins shall be tucked
and these two magnetic Hearts will be ******
I just can't promise simply because now feels worth forever
happily ever after is a sugar coated and tasking endeavour
I am going to promise nothing, nothing is enough
nothing will ever be,my dear, nothing lasts forever
But I Love you forever,in case forever's a metaphor for now

So many lost ones, can you find me now?

Resubmitted for your tender consideration.
It fell between the cracks of us, but I love it so,
remembering its birthing, like it was but a moment ago.
~~~~~~

Multi-tasking multi-sensations

kissing your eyes,
sensing the tickling
of your trembling lashes,
between kisses and breathes
someone utters word-wisps of
love poetry.

right hand strokes thy chest,
sensing/sending heartbeats
upon my palm to the
forever to keep part
of my
treasury memory chest.

all the while
my left finger indexes,
it mesmerized, it memorizes
the curvature of the face
to be stored in the
never-forget-always place.

my tongue
restless to participate
goes whatever it feels like,
for the tongue is
the only body part
with a mind of its own.

my eyes, my eyes,
see only the
totality of this moment,
when mastery of multi-tasking
becomes
the single best poem
this man ever penned
with only
his entirety.

May 19th
Edited Nov. 17th.

in between sentences I repeat words
whisper what was just said
and still I can stir the curry on the hob
and still the birds will sing
tomorrow the Hoodie Crows will think its Christmas
while I a benevolent parent will not look for thanks

this morning I awoke to find little lettered squares imprinted across the side of my face,
           then didst I realize, that cyber space had finally done its number on me
                        slither slather blither blather slobbering  cyber chopper
              knee-**** hackneyed pavlovian dog speak of impetuous  heartlessness
             stereotyping  label blasting  categorizing  pigeon-holing  generalizing
      multi tasking bifurcating bloviating palaver,  ever clingy maudlin  inflamed impassioned souls
         trolling   the myriad  disparate windows looking for some misbegotten stimulus  
so invested in their hatred and fear that peace is the most threatening thing they can imagine   ------      and me?
the sneering cynical maladroit among the masses of averageness and mediocrity...

Chatter

she. what are u listening to?
me.  melancholy song writers broken love tunes

she. ugh.  why?

me.  wanted to see how deep into the bed
I could sink,
till you came a looking to
play with me, my spirits to raise,
a game of capture the flag
indoors

--—————
Aural vs. Oral

her night dress rides up,
I awake to an undressed
waist and thigh,
take advantage of the pomp
& circumstance,
cause i believe
whole heartedly in
waiste not, want more

as tongue performs its
repertoire of magic tricks,
i.e. reciting poems,
to the standard whelps
and yelps of “oh its just you,”
keep hearing little tiny whispers
but not  those accustomed
sweet nothings?

turns out she is
listening to her book,
quite the mesmerizer,
on her new cordless earbuds
which are  tablecloth covered
by her blondini tresses

upset?

nah. applauded her
multimedia tasking,
but took it as a challenge,
my efforts redoubled

she didn't seem to mind

now she wakes me up to show me,
Surprise!
her cordless earbuds, in place

sigh.

--——————-
Ordering Coffee

weekends, get coffee in bed
in my 19 oz. porcelain
cup from Toronto,
standing order is:
fill it to the rim,
extra cream

she says.  
isn't ironic!
that is exactly
what I
charge for my coffee

payable in advance

for you, of you: you’ve been between my ears

close enough to being on my mind,
almost the same thing,
though that’s unfairly inequitable, we both agree,
for when in an ear one opines, too oft it escapes
out the other side, only a tree ring mark left,
someone was here, present

as for the Confucius confusion in

ok, who’s writing this poem to whom,

cause it’s never clear between us
who is
asking the questions,
since the answers come
demanded and undemanding,
fomenting newer questions and follow through,
before, as well as,
‘please sir, may I have some more?’

the mutualizing game tasking begin-began-begun,
for this, our lovely crazy teasing of our-thing, ago began,
don’t recall who or how intimated-initiated
this oil drilling exploration,
who is the annointer and who is the annointed,
who seeds the plants, picks the fruit, and who
gets paid with cloves of poems, by the bushel

you say I’ve been on your mind,
which we now have both pointed out
is somewhat extraordinary since,
the sight lines are drawn through
long distance cloudscapes that travel
through underground cables,
making everything said,
fallow and rich-ending, deeply frustrating,
impossible to see the outcome

clouds usually imaginary, (not like now),
making visibility normative poor,
unlike the real ones I’m flying at the moment through,
ensconced in front row seat 1F, heading northwest passage,
passing by so ridiculously close to where
you are minding the soil,
as I am
mining your soul’s soil, tilling it between the ears,
of you, by me, for us, and the excited sadness
makes me happy and yes, inequitably, again,
hopping-mad

because your breadcrumbs and dark Swiss chocolate bars are
scattered and defaced, bitten and chewed, lovingly licked melting,
we who cover our tracks too well;
but what I do have, makes me ravenous,
having read all your poems,
in random order and then one more time,
sequentially

I see your history, near escapes and resurrections,
in fine grained moody minutiae punctuated by huge gaps in between,
that we must cream fill with clouds of wondrous loving curiosity,
a torture so exquisite, only the gods could have invented it like
Sunday Night Football,
and crazy sayings,
like I love you too...

been on my mind and I imagine you
hot and sweaty,
bent over, aching tired, from
picking weeds (gotcha),
when sudden one of us stands up straight, back aching,
screaming out loud
this is crazy, and follows up with
a *** Darius type proclamation,
who’s writing this poem to whom
issued to the upwards-skywards,
but addressed to ourselves,
the poets

as we search clouds by the thousands,
is that you in that cloud, in that poem,
I look down thinking that, that must be,
the plot of green and dusted light brown ground
where she has gone into hidey-hole hiding,
disappearing for months at a time,
before arising for the sticking of me
in the sticking place,
wounding me fresh with brand new poems
scandalous and imaginous,
and our imaginations are both
too skilled

so here I close, overwritten, overridden, too long,
overshot my imaginary bounds, so one
pulls down the shade over the oval window
through which too many great stories have commenced,
and ended

the thick cumulus shouting
as we look up
as we look down,
saying “enough, you crazy people,
your poems tell too much,”

perhaps, find me in that
next bite of herbs buttered,
and then ask (of course)

who’s writing this poem to whom?

then breathe out, exhaling me a
breath-poem up above, to where I’m hiding
just as I, am sending one to you,
earth falling from thirty thousand feet,
coming to rest on your mind,
in between your ears,
friend

<>

8-6-19
somewhere in the sky, clueless, heading north by northwest

Behind the wheel you will soon sit
Eager, nervous and confused,
To operate the many controls
Will tax your multi-tasking.

Review the mirrors, shoulder check
Set the revs and find the bite,
Release the hand-brake and move away,
All without a bunny hop.

And once you've first done that basic skill
You'll do it again, and again, and again
Until without thought you can make it go.

Then we will get into second gear.

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Questo matrimonio balla la linea tra giardino e rustico ;prendendo la bellezza naturale di una cerimonia all'aperto e abbinamento con la bellezza industriale del Sodo Park.dove da pranzo in stile familiare regna regina .E piegato in graziosi dettagli è abiti da sposa on line l' abilità di progettazione di McKenzie Powell .belle immagini da Bryce Covey fotografia e un video di nozze da Super Frog Salva Tokyo che è andato virale per una buona ragione .Date un'occhiata qui ancora di più.

Si prega di aggiornare il tuo browserShare questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsSummerSettingsGardenWarehouseStylesRustic

Da Sposa .Così molti dei nostri amici e parenti viaggiato incredibilmente lontano per essere al nostro matrimonio a Seattle .quindi abbiamo davvero voluto tutto il giorno .non solo per essere una festa.ma sento come una grande cena di famiglia in stile .Abbiamo tirato un sacco di ispirazione dai terrosi .cene comunitarie avevamo sempre adulato in Kinfolk .così abbiamo messo l'accento su avere lunghi tavoli comuni fattoria .una tavolozza di colori neutri / caldi .e un sacco di verde e di fiori .Abbiamo anche un colpo con un bellissimo spazio di accoglienza con soffitti alti e travi a vista che non richiedono alcun fluff supplementare .

E 'stato sorprendente vedere i pezzi si uniscono il giorno - di .ma onestamente .i nostri amici e parenti hanno giocato il ruolo più importante nel rendere tutto il giorno al di là di quello che mai avremmo immaginato .Abbiamo avuto così tanto coinvolgimento da parte di tutti - dai progetti bricolage e materiale stampato .ad avere un caro amico ci sposare .e tutta la mia famiglia che canta presso la nostra reception Von Trapp - style - ognuno ha lasciato la propria impronta sulla nostra giornata .( mio cugino èun panettiere ed effettivamente volato nostra torta tutta la strada da Toronto !) che ha reso incredibilmente memorabile per noi .La ciliegina sulla torta doveva essere la festa da ballo che seguì .Abbiamo avuto un incredibile equipaggio di amici e parenti per festeggiare con abiti da sposa on line .nessuno escluso .e venditori di eccezionale talento che ci ha aiutato a tirare fuori tutto il giorno !

nostro slow motion stand era il sottoprodotto di tasking una agenzia creativa per fare un video di nozze .SFST non sono video di nozze .ma mio marito .Quang .è un maestro nel convincere le persone a fare cose che normalmente non farei mai .( E probabilmente aiutato il fatto che egli è un co -proprietario di SFST . )

L' idea per la cabina è nata dopo aver realizzato un paio di cose : Ci sarebbe voluto molto tempo per loro di modificare il video completo di nozze .ma ancora più importante .abbiamo voluto provare e sfruttare alcune delle cose che SFST è in realtàbravo a - come fare le cose belle vanno virale.In verità.era quasi un dopo pensiero .Dalla realizzazione di idea era forse dieci secondi.

hanno suggerito di mettere una telecamera RED in una sezione della sala ricevimento e sparare tutto ad un frame rate elevato .Ma il successo del video è nel modo in cui è stato eseguito.e gli amici e la famiglia che hanno partecipato .L' uomo dietro la macchina da presa .Blaine Lundy .ha avuto la personalità perfetta per indirizzare la gente e ha fatto un lavoro incredibile modifica del pezzo .Anche i più timidi ospiti sono stati persuaso a taglio sciolto davanti alla telecamera .Re-



guardare il filmato per la prima volta .e vedere tutte le imbrogli che sono andati durante il nostro ricevimento è stato un momento davvero divertente sia per noi
Fotografia : Bryce Covey Fotografia | Videografia : . Super Frog Salva Tokyo | Event Design :Mckenzie Powell | Floral Design : McKenzie Powell Designs | Gown : Jenny Packham | Cake: The Cocoa Cakery | Cerimonia Luogo : Greg Giardino presso l'Università di Washington | Banco Luogo : Sodo Parco By Herban Festa | Bridesmaids Dresses : Amsale | Catering : Herban Festa |Calligrafia : Esque Script | Giorno di coordinamento: Get Stuff Done Group | Dress Boutique : La Teoria Dress | Trucco E Capelli : Erin Skipley | Photo Booth : Usnaps | Supporto Stampato : Katrina Mendoza | Veil : Sara GabrielAmsale e Sara Gabriel sono membri della nostra Look Book .Per ulteriori informazioni su come vengono scelti i membri .fare clic qui .McKenzie Powell Floral \u0026 Event Design e Bryce Covey Fotografia sono membri del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .McKenzie Powell Floral \u0026 Event ... vedi portfolio Bryce Covey Fotografia VIEW abiti cerimonia on line
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They praise multi-tasking
   that's not for me
   can't be watching TV
   when I'm writing poetry.

   I'll listen well
  to what you are speaking
  will not heed my mobile's ringing
  I frown upon multi-tasking.

  It's such a daily pleasure
  sitting before the table-- eating
  the papers are full of Covid 19 news
  I desist such reading.

  Loving one's spouse is fidelity
   multi-loving is adultery
   ( no doubt, also moral bankruptcy!)
   I do hope you'll agree with me.

everyday is an exertion
if you look hard enough
you can see my brain
in two places at once
but being this competent
has a consequent price
& I'm not even sure how to explain it
it seems with every accomplishment
i get further caught up in my abilities
my talents being a by-product
of unattainable stress
that i'll never be able to recognize
so when its time to shutdown
& cool off from the heat of the days work
i'm always stuck in the warmth of it
the fuzziness over my head
the future tasks awakening me
digging burrows in my skin
& nesting upon my amygdala
emotional strain detached
until the time comes when
the stress of accomplishment
becomes too much for even me
the double tasking
anxious achiever

Here you are again, O Dawn,
I've become Dame Washalot reborn,
Of suds, I am a champion
of expertise in washingdom,
What did we trade off for golden rings?
Is it still that biology-is- destiny thing?
Are all men such total duds?
Do you ever feel the need to suds?
Or am I queen of the rotten mongrels? Tough!
Now,  I have to vacuum, **** it up!
Vacuum now, or wash later?
Why I am a procrastinator?
This multi-tasking womanly thing,
Are wedding rings washing bling?
Whinging is fun, but no one listens,
See this washing glow and glisten!
So, here you are again, O Dawn,
Here I am, Dame Washalot reborn!!

**** its a slow night !
Mike said from across the table nursing his coffee inbtween passing the flask between us under the table.

Jack you pick up many fares tonight?
Bout the usual drunks bud but no its not been the best night .

Honestly I was happy bout the down time I was nursing hangover and truly didnt feel like dealing with peoples **** .

Listening to Mikey was bad enough he loved to ramble on about old stories and hookers he had nailed in his cab .

I swear I think sometimes he lived in that *******.
He certanly dressed like he did .Wearing the same clothes from last week .

You guys ever actually eat or do you just exist off ***** stories cigarettes and coffee.

Hey Susan you know I only come here to be in your presence .
Yeah right Jack hey you got anything in that flask you passing back and forth?

Sure do sweetheart I said as she leaned over the table she took a hit from the flask **** near emptying it.

Id care but I was to busy looking at her cleavage.
Hey leave something for us ***** Mike piped up.

Yeah well thats the cost of your buddy here looking down my shirt .
And what wonderful view it is sugar I said as she refilled my coffee totally ignoring Mike as usual .

What the hell man you wanna piece of *** I can tell you.where to look but dont let that ***** take all are ***** Jack.

Funny thing is its never are ***** when I buy it Mickey.
******* man you know I would share if I had a bottle .
Yeah I really cant say bud never seen you ever have one you *****.

Yeah ******* man.

Mike never could handle being picked on.
Alot of loud mouths couldn't .
Mike was one of many but he was a good laugh on a ocassion and kinda grew on you after awhile course so does a tumor so he wasnt exactly my favorite person in the world.

Course I never did like people .
I saw all there worst sides driving them the drunks least were semi honest .

The yuppies never paid you any mind you were there ride nothing more.

**** Jack I ever tell you bout that couple a few weeks ago I picked up?
I knew mikes silence wouldnt last long.

No you didnt .

Hell man so I do a pick up at the Raven you know that dive off Atlantic?

Yep been there many a time .

Well anyways I pick up this couple let me tell you from they were making out on the sidewalk I knew I was in for a show .

The chicks got this hot as **** little black cocktail dress on .
******* guy barely can tell me the address cause the chicks all over him.

So I head to the address well no sooner Im heading down the road I look back in the review and this ***** is going down on him I mean she's putting a Linda Lovelace to shame back there.
No **** well I know your demented *** was happy beats a drunk passing out in the backseat ******* himself .

No **** sherlock mike replied .
Anyways Im like ******* enjoying the **** out of this fare .
So much so a figure why the hell not *******.

Are you ******* nuts?
How the hell you going to drive and ******* truly you are one sick **** Mikey.

**** hell man I'm a professional brother unlike you .
Really you got to loosen up and live or this job will drive you nuts .

Yeah like your sane I thought to myself .

Anyways she's back there going to town like she working a ***** scene .
Everything's feeling good but I just kind of lost myself for a moment
Swerved hit the **** curb .

And I hear this guy ******* almost scream.
See when I hit the curb she bout bit his **** off.

******* funny **** the guys yelling get me to the ******* hospital she's keeps telling him she's sorry.

But thats not all of it he's going off cause he cant figure out what he's going to tell his wife .

Aint that some **** and to top it off the ******* didnt even tip me.
I cant imagine after almost giving him *** change why he wouldnt want to tip you Mickey.

Oh like I'm some ******* for getting worked up watching this chick go to town on this guy.
Okay hotshot being your so more noble than me what would you had done so differently .


I sat looked at this fellow cabbie trying not to laugh.
Honestly mike .

I would have pulled over and left the meter running till she finished .

I never was much at multi tasking like yourself .

Fuack you Jack I heard Mike say as I left a tip on the table and was on my way out.

Be careful out there Jack I herd Susan say.
Dont worry sugar I always am .


Stay crazy .

Gonz

is in the spaces between the words where the unspoken
can make imagination leap oceans in a single bound

let us be a tad explanatory,  
the accuracy of hi)s(tory,
starts with the evolution
of his revolutions,
his tree rings are
2.481481 multiple
of some of you
and this vantage point
just is,
neither dis or ad

my window fire escape is in NYC,
mon arrondissement est Le UES,
my-e-scapes, my e-names,
multiplying and manifold,
all revealed and revered,
even the state sanctioned one,
the nomination law-approved,
all are in the consciousness and the conscience
flowing in his thousands of writings,
all delivered
by the ancient viaduct roman
in the cerebrum of him
by the whim,
by the command of muses,
by their voices becoming,
now residents in his head

those tasking demanding, never satisfied,
poetry gods/goddesses remade the human,
plucked him to be a science project,
began by teaching him observation,
the meaning of colors
in comprehending feelings
by employing the senses five,
working as a team coordinated,
a team of superheroes
(POW! BAM! SPLAT!)
armed with the powers of
kindness, modesty and a
love for the sensuous,
that speaks volumes sensual
with no words, and the sound
on low
and together then, extract
the elements and plaster all into story
with the truth and fantasy interspersed

all his accumulated lovers,
future current and past,
look over his shoulders
as poet composes
suggesting constructs and textual emendations,
this's and that's, and don't forgets,
and some,
what does it matters...to this unusual text

fear nothing, except restraint, make knowing distance,
a precarious safety net, at best, no, not your best friend,
safety comes from the roots of who you are,
and so simple, there they are, written out for you,
in a thousand plus easy to follow steps

it is not distance that's the issue
reminds me, Herr Professor Albert,
(who takes the fall colors thru his eyes)
but time, yours, his, the chiefest enemy,
unless you can bend its curve
in shared poetry intelligible and cloudy
<•>
4:14am

I've found a way to expensively sell my plight
easily throughout the day and night
by just packaging them in mystery
of sadly amazing yet charming poetry
a way to camouflage my history
through dropping in some verbal chemistry
which makes it touching and compelling
found a way to let the world know without telling
I've found means to undress without vulgarity
a way to be kind without doing charity
discovered a clear path to touching without hands
of performing healing magic without wands
with my confusing and jumbled rhyme
I've found a way to speak against crime
to speak for those who lie in the name of truth
and ones who lost their sweet tooth
a way to give courage to chickens afraid of the visible eagle
I've found a way to rescue those drowning in their ego
I've found a way to feed the hungry without food
to bare handedly clothe the homeless and ****
a way to condemn without sounding rude
a way to help rather than wishing I could
I've found a way to give and still keep
to smile with the joyed and with the grieved weep
I've found a way to carry burdens by casting them away
to help winds of change trees of the moment sway
I've found a way to tightly keep my anger at bay
a less tasking manner of living to die another day
I've found a way to my goals even if it's through imagination
to disguise my disappointments in sweet intonation
I've found a way to clear the conundrum onto pages
a reason to keep on living after lifeless ages
I've found a way to make peace, and duly atone
to find company even when the rest are gone
I've found flesh to shelter what's been a moving carcass
shook hands with destiny,I've finally known my purpose

Trailing rigid yellow satin robe,
you have hugged my curves the longest
and felt the way I leave the grounds running.

Traveling up and down my long lean legs,
and the lower United States too.
I am a mess they do not dare quantify.

Towering my misspoken 2AM un-sents,
the half licked envelopes of Sunday's unrest.
Over detailed lines of over stated emotions layed.

Taking a moment to mention the mourning
of my lost ability to create more than myself.
Maybe it is not what i've created, but when.

Tasking away to write more than i should know,
they tell me that I have never really known.
But what do they know?

Tenaciously giving life to words with low meaning,
streaming about the lines I weave whilst sneering.
I am not livid, but I have been alive.

On the edge of genius and insanity, I walk a colorless line.
To ask pure questions of myself, tasking the limits of my mind.
I wrap myself in complex thoughts, obscuring a realistic life.
Tossing simplistic notions 'way for that grander broader prize.
And as I tear away the strings that bound me to mankind.
My eyes do see from point of view an omniscient god-like prize!
Then such a fear doth take my soul with force enough to paralyze.
And back I'm ****** with jealous hands, slight laughter in blank eyes.
Now mere men do part their way, as I make my by and by,
and I sense the thoughts and notions of their innocent one track minds.

.
With love so dear and sheerest light,
Arrived to clear moors of heart,
As it bled for near myth in fey touch,
Grained by times and dust apart,

The moon was cast as sun was shy
And rain did fall winsome, tasking,
Suddenly a meadow appeared new,
Flying colours under sun basking

And as a child once more, I became,
To feel such graces slowly divine,
No longer lost in gardens of dream,
But be rapt in broken light so kind.
.

Don’t know if it is my attention
deficit syndrome, the neurones
gone, or just, being simply thick.

But, there is no way, I can do a
fraction of what my wife manages
to coordinate, at the same time.

She can put on eye make up,
send an sms, tune the radio,
   tidy the cards in her purse,

Indicate left while turning right,
all without even looking in the
    rear, or side view mirrors!