Unabashedly Public (return of the babies; my broken ribs, Zenith poem)


~for Sue Huff~

“unabashedly public,” the accusation,
causes me no blushing consternation
for it’s true, no secret kept worse, than this,
my sleeves, all outside-stained, heartfelt red,
the poems hide so little, with exception of my multifarious,
multivariate, semi-secret identities y’all mostly ferret out

“had no plans to look you up,”
but you kept sending selected of the eldest children,
even from 2012, I remember an afternoon well,
the odors, the food, my friend Al, now passed,
who made me think, indeed,
where do the poems come from?

a bequest to my eldest, who still never calls,
never writes, but will call me for help when
he finds himself in jail, or needs my (car) services;
its been a couple of years, but suspect time
is on my side, life makes needs, those **** happenstances,
that are never happy, but require your lawful presence

and on and on,

men & women, discovered, by their poetry reveled, revealed,
in thigh highs and backhoes, keepers of tortuous promises,
doing the quiet way, always asking, what’s the honorable thing,
all uncovered here, and secret sharers, these poets grab a holt
of my eye ducts, gifting insights that my brain tearfully inquires,
how did they know that bout me, these new kin and kindred?

my broken ribs?

the knowers know i am a summertime creature.
What they do not know, that on the last day
on where I summer shelter, a thin ring, a tree ring,
appears around my chest, marking my annualization,
some rings thick, thin, a year of seasons, all at different paces,
a year of rain & pain, thicker, slower did it pass

What they do not know, these fateful poets, all of my one faith,
these rings deep go, beyond the surface, constricting contractions,
they tighten, squeezing the lungs, slowing the breadth of my breath,
breaking ribs, reminder to write better, now that time is shortening,
labored breathing is a breathtaking experience, do, be better, chances for kindnesses lessened, why hide, time to be unashamedly public

had no plans to write today, especially this one, but circumstances
of my added-on circumferential measurement appearing, triggered by y’all sending me my poems of long ago, played mind-gotcha, this rambling emerged, to celebrate my being nearer to thee, thee, my passing, nearer than thee, this, me old-crust pieces, cutting the mouth’s soft-inside, inside softness, place where weeping & writing
leak on the poem tongue directly

to live in harmony with the
unending quests that yet, always need doing,
all in, are you, am I, awaiting your best attentions,
giving you thy own reparations, given to yourself;
if this then be my own equinox, autumnal equinox,

when the sun is at zenith, directly above,
the equator, this then my reparation, my

                                          Zenith poem**


9/24/19 12:15p

It's another night where I feel
Like I need someone to understand me.

I can't contemplate any
More of my life.
I've tried to live, I've tried to die...
I'm still so cold inside.

I"m bitter, I'm bored.
I'm lonely, I'm sore.
I'm crying, I'm trying.
I'm lying and I'm sick of it.

Can we all just stop?  
Why can't we stop?
Will we just stop...

This pointless existence
Faced for masses,
Yet blinded by adversity
And wills of actions.

Can we all just stop?
Why can't we stop?
Will we just stop existing?

I have.

pineapples.
why do we like them?
i don't know.
they are prickly
and pokey.
and kind of ugly.
and man, are those things ******* hard to peel.

apples.
why do we eat them?
i don't know.
they are shiny.
and kind of boring.
and you can't eat half of it anyway,
because it's too close to the seeds.

strawberries.
what kind of fruit are they?
their seeds are on the outside.
and their flavor of starburst doesn't taste anything like them.
and sometimes they get really squishy and covered in mold.

bananas.
why do we eat them?
i don't know.
maybe because they are yellow.

Once I knew a spider
wore Doc Martens on his feet,
eight holes on eight hairy legs
he wasn't too discrete.

He rode a lengthy shadow
while he stomped around the floor
this micro “muy macho”
unabashedly cocksure

I trapped him in a glass one night
And told him at the door
“My wife she doesn't like you
don’t you come around no more”

But spiders rarely listen
and ignoring my request
next evening he returned once more
our octo-booted guest

I should have lived to thank you more,
where the blue dots and the green dots
met on a stormy porch-front streaming
crack-paint, blank and dirt from years
of games on the blurry tabletops.

Years of games.

We should have walked in the fields,
you the tide swelling and falling and
ultimately disgorging universes of all
you used to know: the good and the small
and the stern and the silly and the cruel.

The good and the small.

He will take your place in the shows,
in all the nightlies and the dailies,
grey hat and black sash. He is taller
by far, and you can't look up to someone
that unabashedly taller than you.

Grey hat and black sash.

You would have made time for me between
strides on the honest diamond of the sky,
and I? I might not listen at all, but
the pearl in the glasses, those awful
brown glasses would stay with me.

I might not listen at all.

She sat with us many evenings as the
winds raked the small lights of our speech.
What has become of her, I wonder more
frequently, but sleep with my head
on my hands all the same.

Sleep with my head on my hands.

They call me under the door, they call.
They fill me with themselves until I'm out.
Just what they want from me and less. Still,
they can't tell me the good and the small,
The fact that deep down I am nothing at all.

The fact that deep down I am nothing at all.

Before I begin, let me make one thing perfectly clear:
Everything I’ve ever given a **** about, I’ve been unabashedly critical of.
So believe me when I say that I appreciate ever word out of your mouth I’ve spanned the distance to hear.
You have all these years that you hang over my head, dangling them, subtly mocking from the end of a thread.
Yes, darling, you’re well aged and well-read but I’ll be ****** if I will let my experiences be invalidated by a few years and your fiery, well-meaning arrogance, let that be heard as it’s said.
It’s true that you know me better than most but don’t get it twisted. You sure as hell don’t know me better than me.
Pretend all you like that I’m buttered-up and convinced that your life lessons and late night calls have set me free, but you know as well as me that’s a lie fed through your precious mind’s teeth.
I boil and I freeze so I know I can stand the heat, but just remember one thing:
You’re intense and addictive but baby, the scorpion still stings.
And one twin will **** well bite while of your praises the other sings.

When I was young,
I had long curly hair
That cascaded down my back
Like an ominous waterfall;
So dark and thick, it seemed to go on forever.
But, when I was in school, it was always *******.
It was a challenge for my mother to tame it with a brush
And keep it in the confines of a bun.
She said it was to keep my hair
from getting to my and others’ faces.
But some people still managed to make me feel bad for having such “unruly” hair
when the most it’s been exposed is when I take out my hair tie just to tie it back up again.
For years I tried to straighten it;
Hair rebonding every year,
Straightening iron ever morning,
Damaged hair and damaged pride every day.

They say a woman’s hair is her crown;
She must wear it with her chin up
And flaunt it unabashedly.
This is to the girls who do.
This is to the girls who dye their hair magnificent colors
To match their colorful personalities.
This is to the girls who cut their own hair
Because hair salons charge so much for a trim.
This is to the girls who shave all their hair for charity
Or for support of the girls in chemotherapy.
But this is also for the girls in chemotherapy,
Who are still thriving even though they’re suffering.
This is also to the girls whose hair are being treated like an anomaly,
Their braids being pulled and afros being patted.
This is also to the girls who can’t land a job
Because their skills were degraded by their “unprofessional” hair.

A woman’s hair is her crown
But a queen does not need a crown.
A queen is not just some girl with a shiny thing on her head.
A queen is a figure of power, compassion and grace.
She wears the crown, not the other way around.

The bourgeoisie?
I loath them,
and I hope they buy my poems!
The critics?
They know nothing,
and I hope they hail my poems!
The intellectuals?
Dumber than pigeons,
and I hope they canonize my poems!
Unabashedly,
I'm not afraid to admit it:
I write for fame and riches,
and nothing really more.

Yes, yes, make no secret of it,
I wish only to shock you,
arouse and repulse you,
****** you,
with mindless,
gore-splattering violence,
and heart-throbbing ***,
along on every page.

****** and *****, gore, and blood,
how else are my sales to flood?
It's art for arts' sake,
or something to the effect of that,
whatever makes me edgy,
socially relevant,
to scholars postmodern,
housewives bored,
and teenagers yearning,
to read ***** words.

So keep it then in mind,
my lovely readers you,
I very much like infamy,
and piles of money too;
be sure to buy my books,
praise me,
“Fresh and new!”
So that I may hire cooks,
to save time writing verse,
the very verses you adore,
lambasting the very rich and poor.

Rampant materialism,
spiritual decay,
what else do you
*******
want me to say?
A saint of the lowly,
the offbeat too,
voicing the obscure,
and the unheard and the
blah, blah, blah,
whatever it is,
I really don't care
quite honestly,
bluntly,
I'm being true,
I write for the fame
and the riches,
not you!

Over the course of 64 years (and still), I have encountered so many women (including my still lovely ex-wife) in person and in writing who struggle with their looks. It seems to be an eternal theme that crosses generations. So, I decided to write this humble piece in reply.
There are some who would say I can’t write about women’s feelings because I am a man. A patronizing old, white man. I note their objecions, but I disagree. I believe humanity always trumps gender.
We live in an artificial culture created and controlled by advertisers. Not only do they sell us stuff, they convince us that we need it. Women are perfect targets for them.
So they have created impossible standards for women to live up to. You must always look like you are 25, young and thin. They tell you this is the key to being desired, even loved. As it’s impossible to be young and thin forever, they just happen to have the products that will “help” you. They want your minds so they can profit by manipulating them. They do a great job of it.
So the key to loving your bodies and yourselves is to take back your minds. This is difficult. You are bombarded with a barrage of words and images that say you are not good enough. If only you were younger, thinner, shaped like Barbie, not greying, had longer legs, bigger *******, wore a size 2, you would be happy, and — of course — men would desire you. You would never be traded in for a younger, sleeker model. So many insecurities to exploit.
But consider the difference between beauty and Beauty. Beauty is human, individual and eternal; beauty is abstract, mass and reliant on current tastes.
I have known many women of all shapes, sizes and ages who were Beautiful. That Beauty was expressed from their hearts through their faces and eyes. They radiated it. It was not dependent on my or any other man’s approval. It just was. So I know this can be done.
Fashion changes so there will always be new things to sell. To the current ad masters, the Gibson girls of the late 19th century would now be called fat. Sell them a diet plan and gym membership. The angular loveliness of the Venus de Milo too cold and boyish. Sell her cosmetics and plastic surgery. Mona Lisa, a dumpy Italian girl. So many things to sell her.
And then there is that intense desire to please men that begins with daddy. I often hear its echo even in the strident voices of the most ardent feminists. The advertisers trade on that. That’s deep. That’s very hard to overcome. That’s both an individual and a cultural problem.
But many women never seem to consider that a great many men aren’t dumb enough to buy the 25 and thin forever image and don’t really demand to be constantly pleased. They might actually be looking for intelligence, heart, affection and respect instead of a perfect ***. Not all, often not the young, but many.
At some point, you have to say no and mean it. You are not your age, dress size, cup size or waist size. Those are just outward manifestations of the true you. If someone rejects you on the basis of such ephemeralities, you are better off without them. You have to take control of your soul. No one can give you that except yourself. You have to live with yourself just as men have to live with themselves. Again, humanity trumps gender.
I unabashedly love women. They have been one of the great delights of my life. I love the difficulties and the differences. What a woefully dreary world it would be if men and women were they same. So, it pains me to see so many women in so much pain.
You are, first of all, a person and that is worth insisting upon. Insist. Demand. Escape, if necessary. Be the only you you can ever truly be. Then you will feel pretty. And you will be as pretty as you feel.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5dbshnvztGA

  ~mce

-  I will always be willing to listen to your
stories, and will forever want to hear them.
Your words are as good as music to me.

- There will be days where the sun feels cold to
me and I am made a prisoner to my deepest fears.
There will be nights where I wake up sobbing,
just as much a prisoner as I was during the day.
Be gentle, be patient with me.

- I smile at everyone I make eye contact with on the street.

- I love in an earnest manner that can be
overwhelming. I am not malevolent,
but rather I have spent years being told
that my feelings aren’t worth listening to,
and I just have a lifetime’s worth of love to give.

- If you manage to hold what I can throw at you,
you’ve found someone in your
corner that won’t go without a fight.

- You’ll never see me fighting anyone.

- I’ve worried I’m too vulnerable for far too long;
I am raw and unadulterated and unabashedly so.
I refuse to inhibit what I have to say.

- I will give you all that I have and more;
please don’t take advantage of this.

- I will write about you, I will write about how
I feel, I will write about someone I once loved
and about how I once felt. Words and feelings
are fleeting, but they are also powerful.

- I will ask you questions until I’ve found out
everything there is to know about you-
including things you never thought about.

- I have friends who will call me in the dead of
night; I will answer the phone, I will drive to
their house with their favorite dessert in tow.

- I will pull over on the side of the road if the
clouds are compelling enough. I can sit for hours
watching the sun set or water fall. Either hold my hand
and join me, or let me be overwhelmed by something 
greater than myself in peace.

- No one can or will love you the way that I do;
take that as my most horrid vice, or my most endearing virtue.

the server (waiter) raps
praise upon the sushi,
its integrity,
the harmonic
of its construct,
the curated singularity of
each rice grain

the innate elegance of
the thin sliced,
nearly translucent,
au naturel, organic,
ginger root

the skin smooth paste of
green wasabi,
grown naturally
along stream beds in
mountain river valleys in Japan

genuinely puzzled,
when he,
the old erstwhile poet
unabashedly weeps before all

no hero he,
just an overcome one,
his tears flavoring his food

mourning the
celebrated abuse
of his verbal children,
those natured nurtured babes
the stuff,
the words of his definition

each weird word,
loved for their cultured,
unique quality of their history
grown in languages's
perpetual petri dish

asked if something was a matter,
answered yes,

"this plated performance,
such an extravagant essay
on the beauteous wonder
of life's bounty,
left me wordless"

and she, burst out loud in laughter

From gentle falling snow to air born blossoms Mexico City stroll the city observe the
Architecture with the tree above fragrant and scented the place and its history is mind and soul
Altering the culture undertakes enhancing you could quickly transport yourself to ancient
Mesopotamia at the gate Ishtar a honing emerges from the submersed recesses of knowing
Plentiful abundance you are a space traveler in your own planet what happened the possibility
Of renewal of nature triggered something wondrous you are on solid ground but you are also in
Wrapped by Cinergy so large nature unbound intricate exquisite the very mood of life
Expressed through a wild heart that never fails to excite stillness holds your sight you presume
Certain facts just by the innocence that casually hangs in display beauty enriches then
Sweetly on a wafting breeze the fragrance of Lilac everything now is sought in this perfume that
Can never be bottled but it catches and releases joy and thrills across the tendrils of the heart
Amazing disembodied that can’t be matched or missed every turning ever filling with
Enchantment pleasure that is universal everyone is accosted delighted the spectacle is then
Perfected by rain and mist that leaves droplets on all that is visible saturation enters and drips
Unconsciously in the extravagant folds of the soul bliss awash in environs where only gentle
Fields grow such richness competes with the poverty that rules at so many points in life we
Walk imprisoned then it occurs happens without fanfare or announcement nature explodes as
Far as the eye beholds a virtual fair an extravaganza nothing is left unaffected you are invited to
This show you are to be a participant in life at its far reaches the swirl the blending of affection
And tranquility gifts so unabashedly presented hush befalls the entire world quietly it
Commands Without rehearsal the perfect show comes to life for your viewing and pleasure
Though we are buffeted by strife and challenges that at times seem unreasonable but just by
Taking a stroll and looking at the garments Mother Nature adorns herself in paths and gates
That are lying before you twist and turns that speak to the essential human in us all come to
Such wonder all you have to do is open yourself cherished living you will find created by an all
Loving Heart for His children you are the entitled keepers and reapers of a harvest that
Continues its Renewal year by year and truly does get sweeter as time goes by

Marge retrogrades lazily towards the hills;
Her name, printed the width of her cab-over dinette
In crinkled cobalt cursive,
Totters eccentrically as her handbrake fails.

SNAP-AP

Oblivious to errant camper vans (and centripetal forces in general),
Barney speeds maniacally along a deserted city street;
Golden coated and joyously poochie,
His tongue flabbers as fast as his bicycle courier dad can pedal.

SNAP-AP-AP

Mr Blue buys buckets at Bunnings
To match his cerulean suit and shinier-than-shiney satin shirt;
Periwinkle rhinestone shoes carry him unabashedly passed the second glances and sideways looks;
There goes the best dressed DIY-er in town…don’t ya know.

SNAP-AP-AP-AP

There stand the gates.

Massive and made of the highest quality oak. Ornate, covered with runes of a forgotten language.

In front of this gargantuan doorway stands its guard.

A black-faced lion with a rust colored mane, a man's body, full armor, and a long halberd.

The Gatekeeper

"No man enters these gates except through me," he says,

"You would be a fool to believe you'll walk through alive.

I will not simply **** you,

Once you attempt to pass this line."

he points at a faded gap in the grass in front of him.

"I will break you.

I will annihilate you.

I will devour your soul

Slowly."

He begins to pace back and forth while hungrily looking you up and down.

Despite his having the body of a man, he still looks very much more like a predator.

"I have no need of meat.

I will leave your body for the vultures!"

He gestures to the pile of bones off to the side of the intimidating gate.

Picked clean.

"Your mind and your,"

he inhales deeply as if he were trying to sniff out a savory dish,

"Spirit!

Are what interest me.

When I am finished with you,

You will be mine entirely!

I will enjoy every morsel of your being.

But my mouth grows weary of speaking."

He looks you in your eyes.

"It wishes to eat."

He unshoulders his halberd and takes up an offensive stance.

The long shaft ends in a finely sharpened point,

Unabashedly aimed in your direction.

"Will you feed me?"

He asks,

"Will you risk these teeth for a chance at these doors?"

You clench your jaw in determination,

And take a step forward.

He smiles.

His razor sharp, impossibly clean teeth shine in the sun.

"Excellent."

he licks his lips,

"I do love a good meal."

I thought
my thoughts
were bigger than anyone's.
Maybe I was bigger than anyone.

This served to isolate me
from the fact that I am small, not bigger and I am okay
with that.

When did it begin? Why would I need this mechanism of living?
Did it start at birth? Or when my cat died in our house fire?
Maybe...
When I lost my father to his mental illness? When he was taken away?
Maybe the ****?
When the trauma set in?

If I am a mass of cells, a living organism,
vulnerable to this world of others.
I need protection. There was none when little. Children need protection.

I developed my bigger-self by watching others. I learned to protect.

I learned to heal. I learned to forgive, but always, my thoughts
were bigger than yours. You didn't recognize so I appeared
aloof, angry, bitter, warming, smarter, friendly, volatile, politically correct, patient, intense, stubborn, caring, wistful, shattered and put together again. I was all over the map. I couldn't find my waypoint, until now.

This is life's way. Our vehicle is our thoughts.

I am not bigger in thought, in action or in self. I am tired of running away, of blaming, of being ashamed.

I no longer need protection other than from myself.

I am now relaxing in the part I could not have been taught. The idea that even experiences, over and over and over again, would teach me my lesson. You ask why people keep repeating
mistakes. This is our allotment. The price each of us pays.

It is my thoughts that save me now, wondering about my son, his illness, about my predicament
after years of hard work, unabashedly independent, procuring mindfulness, deliberating the Buddhist way, meditating on thoughts,
through a maze of my twelve steps
that I now for this moment am alone in.  My thoughts deconstructed. More connected, but not bigger.

My shoulders drop, my face unfurrows, my heart slows, a tear begins if I let it. I am released. I will not suffer further.

How can I tell you, I am not bigger any longer and I am at peace.

A heavy-hipped roll busts out of my skinny skin
I am too thin and thingish to keep being so mean

I walk hard, long in stride,
having feet clad with iron
and black Chelsea boots,
stomping on hearts, hard

Deep, rushed, I howl into the city's summer fog,
like a hound with no home, no master, of his own
with all the flourishes of my cursive jarring scrawl

I am too ****** up, I am too ****** up dude
too ****** up to go back home. Toast?

For now, life,
but I will be dead by morning
still I am alive, awake, and sharp as a tack,
I die then six o'clock in the *******-morning-after
sober as the screaming birds, and I will rise again.

So for now, while I still care and can,
dance with me drunkards, but don't call me baby.
for I am sweet and clean, but belong to nobody,
with the exception of my dear vain reflection.

Then I have to kiss somebody that makes me laugh.
I have to kiss them because I am very compelled,
to do so now. I need to kiss you.

BAM.

Get in bed with me,
under the sheets,
but let's only sleep.

---------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­---------
IN BED, CUDDLING, WHILE HIDING HARD THINGS, LIKE HOW I WANT TO KISS THEM
------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-----

Okay, well maybe, makeout a little
                                                          ­      but I swear I won't sleep with someone
as groovy as you because I like you
                                                             ­   and want you to stay a little afterwards
but oh, look, here we are, goodness,
                                                       ­         it's hard because it feels so ******* nice
when you, oh my neck and you, oh
                                                              ­  why are your pants and socks still on!?

-----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-
YOUR MOUTH TASTES LIKE ME AND YOU FEEL LIKE I WANT TO DO ALL THAT AGAIN
-----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-

All rumpled and giggling, tousled hair, smiling
Kissing your back, holding you closely, sleepy.

Light a candle, stay, pray with me, in our way,
through smoke and soft chatter, light touches

spilling secrets into the scruff of your neck
where I've stained you purple with kisses
affection for the aficionados, I love them
the boys and girls, who kiss me hard, back.

please do not judge me
for loving people before
you, if I love them a little,
and if I do not love you all

But

maybe I love you,
maybe I love them.

But

probably I love neither of them.
probably I love their memories.
probably from what I once saw of them, all made up in my head, from that one time.
probably, even though it hurts a little to talk about it.

But

I would bet my life on the fact that I am over all the individuals I have kissed before.
I would just say that I am in love with their embellished, immortal, and unblemish selves.

I painted all these romantic scenes in my mind, with all the boys and girls in my brain,
where we'd be in bed, frittering the day away, talking and joking, kissing every so often, unexpectedly.

They would look pretty and I would look pretty, both naked and all freckled, flushed, with smooth skin, holding hands and telling stories of ******* and bravado where they did some vandalism or something, and they'd be impressed with my tales too.

Then we'd just spend the day together making food and flirting, having *** in every way, and exploring each others bodies and listening to how everything we both say is endlessly fascinating.

My face would hurt from smiling, from how they'd make me smile, and from how happy I am from making them smile, and that they smile for me.

They would inspire me within every part of my being to not ******* them, but to truly be kind, and love them unabashedly, and show them the best of me, and be the best for them.

I can't force that, though, it has to happen naturally.
I had that, I don't love anyone anymore but I had it when I loved them emphatically
with new and whole innocence that transcended everything I knew about everything.

But
stop,
stay, please
because that was then,
this is now.

I miss them/that,
but I want you, here.
I want you to stay please stay
I will be yours, and care,
forever

till the end of this minute.
Kissing them until they comply, please

XxXxxXxXxxxXXXxXXXxxxxxXxxxXXxx

they stay,
a little while,
and I pray

that the sun will rise, again, on today
that we won't get too ugly when we're old,
that we will find somebody in the bed that is cold
that the sun will set in the east one day, that when we'll see it die,
that everything will be real quick and fast, and feel a little nothing.

repeat it repeat it repeat it repeat it
until I am scared and unless I am scared
and then until we're old and really that dead

until our youth is d-e-a-d,
then finally,
we can steal the contents of our heads,
that wouldn't go down on the paper
like my hands wanted them too,
so very badly

                                                          ­            then finally,

                                             we can curl up and we can sleep                                    
                                                                ­                  and we can

                                                            ­                            get some rest in this

                                                               ­                 very

                                                               ­               big city

Poet took a grandiose leap of faith,
   amid a big swig of moonbeams
   dabbling toes beyond starry galaxies
Milky Way spun in translations
    Pluto still looked perplexed,
Big Dipper gave a smart **** grimace
    wondering what the hell was
   going on 'neath the stratosphere
   when human beings can't keep
       their heads above ambiguous clouds
            feet  firmly planted on ground,
delving lofty heaven's bliss
     escaping the wrath of hell's fire,
  aggrandizing endless poesy that
absorbs sparks of a universal desire
        never phasing sun's obstinance,
   but, if you believe in poetry
      there's no telling where
        boundless skies will surrender**

...and the man in the moon tilted on his axis in a
    backward's spiral and unabashedly winked

I feel
Used up
Cleaned out
Thrown away
Cast aside
Discarded
Exploited
Exploited
Exploited
Like twenty-two years
Of making myself a beautiful person
Was only for others to grab at
And pilfer
At will.

I never knew my pleasure
Was at the whim of animals
Of worms and wolves and vultures.
I never knew I had to ask
Permission
To live my life unsoiled.
May I?
May I be loved?
May I be appreciated and accepted?
May I trust?
May I have sole ownership of my body?

Someone pillaged my temple.
It is now closed
For demolition
And subsequent reconstruction.
It will be rebuilt
With steel bars and security guards.
No longer do I love freely and unabashedly.
No longer do I trust others
Or myself.

I have sewn my own head
Back into place
To stick my neck out again.
I now wear the stitches
As a trophy
As a medal
As a warning
As a threat
That I will never let you befriend me
I will never let you touch me
I will never let you in
I will never let you close
I will never let you hurt me
I will never let you **** me
Again.

Just because the frost needs time to thaw
Before the flowers can really grow
Just because the clouds need time to gather
Before cold winds turn to snow
Just because our hearts and our minds often fight
Just because we have to give them time to understand each other
Just because our hearts seem to be eons ahead
of our doubting, dismissive minds
It does not mean we never know
What we truly want

We just have to give ourselves time.

The amazing graces sung by grizzled sailors
As they sailed human cargo from the delirious African coast
To the throes of the Western Empire.
And these grizzled sailors
the odd lonely ducks
Seeking self validation from their lofty superiors
Set sail to embark on a crime against humanity
For a living

And in the end, your Sunday School favorite
Amazing Grace
how sweet the sound!
It is perhaps the single most church song
That doesn’t make you feel guilty or fake happy
It’s simply a song that unabashedly feels

I know what I want
I just have to give myself time
Which is a concept I hardly believe in anymore
Time

I am aware that I can be a fierce wind
Capable of tearing down everything
In a tumultuous bluster of love
But also feverish madness
Manic, sure, but also a wonderful spontaneity
If something feels truly sublime then how can it be wrong?

I am also capable of gentle breezes
Like the soft airy kisses of a whispering night wind
I am wind that can make your arm hairs tickle
I am wind that can gush and chill you to the bone
As I try to envelop you in a nurturing embrace

And if my tender gushing alarms you then please forgive me
For with every fire you ever built you have lit a fire in me
So suddenly I was frightened
At first that looking at you made me melt and burn
To ashes my heart was scattering and falling apart
What a frightening thought!
Unlike a moth I first shied away from your brilliance
And so from a delicate but deeply loving distance
Your presence warmed my chilly gusts
And as your flames gently licked the wind that grew stronger
So too my wild and wonderful breezes hungered for more warmth

Watch the fire deeply
See how the flames massage the air
Look above the fire and see that the air is falling apart
Its molecules expanding and undulating in the warmth
Heat is a beautiful thing
but intense
So is a strong wind

As you so warmed me so I longed to be nurturing
To fan your fire with my most spectacular torrent
A few things might have burned down
Like the walls we built over the decades
Walls of paper tigers guarding our souls
Well the wildfire we built together burnt those walls rightly down
Let’s admire the ruins of the false lives we’ve lived in the past
To protect the God residing within us
from the realm of the material world

Grace teaches our hearts to fear
And by grace our fears are overcome
Through faith I exist
Through hope I keep existing
But it is through love that I understand why

I speak of fear, sheer limbic,
Reptilian fear, and there’s the rub:
Obliterate thought and all that’s left is fear,
And fear’s known associates & cronies:
Hunger, Thirst, *** & everything else
Triggering our amygdale nether brains,
Each synapse a single primal scream,
Rich Reichian fodder and sacrificial yawp,
Whitman’s bleating syllable, straight bedrock,
Down low on the Hierarchy of Human Needs.
Abraham Maslow: another shrewd Jew from
Brooklyn, New York. Atta boy Abe:
Adrenaline pure and simple,
An instinct for survival.
I suppose my only regret in life,
Was that I was not old enough to be
A victim of the Holocaust.
I mean nothing facetious or disrespectful by this.
(Like Jesus, I was born a Jew.)
All I mean is that a stint at Auschwitz or
Bergen-Belsen, might have done wonders for me,
Saving me much time, given the number of books
I’ve read on the subject, just trying to get my heart &
Mind around the throat of evil.
My story is truth, not science fiction.
Yet, I confess to having some difficulty
Discerning the difference lately.
Perhaps this is why my mind wanders.
That’s probably what I love best about Stanley Kubrick—
Another insightful New York Jew.
His vision of space, namely the shrewd perception,
That after 5,000 years of recorded human history,
It was going to be difficult.
It would be a challenging enterprise,
Noodging the human race to choose,
A more cerebral path;
A state of mind & brilliant grace,
Embrace a kinder, fearless self and future.
Kubrick understood he must first take us to Odulvai,
Our primal anthropological killing fields,
Then he could transport us to outer space.
Only then, could we evolve,
Adapt to cooperation and tolerance,
Shift our future focus,
Our natural and spiritual resources,
Our potential.
Collaboration not competition.
2001: A Space Odyssey: released
A year before the Apollo program
Put a man on the moon, five years
Before the space station Skylab.
Kubrick’s gift to mankind was a clear new perspective:
Man in space looking back at a very small holistic Earth,
And an infant self, both diminished,
Made insignificant in a vast cosmic context.
Other forces were at work, of course,
Lying in wait as always, global forces
Co-opting the vision, drowning it in an old
Unabashedly mercantile reality.
That Darwinian old world order,
Again, reducing human existence
To an economic absurdity.
Globalism: the scariest Bond villain yet.

I sit quietly and watch as they all pass by
Strange strangers of every shape and size
Wondering what and who and how they are
Wondering how they've all come this far
There's the short man with shoes too small
The old woman, under her arm an old doll
The young man who always wears pink
The woman whose fingers are covered in ink
The man whose face is sprinkled with pimples
The little girl, on her left cheek one dimple
The gray haired woman singing under her breath
The man with the face anxiously waiting for death
The young woman hiding behind her dark hair
The albino man sitting while enjoying a pear
The woman standing rigid, who silently cries
The tall man standing near, eating her with his eyes
The lady wearing too much makeup, always bored
The father with his son whom he simply ignores
The crumpled man begging for food with his words
The blind woman who instead feeds the birds
The little boy with the white balloon in hand
The tallest trumpet player from a marching band
The bald man with the tattoo depicting a shipwreck
The woman in the suit with the scar on her neck
The two lovers sharing their first and last kiss
The man with the rings decorating his fists
The smiling woman whose cuts are apparent
The quiet young man whose arms are all bent
The old man with the bag full of piano keys
The blind old man with the parrot who sees
The young man with his black hat pulled down
The gentleman unabashedly dressed like a clown
The man with the blood shot eyes, scruffy head
The girl with the one streak of blonde hair dyed red
The small woman with the paper bag holding beer
And the lost looking man wondering why he is here
All of these men and woman and more I observe
Always coming and going, their stories unheard
For they are simply strangers for me to behold
Disconnected from me, yet still part of a whole
For among them I have my own story and role
But if only I could heard their own stories told
For then maybe I could understand my place
In a world full of strangers with each their own strange face

In these stuck between hours
I discover the noise of being
that comes from an atmosphere
not used to being heard

The warping of the wooden doors
goes on unabashedly.
Like animals in untouched climes
they scurry along unaware
of conscious eyes that stare
only for selfish reasons

The observer adulterates
a once selfless night

Nowadays the timbers under
the floor have lost their
native timbre, taken on
a softer echo of carpet covered servility

Even after mistakes are recovered,
these once savage floors can no longer reclaim
any primal creak after being tucked into
domesticity for so long with soft footsteps of children
paired with repressed stomps of soul-starved adults
left cold by countless other floors never once
imbued with the life of a home.

I know a lady who waits
Down on Wall Street,
Snaps her fingers
At brokers
And licks her lips for Madoff.

She adorns her body
With black lace and feathers,
An elaborate facade to lead her men astray.
She whips her hair and
Cackles at passersby,
Opening her rouged mouth wide,
Singing verses without pitch or rhyme.

She yearns for the NASDAQ
To touch her,
Waits ardently for grease ***** to
Work their magic.
She gives willingly,
Unabashedly talks ***** to men in
Tom Ford.

This lady I know asks
For trouble. She is
The ***** of Wall Street,
A slave to modernity,
Snapping her fingers at Cadillacs
And bending over for Madoff.

So many emotions tonight
I just cannot keep
them in
They are bursting out
from this jar of stars
that I keep next to my bedside
and tonight I couldn't
close it tight
if I tried
yes they are erupting out
as the lid
flies to the skies
messy emotions everywhere,
all over the
bedcovers
spilling onto the carpet
over my fingers as I attempt
to catch them
now I see
that the stellar energy,
just busting
through the ceiling,
up through the roof
and over the stratosphere
is mine
it seems that
I am going for a night- ride
amongst those
brightly encoded particles
sensory endings a-glow
reaching out like starfish
infinite pieces of our being
as they meet the forces beyond
I am rushing through those
night clouds
fluidity floating
trying to understand it all
attempting to know why
How can I make it right
How can things get back on path
And then I realize
This is it…
The path
I am on it
the pieces
       will come back together
only after
they freely
unabashedly
shatter

~

irreverent place
on a laundry room shelf,
his is a figure serene.
source of comfort?
source of peace?
perhaps...
but oh, so much
more than that...
this is a crossroads
where absolution meets  
the gritty mundane,
where he became
her source of familiarity.
"good morning, Sweet Jesus,
i'm just here to wash
my ***** laundry."
no sacrilege here,
no... nothing profane.
from the hand outstretched
held out for the taking
who is this really,
this chalk figurine?
in tranquility certain,
a doorway between
human fragility and
perfection divine.
in life’s messy journey
our ***** laundry aside
how could one not feel,
more rinsed of life's stains?
Sweet Jesus, of course
divine cleanser, unseen
now, here on my mantle
my house feels more clean!

~

post script.

when a fellow treasure-hunter shared not only the story of  "Sweet Jesus" (a hand painted, european, chalk sculpture of a early-last-century, bleeding-heart Christ who was the long-time occupant of her laundry room closet shelf), but also an offer to bring him out of the closet and sell him to me (yes, it's true... i bought him for a few pieces of silver), i jumped at the chance to bring him to my mantle and determined to construct a fitting poem as a way to say, "thank you, Elaine!”  and to say unabashedly to anyone else, “i love my Sweet Jesus!  you are out of the closet... forever!!”

no sacrilege whatsoever intended
i dearly hope you'll not be offended!
:-) Steve

Listen. I'm not silent.
In fact, I'm immensely talkative.
I have a loud mind that produces battalions of statements daily.

I am talkative.

Words egress from my lips like rivers flowing to vast seas.
I speak of my aspirations, dreams, and visions for the future.
I brag about my strengths and feats that I have achieved.
I impart my knowledge and discoveries to the curious.

I am not silent.

I share my experiences and learnings to elicit self-reflection.
I exclaim my inspirations and interests with much enthusiasm.

I was never silent.

I admit my weaknesses, insecurities, and fears with difficulties.
I enumerate my quirks and oddities despite hesitating.
I disclose my secrets and sins that marred me.

Why do you call me silent?

I elaborate my thoughts and my whims on the spot.
I sing my favorite rhymes, lullabies, and songs that are more than just mellifluous melodies.

How can you call me silent?

I utter peculiar lines and cryptic metaphors in varying tones.
I narrate stories of friendships, love, romance, and passion in diverse forms.
I spit verses of hatred, greed, atrocity, and apathy with vehemence.
I scream what's taboo, ******, unconventional, and abhorrent unabashedly.

There is absolutely no space in my mouth for silence.
I am not silent and my lips are not closed.
Your eyes are just covered, and you do not know how and when to listen.

It started somewhere deep, before I knew the depths of depth itself
passed in a flurry of a moment, before I knew the limits of time.

There were the seeds, and the smiles. Root vegetables with
herbed olive oil. Sprouts coming up. Mom browned by the sun.
Brother naked with the sprinkler.
Dirt was the feeling of being human.

Water mixing with the dirt between our toes,
children making laughter in the trees.
Trees that shot upward like castles with hidden treasures,
sticks on the ground. Sticks as weapons for our toy-games. Sticks to walk with.
Calls cried out over the crunch of leaves. Hanging from branches.
Contests to be the best explorer, that
was the stuff of life.

Somewhere out in nature, by the campfire, I learned
that love is everything. Family laughing while the animals
went about their business, unnoticed, in the trees.
Safety by the fire. Safety in the stars.
Nights spent finding myself in the stars.

Days spent hiking up hillsides and rolling back down,
I learned that home is where your solid ground is –
that the earth is strong enough to hold all of us,
strong enough to contain all of the love and fear –

Like the ocean, the sand. Long hours spent in the water.
Waves were the first thing that really scared me, filled with the kind of raw power
that shakes you and reminds you that you were born to live.
Salt water dried up on my skin, I walked away stronger.
Waves turned to seeds, fertilized by thoughts.
Fading ocean air and sweet eucalyptus on the breeze,
hair whipping and tangled with sand.
Salt and bark and dirt must be threaded into my bones by now.

I wonder at these moments, I wonder at the elements
that have weaved themselves so intricately into my memories
and I wonder if we are strong enough to grow up,
while still remaining childlike and full of awe;
To own our actions, and to treat our planet with respect;
To acknowledge that we owe everything to the ground we walk on;
To happily give back. To reciprocate.

I want the trees to still be standing when I’m too old to stand.
I want there to be places that scare me with their wildness
and places where my future children can go to learn.
I want them to have a land to love, to be able to love
the trees and the dirt and the waves unabashedly.
To be inspired by nature’s grandness,
To be frightened and amazed by their own relative smallness.
I want everyone to love like I’ve loved.

I want us not to be held back by our fear.
Isn't fear so essential to life? To be dwarfed by something incomprehensible,
How love and fear alone could form a basis for my being,
my being in the ocean and learning to swim,
my being in the trees and learning to climb,
something simple. Like feeling my own humanness
with my bare feet in the grass and dirt.

With the same intensity that I love my childhood memories of growing up with nature,
I find myself gripped with a fear that those bits of nature might disappear,
that the ocean will cloud and fill with trash, that the trees will be chopped down and replaced
With man-made devices of carbon capture that offer no branches for climbing
And drop no sticks for playing with;
I fear that our lights will overpower the stars completely,
And that we’ll have nowhere to lose ourselves.
That we’ll have nowhere to find ourselves.

My fears feed fuel to my fire.
I learned from the ocean that fear makes you grow,
reminds you of what’s most important, and offers you a chance to make something.
For now, I offer you something earnest and vulnerable:
A plea.
Reversing the damage we’ve done to our environment will require all of us, working together.
It will require a childlike boldness, a reclamation of limitless love,
a desire to better ourselves, a willingness to ask questions
and follow our curiosities.
And it starts with one.

Jump with me.

I write this not from a lofty place of judgement or from frantic paranoia, but instead I would much rather you learn from any and all of my mistakes before subjecting yourself to future pain.

First and most importantly: you are lovable, you are loved, and you are truly worthy of love and appreciation. This is a resolute fact, an immutable truth that you have absolutely no chance of changing. Remember this in your darkest moments- just because you may feel “less than” your normal self does not mean that you have lost your self worth. If you learn anything from me, please let this one thing be it.

Second, and more lengthy: as well-adjusted as I may come off, know that I have these horrid insecurities and vices about me that I have the hardest time shaking off, even on my best days. I have spent most of my life wondering if I would ever find love, because people keep telling me that you need to first love yourself in order to love someone else; there have been days where I truly don’t love myself. However, I think there’s something to be said about feeling love for someone else amidst all of this wretchedness- I give my love unabashedly, with an earnest conviction that I think comes from knowing what feeling lonely truly means, and never wishing that feeling upon someone else.

Love is something I have fallen into and am currently falling out of, it is something that has kept me up for hours at night but kept me in bed long after the sun has risen; it has brought me to my knees and it once had lifted me up. Love has grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, looked me dead in the eyes, and asked me if I was worth anything- knowing that I would never answer affirmatively. Love has made me sing and scream the loudest my lungs could possibly take, and it has rendered me silent for days at a time. It has fogged my vision and my mind and left me bereft of any sense of clarity. I have lived my longest seconds and my shortest days when in love.

Loving someone can truly be terrifying- you will never be quite so unmade and disassembled as you are when in love. You will have handed someone the pieces of yourself and know that they could very easily unravel the threads of your being you have so tediously strung together; take comfort in the fact that they could very well hold your pieces together when you feel strung out.

Signed without wax,
Someone Whose Heart
Is Learning To Hope Again

P.S. I urge you to be careful, and to be safe. There is not a world in which you can have done something and I will not be there to support you unconditionally. I will be here in your corner, ready to listen to your story, ready to congratulate or to console, ready to remind you of your worth.

Like a stone statue,

But sentient,

Feeling everything and thinking it all;

Frozen in space,

Unable to move, 

Thoughts flowing with each minute;

The words can’t escape my mouth. 

You are beautiful. 

You caress my face,

Kiss the tips of my cold fingers,

And the feelings bounce around my throat: 

I can’t say what I need to say.

I am of stone.

I am unable to speak, to move;

It is essential I tell you this, however:

Though I love you,

Though we will yearn,

Though you make me less of this marble statue,

And a little more rose-cheeked human,

I can no longer remain yours.

I need you to listen,

Inside the marble rib cage

It beats loud and quickly:

My heart says 
I love you, 

The way the snow falls: 

Quietly, steadily, purely. 

I need you to see, 

My eyes they speak truth:

I need more than the sadness,

More than the tears your kisses draw,

I need you unabashedly.

I am of stone.

I cannot speak and I cannot move. 

But inside I am of feelings,

I am of thoughts.

I am breaking piece by piece,

And one day I will reach you.

This unspoken, unmoving

Love will touch you,

It will move you.

you flutter, but you're still in every aspect
of this creviced existence. it may be best
to act as decoration in a decorative world,
the prettiest are always happiest, the ones
who feel exalt or cry in creation will even-
tually turn numb, or ice-cubes for pink
margaritas, or reproductions on cascade
walls of white-picket dwellings in a trajectory
of white and beige houses like a ***** line
of *******. pain is temporary. numbness
is forever when it shoots for the brain
and not the stars, when overcast skies
become the reason for inner-living and
streets are scary and trees are mere
necessity for your breaths to filter, for
your chest to flutter as it does, as it so
surely and unabashedly does. you
flutter, but you're as still as decoration.

I won’t chisel a spirit to make
It resemble some other formation,
Like the sculptors of the faces
On the rocks.
I love the mountains more
When their jagged edges and
Sun-kissed outcrops
Create patterns all their own;
Granite spires, volcanically
Windblown,
Unabashedly wild,
No artist’s signature
Laying claim to the beautiful
Potential of the stone;
Only the forces of the
Universe
Determine our growth.
Like Crazy Horse,
I want to be brave,
Paint streaks of lightning on
My face;
Look to the mountains and scream,
I love you
Just like that,
Untamed.