1430

Who never wanted—maddest Joy
Remains to him unknown—
The Banquet of Abstemiousness
Defaces that of Wine—

Within its reach, though yet ungrasped
Desire’s perfect Goal—
No nearer—lest the Actual—
Should disentrall thy soul—

Look, I just want to move you.
Woo you.
Shake you loose but never lose you.
I want to
Savor the glazed reverent silence
Of your gasping, ungrasped breath.
Sip it down till there's nothing left
Yet still explain all the rest.
See, it's time I unearth some gold.
Nothing here sold.
Just given freely to slurp up,
served up cold.
But I dare not go it alone.
Not when there's so many heplping hands
Beyond my own.
So I first court Eloquence.
She's an easy mark to find,
volubly masticating volumes
while leisurely lathering her tanned,
Leather skin.
Dolloping her monocle-bodied features
In librarian sin.
She says...
"My dear boy.
Berate them NOT
with your false start,
lethargic oddities.
Your penchant,
Melancholic falsities.
You must but grunt through the trudgery
Of your muddy misgivings,
And birth only accessible
Pertinent notions.
Neither precarious nor
Incongruous to the truth!
Robby.
You must simply relinquish your
Intrepid, frenzied paucities!
So I dismiss the diss.
Since
her big scary words are kinda lost to me.
Evidently, though,
I must need a Joe Blow.
An Everyman.
A Streetcorner Clairvoyant.
I turn to
(drum roll)
Raunchiness.
His beer belly **** and **** jokes
And dollar store aftershave suggest
A pleasing 'pull-my-finger' charm
that just might turn the trick.
He licks his lips,
And chides through a buck-tooth,
Spit shine smile.
Sheeeooot, boy,
That there one's easy.
All you gotsta do is
Go down deep
And speak from your gut.
Tell em how you feel..
How you REALLY feel.
Tell em..
shoot, tell em they rub you just right,
You might well feel as ***** as
Your gas gauge after a good pump.
As ***** as a McD's wrapper
Corner-pinch-discarded like
A used diaper hammock.
Yeah! You tell em your as ******
As a receptacle
For used diaper hammocks!
Hells yeah.
Girls will eat that **** up!
And say you're as gay as rainbow gold
As straight as an arrow-head.
As misled as finding your folks are still *** fiends
or as contradictory as ***** like me!
Boy, you are as con-fused as the
Lumpy, stumpy, pimply dimpled teen who finds out
Santa Claus IS real!
And he's hanging out loose
In every single Hustler Magazine!
Now hear me boy.
If they still don't care,
Or they see that you're scared,
Just say you feel as guilty as midnight dials
From parents of Girls-Gone-Wild,
sneering,
"Well shoot, sugar plum.
You sure ain't been feeling
Real secure in awhile."
And as he loosely labels me
As awkward as **** thermometers,
As misunderstood as **** plugs,
I give Raunchiness a dismissive shrug,
And return to the mystery
Of what I've missed from me,
Whatever still may be
My own poetic style.

for every action defined
there are infinite that remain
utterly unnamed and
are vitally spoken
in whispers on the
pieces never lived.

these incalculably splintering,
passively accumulating,
terrifyingly ungrasped possibilities
compile and cache
and compress and comeback
in the saddest seconds,
where one can merely conject
their meaningfulness,
realizing that there
is infinity in everything
and therefore potential
even in the kinetic.

Blurred and fast they race
the intangible senses on my walkway
dragging me through a maze of madness
my perceived traverse of each day!

As I try to feel them in their fullness
save each as a precious find
they melt away in their secluded recess
leaving me to ***** in my mind!

I search bewitched in their spell
if can find a trace of their tint
but only see upon the trail
their inscrutable footprint!

Thus I traverse each day
seeking to unravel the maze
of my indecipherable walkway
obscured in yet ungrasped haze!

The clock’s hands arrested
At the time our lips came.
The blood rushing in our temples
Overcame the ticking.

The air hurried into silence
As our hearts synced, beating.
The rift coming between us
Traced back and forth, rekindling.

Bother flees our skin
And doubt sinks in quicksand.
For sure, for certain,
As your fingers navigate
Every wrinkle in my hand,

And I catch your shoulder,
Yet to be chiseled, for wars,
From the weight of a gun,
Full of light, you let pass,

Piercing through,
Peering for my soul,
Searching for each crevice
To comfort and assure.

Your other hand,
Driven unto madness
Of an unrelenting encore,
Scouring for the ungrasped
And the worded whispers
To beg earnestly for.

… And time up on his chamber
Painted pictures just to remember
That moment he arrested his hands
To give two lovers an unafflicted chance…

A look in the mirror
A fist to the glass
A smile that’s twisted
With sane thoughts ungrasped

Unanswered questions
Die on parched lips
From a mirror now shattered
Dark crimson drips

A glance at the window
Three stories up
The blood on the mirror
Isn’t enough

Three steps—one too many
Night air slipping by
The pavement where sane thoughts
Come always to die

A better heaven there wasn't then
Nor, he knew, to find it after
For thoughts were lost to smiles and laughter
When Love had found its niche again.

So stealthy did events unfold-
Each moment kisses she endowed
To whom such gifts ungrasped allowed;
She kept him joyed in this mode.

Her charms were more than mystic spells...
His heart did not a bit detect
The poisoned blood - she did infect
And toxic love induced his cells.

The poison ran with time its course
And symptoms many he endured-
None worse than when she then allured-
Her absence did his death endorse.

But men with kisses do give in
Their hopeless hearts to attain
A chance of heaven despite the pain-
Thus, Love will find its niche again.

Words lie in wait. Ready
to spring, invade our minds,
ambush our thoughts. They fight
each other for the prize.

Born of grisly grief, lasting love,
excitements, incitements, enticements,
realities plurality of life,
imagined hope ungrasped,
surrendered souls downcast.

Treasuring pleasing phrases,
blessed by serendipity,
and so must shout their praises,
gorge ephemerality,
soon returning to the feast.

And he walked. He entered the dim night.
On a still dare to clear his head.
Thoughts and anxiety bound and tight.
He moved as if knowing that he had been misled.

The bright town of shimmering lights.
The cars that bleed into the street.
Focus past from thoughts on heights.
To the walkers and ghosts that move on the creep.

Albert brooded through the park he walked.
"Falks Ave" where stood his homestead.
Clothed and hidden, his own head distraught,
Thoughts left unsought, words left unsaid.

Where eyes of musty grey show might,
And intimidate the passerby refuse to look,
Upon him, a man of ultimately dim sight,
Friends left unmade, hearts left unshook.

He sees a memory of his own and quickly looks away.
As the shade of a man who already knows his past.
That the history of his lost heart and his present lead astray,
Wounds left untended, Love left ungrasped.

The sound of a train moves distantly so.
Albert sits at a bench and huddles in the cool.
"I don't wish to be here, and yet I still go.
To soothe my soul by looking as a ghoul.

Lonely and cross at what I can't know.
Thinking if I stay here forever, I'll be in the ground.
But I just don't understand why it happened to me."
Help left ungiven, Answers left unfound.

His eyes assess his condition.
The park at his back, the road to his front.
He thinks of an old superstition.
That maybe he just wasn't enough.

That life simply moved as fates hands dictate.
And he is but a puppet being played on his string.
To move through pain and pleasure in his state.
To ultimately be gifted with a gods own blessing.

And then the world shook.
And he didn't know anything.