WARNING:
don't read this poem if you suffer from ADD, or merely hate long poems

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gave away 3 opportunities to a trusted someone,
a Persian poet carrying on a tradion

ask this poet of his unspeakables,
the open hidden,
received thrice, not nice, searching provocations, (idiot me),
inquiring of the souls interior chambers, where the fear to tread
is politely called in good company,
don’t go over to the dark side

questions of a thousand years, that got that way because
no one wants ever to be truly asked, and especially,
truly answer

but today's surrendering (the last of the three)
What gets you out of bed in the mornings
goes to the deadliest battlefields that millennially nourishes
and beats the blood of life
to feverish flooding that drowns you too close to real
death dangers

step to the step machine, lift the weights,
that cannot be lifted without a prayerful groan,
for surely surly poems cannot be, sleepy eyed ignored,
stepped over,
these muscle builders for the mind, these killing questions,
these ****** answers

Jeez Louise

if you are gonna ask me killer questions like this,
I may have to hide all the mirrors in the apartment,
with  funereal linen cover-ups,^
and/or publish poems that actually
pay the rent (a drag)

to steal a phrase,
what a long story this poem could be,
especially,
for one-me routinely accused of being the
arch super-villain with ***** nails,
fighting the good cherubic angels of
brevity in poetry

delay, deflect, d'ignore the irrefutable,
snap, crackle and pop goes the body's ports and parts,
when first you self-deceive,  
yeah yeah, alive, no jive, means

that still ya gotta get out of bed
by moonlight over Manhattan,
to deal with minute to minute trivia of lamentable suff

oh.
still here?

you actually want me to answer that question?

thought you were enjoying my evasive shadow boxing,
prefacing a smooth operation while escaping to north of the border

but lurking (always lurking) of late in the back of
the front of the left brain foot poetry orb, has been this word, variants thereof, saying
of me, write of me,

bless, (the) blessed, (with) blessings...

shocked? shocked?

yeah, me too.

on my mind when first we rise...

ah! counting your blessings no doubt...
now that's a thot, quite humorous, let's me count the ways

got your health?
well not really, left you hints aplenty...

peaces of mind?
sure, how many pieces you want to buy, we got 'em for sale
slightly used tarnished but organically reusable, from Whole Foods,
don’t be dumb
peace of mind can’t be store bought

No, I am not whining; I know what I got is good, but them **** poems that keep coming at night, like a fire engines flashing lights, a/k/a
them things that keep you up at night, are my habitués
but sometimes it takes months to finish a poem that
was mostly writ in a single flash
but bed born and dying
for there is no reality disclosable answer

get out of bed from

a ritualistic habit pointless

fear of living for nothing

great blessings, right?

to rinse and spit out our words of the
holy dark
for never seen the true light
supposedly that comes with you from the birth canal

(aren’t you sad you asked)

you see
I do not know
what gets
me
out of bed
in the morning
for I have been up all night
wondering why
I should

counting my seven days of mourning counting my blessings is a ******* curse

no more questions

In the woods, I stood and ran.
Watched and blinked, watched again and everything
Changed.
I ran through every twisted maze of vines and stones
Protruding from the ground and the air around me,
As if I was in a dream.

I thought back to everything:
The first night, the first awkward hug, the first nervous kiss.
The way we moved and touched, the times we got lost in
Conversations or arguments, the times I refused to dance
And the times when you refused to tell me
What was bothering you.
I remembered the unspeakables and the times when we played
Like innocent children in an adult way.

I remembered every detail, every thing you had ever said to me
Like it was carved into stone.

And I began to miss you.

I looked through a clearing of wildflowers
And I imagined a cabin, just big enough for the two of us and our children.
the little ones running free by the waterfalls and through the wildflowers
While I sit and write on the porch, your head in my lap.

So quiet. So serene.

I dreamed of nights when the children are away at their grandparents'
and we had the house to ourselves, dimly lit,
And the faint sound of screaming to the guitars and drums it matches.
We are still the same as we are now, but responsible,
Older.

It was because of those fantasies that I realized how much
I loved you. How much I do love you and always will.
Even though it doesn't seem like it,
I love the way you look at me. I love when you tell me I'm beautiful.
I love when you hug me when I am upset,
But infuriates me that I can not stay angry at you.
I love the shimmer in your eyes when you sit and stare,
And the way your pupils dilate when you come closer to me.
I love how rough you are because you know I wont break,
And I adore how gentle you can be.

And as I was reading today, I realized
Why you appeal to me as much as you do.
You are not the type that most girls look for, though you should be.
You appeal to me because of everything I love about you,
And everything I love about you makes you
The living, breathing version of the man in my books.

You are the hero that saved me,
cracked open the shell over my soul and poured out the remnants of
The whole smile I once had.
You made something of it.
You made something of me when I thought I'd have nothing left.

After everything I have seen and experienced with you by my side,
I still have so much to learn.
I have so much to discover, And most of that is
Trying to realize how far my love for you will go.

After everything, this still feels like new.
The innocence and the questions. It's no mystery,
But it is foreign enough to be my home,
The place where I am supposed to be.

Dark stormy unspeakables
form eclipses of the shining sun
and the sarcastic ecstasy of a drained emotional high, of cutting veins
while scathing shards of soul
are struggling against the unearthly cyclone,
in conjunction with dirt so mundane
form a manifesto of fire
to drag the heathen into hatred
scorch the earth to raise
a plagued farm of scuttling scarabs
beneath the morphing skin
of diseased brain matter
splattered on canvases.

The cosmic cantatas of hope's celestial voices
coldly calculate into oblivion
while hordes of thunderstorms
in calamitous cacophony
set fire to the wilderness
food to fuel the demons
that crawl into our eyes and retinas
moving our nerves like we're marionettes
severing the stockpiles of memories in our psyche
forcing forgetfulness and ignorance
upon our fretted, filtered minds
and make us fail to recollect
those sunny days
hiding behind the army of darkness
singing etudes to unknown questions
praying to the eternities
or maybe begging?