Exquisitely surrounded by the color of peace,
Out of your face jumps the notion of

"how can this be?"

Your eyes look down to move forward
As if
the floor is lighting up taking your steps.
Behind you the sun sets,
your highness?

"where is your crown?"

The golden curl leaf's match your red shades,
in between the weeping cherries are white heels
Only you
can tie your hair up
wear a light green dress
and runway walk in a garden

®KS

The only thing worse
Than pulling the trigger
Is spending your entire Life
With a barrel on your mouth
Just waiting for that 'bang'

"Nothing is so healing as the human touch."


Started:    June 21, 2011
Finished:  August 14, 2011

"Nothing is so healing as the human touch."

Purportedly, the final words of Bobby Fischer, the reclusive, oft bizarre-acting Chess Grandmaster, whose life deserves your examination.  

I wasted decades of my life in a loveless, sexless, miserable marriage. I read his dying words, and the poem~notion was born, but the words had their own timetable and it made me crazy.

All the facts you need to read this old poem are now in your possession.
~-----------------------------------------------~
Mos­t poems used to just tumble out,
Sudoku words combos,
Gunslinger I was,
poetically licensed to shoot
from the hip (the lip?).

Then you go mute, until that second,
When once again,
machine gun stanzas fall like
Cheerios
spilling all over the kitchen floor,
as they always do at Two Am
when quietude is in high season,
And the whole house is sleeping.

Once in awhile,
the title~idea recorded,
but the poem unwrit,
just won't come.
*** but no ******.

The words smack you,
write me, I deserve it,
a challenged duel glove
goes kissy kissy on your face,
but the words,
the choice of weapons
eludes for weeks, months.  

So Bobby,
your challenge
long ago accepted,
but my reply imperfect,
has lain bound and gagged,
a poem-in-progress
hid in the trunk of my heart,
unable to escape, even when
escape attempted, unsuccessful.

From June till August moon,
your dying words have been
a cancer growing, within,  
hiding from my bullets
invented to radiate,
your final words, explicate,
Explode and expose.

Your life,
an essay on life in solitary,
anti-social would immodestly describe your life best.

How came you then to exclaim,
re the glories of human touch?

Ah a dying man's last regret,
a simple cri du couer,
nothing extraordinaire,
a basic 101 shoulda/woulda
of "I coulda done it better,"
what's the big deal?

Until this exact second,
Sunday rain jolted body from bed
do I instant understand my obsession,
the import to me,
the need to capture
the haunt of the healing
of your dying words.  

Life is small, miniaturized
when numbered in decades -
five, six, seven,
maybe,
eight nine or even ten.  

How came I to pass so many,
discarded whole decades,
of the few we garner
without the sustenance of
Human Touch?

How came I to allow this
disaster to pass?

How did I advance to the next grade/decade
when a failing grade was scarlet tattooed
In ****** scars upon my chest?

Would be easy to dismiss
as just another
whiney rant
that is no longer relevant
to you,
lies I told myself,
no longer resonate,
over, now.

Never.  

Everything matters.  

Summation.  Accumulation.

Day Counter Totals
reveal gaps of years
that cannot be refilled
so your accounting
must include a retelling of the
wasted days and acknowledge
with your dying breath,

Nothing is so healing
as the human touch.

Thank you my love.
Thank you, Mr. Fischer.

To all the haters
That pray on my downfall
I will see you later
And smash your head in to a wall
My poems are amazing
Your poems are trash
I am the best

“humility, the capacity to listen well. It requires building up trust”
<>

give me your most precious,
time
when the pensive, contemplative,
spirits are present
the strength of introspection rising,
the remarkable willingness to say
with humility
there is so much I have
yet to experience,
that
I am
needy for human exchange

I,
we,
must be willing to
trust
each other for the investment in
each other,
especially that
first time;

it is both instantly invested,
and forever spent,
and can only be recovered,
with lubricant ,
the sealant,
of
humility of
the most basic kind,
more!

a belief that each of us
in possess
something
of value,
each desirous of the
equality of exchange

THIS
is why I love these new poets
so, so much:
they come with the opening intra-opposition,
~
the debating team internal, infernal,
of fear, failure, rejection
but put the courage
to enter the sticking place,
and let themselves be adjudged

ah, we enjoy the risklessness of
faceless anonymity, escaping into the
void of  gone, never-was-here,
but that is only your failure

for who you are is
the courage to reply:

I think…
therefore
I am

living lost
unattached to source
pray for those

I purchased a can of diarrhea cleaner before going bowling. I knew
that I'd need it later to maintain cleaner diarrhea. "Pass the diarrhea
cleaner," my dentist said. "Here you go," I replied. The next day a
good tooth was gone. "You idiot!" I screamed. "You extracted the
wrong one!" The dentist looked away. "You're thinking
about diarrhea cleaner aren't you?!" I questioned.

she’s everything i am,
and everything i could be
she gets tired and lonesome,
and she’s suffered for me

she’s strong and capable,
and someone i look up to
her unconditional love is powerful,
and she’s lessened every pain i’ve gone through

time after time again,
she’s forgiven my selfish ways
because she has always been a part of me,
and she’s always here to stay

my beloved,
what do i do
if i never see you again?

what if
words exchanged
were the last ones
to be so?

what if i
were
never
able
to let go

what if i
have to
keep on
turning
in my grave

she was artistic,
unconsciously making everything ravishing
she was poetic,
everything she did was aesthetic
—g.l

Under clouded skies,
Rain falls and thunder cracks.
Life feels serious and dark.
It's intoxicating.

Accepting my mortality,
I'm sinking into nothingness,
The gravity of my decisions
Not significant.

In death we realize
The totality of destiny,
And what awaits us
Or forsakes us
In the afterlife
We can't predict.

Maybe actions play no part.
Guilty of destruction or
Responsible for loving,
Might we get what we deserve?

I have not shaved in three days, I don't think it looks bad, but my hair is a bit long. I want a fade. Fade away into a blissful meeting with God. Where he warms my body with his love.