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For so many reasons;
When the wow creativity
Of the young, new baby poets,

Bursts all over me,
Making me question
My egotistical perception,
Not a slap, but a belly laugh!
At the old fool, who once thought
Ever so secondary briefly, momentarily,
Unofficially, of his own esteemed self-worth,
Only to be reminded, deaf~dumb & blind~sided
By the fresh air, the aggravating sight of new insight
The delicious!delight  of reading the whole of all night
The explorations, the baby hallucinations, the trembling,
Insights of the explorers of the old, not re!newed, but, but.
Made anew, re~viewed with perspectives boldly unknown,
With crazy wisdom to expound, here, you! right here, right now,
I leave you and return to delight, taste, new extra languages, that
                                               I must
                                         learn not to speak
                                       but to peak, even to
                                     Cry, Laugh even Smile  
    
                              In all my new native tongues



Friday, July 18
5:39 AM,
2025
In the sunroom

Dictated in one fell swoop, not a moment to lose, dispatched while
Still laughing at myself...
Walking across
a college campus
classes done till Fall
I hear those lessons
never taught
on winds that truth recalls
The questions that we
used to prize
now locked away in files
To favor dogma’s
jagged edge
— in deaf self-serving bile

(Villanova University: July, 2025)
I long to be loathed when I grow old
And hope the youth won't understand

I want them to ink scathing marks on my corpse
After measuring the works of my hand

I dream they'll pursue some blaze anew
Superseding what we would call grand

And I hope that the youth work out some new truth
You and I could never command
Rotting in bed for three days now.
I was thinking about all the whys and hows,
trying to find an answer.
Maybe if I get up and complete a couple of tasks,
I can beat my temper,
which I always had at the end of the day,
when I realized I missed out on this day too, when I pray.

But today,
I looked deep into my iris in the mirror,
and told myself
today is the day that will differ.
only if I start and be consistent,
everything would be clearer.

Perhaps even by the end of the year,
I can make her proud, my mother.
This time I'll try to stay stuck,
hoping that eventually I'll get my luck.

God will hear the sound of my heart
and provide a bit more strength for my worn out arms.
Over time,
I will reassume to pray at night
from deep inside my lungs,
an opportunity for me to regain the control of my years which was anything but young,

And in the future I know I'll be glad i tried that day when the alarm has rung.
I'll throw every piece of darkness holding me back to the bin.
And as Liza Minnelli has sung,
Maybe this time
Maybe this time I'll win.
I cannot show them my sincerity,
Cannot hold in my hands, my pain.
Delusions and dreams, my sweetest escape.
Except a lesson, what did I gain?

I thought I would know, now I don't know why.
My love was falsely advertised.

The emotions, they come in waves.
In my head, I still replay your innocent gaze.
The absence of our potential days, it lays
On my chest, becoming a part of me as it weighs
I guess we've both gone through different hallways.
i place my head beside her thigh
as if to sleep in her warmth,
I say Twosday,
she says,what?

I repeat, Twosday,

Yes, she say, it is,
pausing to consider
and connect
my dots:

Ha, you’re writing a poem!

“head connected to my thigh bone,
drawing from within me,
the necessary ingredients to
inspire, perspire,-and respire
this agglomeration of the
in and out of your surroundings
contacting pulses”

I think, ah,
she’s got it,
but all I say and
state with definiteness,
by repeating,
and  breathing out

Toosday, Twosday!
Tues 1-14-25
“my poetry to protect me”^



an ancient teenage lyric
haunting comes, no longer shielding,
a gossamer consistency ironclad,
a tissue-thin papyrus,
my poetry to protect me

a clarinet reed, capable of swinging  
a highest pitch voice for turning
blades of clean steel clean away,
now stunting blunting no more,
indeed!

re-formed my shield, re-purposed,
into a stabbing instrument offensive,
my poetry comes to ***** tearings in my
worn thin fabric tapestry, woven from
excuses of why I can’t, why I couldn’t

this is life

moats becoming drowning pools,
castle walls, people entrapments,
wrecking machines, bombardier hurling,
medieval defenseless against modern,
rhymes giving way to free verse onslaught

too late to apologize to myself, my words,
my protectorate, island redoubt, now ruined
by doubts treachery breech-birthed from within,
these verses hollow point bullets re-engineered,
Caesar’s words re-versed, you’re Brutus as well

1:52 AM
Mon May 18
June 2020
Manhattan Island
^I am a rock” Paul Simon
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