those who wash in and wash out with tides of
their lives, peaking into ours
for a poem, a cider & doughnut,
a quick hit of a script,
like a rush of fresh ****,
that comes all the ways from states that end in A,
(ex: newyorkcitaaa baaaaaba)
but  they, don't stick around,
they, in possess and possess
other multi~typical addictions,
than just word flow,
tho artistic in temperament,
but lacking
the concomitant commitment of pleasuring others,
above and themselves.
with the musicality of their owned
alphabetical notes, rhyme, chime,
whipping, driving, yes, even chiming,
to their internal soul's baton,
a familiar friendly conductor,
who bids them greetings,
with a piecemeal peace,
a quick bite, lightly chewed,
sometimes not even swallowed,
with a greeting
of Peace,  
welcoming them and wishing them well
on their no staying way
to the next diversional
entertainment


postscript
~~~
creativity,
tho sometimes fast, even easy,
is never
cheap,
always come at a cost

postscript
~~~
creativity,
tho sometimes fast, even easy,
is never
cheap,
always come at a cost
<>

''Well, I've been out walking
I don't do that much talking these days
These days
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do for you
And all the times I had the chance to...

These days I'll sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them"
These days by Jackson Browne
[?]

once again, mess with soulful perfection,
the melancholic mood of music & word
making me aching for the sweet sadness
of loss for when one possessed a curvature of
the smooth straight idyllic perfect love
of friends, family & females,
ascending into crescendo,
then the blood letting of
ego, vanity, incorrect priorities,
the hurrying up to nowhere silly manhood,

and Jackson bemoans
"About the things that I forgot to do for you,"
begging please in a daily prayer,
let me be
confronted with my failures,
my children,
I have not forgotten them,
though, they, I,
nor you,
and you too,
have not forgiven me,
nor I,
myself

and all that is left
is counting time
in quarter tones,
and even smaller, finer
intervals,
to make my punishment for all my
mistakes, go slower, making my time taking
more grievous painful…

I pledge allegiance

to all the stones in the road
that have given me succor,
to every poet-of-anywhere
who greets me
with wetted, parted lips and open heart,
who greets the sun-rays shared, inching,
opening o'er my yet living,
praying body, reminding me
that I am alive,
that I am warm
that I feel poetry in, on,
cells, all over, deep in my extremities

Most  importantly, in my busted heart,
where warmth is stored in a soul restored,
and Life affirmed,

For who knows how
many more times
I will know this,
How many more times
I will able compose this,
Play "measure the future''
in seconds or years and
grimaced smiles over tears,
or just one or the other,
that be willed to supersede;

Will keep you posted
in every realized and many some stillborn poem,
rising with the grand entrance of morn skies,
or perhaps, lies buried neath in each horizon's cemetarial,
and
even those,
that straddle a confusing and confused moon,
of a twenty fours hours existence,
be shoulder-borne,
bathed in
combinatorial equatorial
moon & sun light,
so we can bathe, like Bathsheba (1)
by both,
and delight
at the exact same moment's portent,
no matter,
the disregarded, discarded,
why
we are
who we are
when pledge and plead
allegiance to those eyes that read our scrivenings



nml

For the petson who gave me these words

<>
Love is:
A multi celled organism, roughly round,
but not of necessity circular,
(circular love, easily shift shapes. BE wary)
It is, both fluid and rock hard concrete,
Overly defined and/or a deconstructed aerie breeze,
unmeasurable, immeasurable,
Except for the speed of its
Arrival
and the
hurricane of its
Departure,
Unseen and the Unsound,
so soon disappeared

Surely it is sensory, for I have witnessed,
this L0VE notional I have
seen, tasted,
heard, envisioned
even actually
felt


And yet,
a grown poet shed tears,
Upon completion of a love poem,
And recipient of said poem weeps without term

getting through another day.
and the day after.,
but precision counts,

It is  the
knot of not,
the ******* exhaustion of the absence thereof,
the dulling that that hopefully
takes the edge off the blade,
but does
not,

Erased when open eyes & declare awake,
for
the duller the day gets,
the more the blade cuts ragged deeper,
its horrific edge
scratches like broken nails,
bite like jagged teeth

Stars ***** you deep,
Hugs squeeze your breath out, away,
Dreams disappear, the sweet taste, retained,
fain but faint on the edges of the tongue,
blurry but there,
silently reverberating,
and the memory of the sensation is never entirely erased,


but
getting through the day,
'tis sufficient,
even adequate
for the love of hope
the love of love,
no matter what you deny,
is the tablet swallowed unconsciously,
so getting through to the next day
is the unlocking key