My wild ambition loves to slide - ye all must understand
But fortune's ice prefers only the most virtuous of hand.
In Malaga I grew weary and wanton to possess
The most colorless canvas, one easy with a lazy happiness,
Disdained by golden fruit to the viewer be
As I passed the crowd to gently shake the tree.
Now manifest in paint, inward contrived and long since
I stood in bold defiance with the heart of a prince,
Held up on the square by one wanting to buy my latest cause.
Against the wind I held it up in spite of all the laws.
Do they wish to thicken my lot among all their other mistakes?
What circumstances find you this? -This is what my mind makes!
The buzzing of my emissaries fill my ears
With many solitary jealousies and fears,
Arbitrary thoughts brought forward into the light,
Contemplating existence, must it prove my vision right?
Weak are the arguments! Which the true artist knows full well,
Where weak minded people curse my renderings or are easy to rebel.
For am I not governed by the moon and by the far off stars?
Tread lightly on me and don’t put me behind your own bars.
And once in a shard of time let the Annunaki’s scribe record,
That my vision once rendered could somehow affect their lord.
The unrecognized Enki still wants to be a chief, yet none
He created was found as fit as barren Adam.
Not that he wished his greatness to create,
For leaders should wish not to be called great.
But he like I know our titles are not to be allowed.
For titles are useless and only dependent upon a crowd,
Those are kingly powers, thus ebbing us out, they might be
Drawn by the dregs of a falsely acclaimed democracy.
But in my paint I attempt, with studied arts to ease,
And shed the unholy venom with visions such as these.
On the other side of the canvas, not much escapes my eye –
But once in front of it – nothing escapes the me that I call I.

how Eye make love,
this popped into my head
tho questioning this quest,
what purpose served, unknown...

lacking the infatuation to poetry write,
the mind retreats to the basics,
eye write with no destination,
wondering at the wonderment
of this basic actionable accolade...

sometimes,
be the
operative word,
sometimes
cooperative,
is the operative...
sometimes,
is but a
it just depends
who
is the initiate
and who possesses the initiative...

every story has a different
author, ending...

sometimes slow,
sometimes muy rapido
in foreign tongues
in foreign places,
the only commonality be that
wonderment

eye wish this not to be explanation,
eye wish this to be an explication
of the texts of sensual visionaries,
imagining the helping to happening,
the passageway to and from
where the mind begins,
the body completes its origination

oft I close my Eyes,
listening to hers,
her eye voices directing me,
what will be the course of our
course,
miss no Michelin starred landscapes,
through hers, mine Eyes triumphant...
tour guide excellente

cannot explain
why the temp sometimes
solar flares,
why the temp sometimes
is a glacial expedition,
tongue led,
from toes to eyelids...
always buy tickets for a
round trip flight...

how
is a titillation, begging you to read & expose,
there is no how, only sometimes  better,
sometimes different...

why
is a question needs no asking...

when

when the shape of her profiled neck,
reflects shadows of further inquiry,
when her décolletage collects me
as she and her designer intended...

when
she laughs uproariously at my piquant,
suave and debonair one liners,
requiring kissing tickling calming

when
tears spill when reading
a new takeaway poem mine,
needy for a tongue to collect that spillway...
just being friendly appreciative and thanking

where

is when
the how and
the why
intersect

the intemperate weather of
being alone
subtle suggests
auto recollections
now know
the how, when, where and the
why,
my Eyes compose this elegy
of memories of past and present...