Turn off the lights — I’m fighting myself in the dark.
My skin, a caressing sun; roses fall and kiss me
with lip-shaped petals, trying to open me wide.
But they’ll censor you — they’ll look away, so you
don’t shine as bright as you are.

And me? I pluck myself from a group of self-doubts.
At the pace of this age, I slow, though youth fast-feeds
through my hands, trying to unearth green shoots
of heaven’s cheer. A chosen emotion rises — as if my
heart readies itself for a rapture. Earthen hands *****
out dreams from soil. To be called a ***** — or to *****
others? What a question to be.

As I’m plotting in the potting shed, where we shared
hope like dew-struck grass. We watered our dreams
with tears, and have felt baptized in fear. Shaking daily
at the grip of then —as if winter left its bare bones in my
hands. But I’m not ready to net a coy smile, not when my
butterfly net carries extra holes.

As all my hopes lie on the ground, seeds waiting to be
buried in the dark —waiting to grow. The lights of faith
are shut. And must I wait for fireworks to explode across
my sky again, like next year’s celebrations? But I won’t
shut my eyes this time. Yet I’ll stay open, just in case
tomorrow decides to find me first.

Optimo, they say in Pahree,
of course, you knew,

fine is just fine for the unworldly.

For such as inhabit my spirit realm,
nothing but the best of days remain.

Madness, as a pastime,
suffices as artificial, made artwise,
too beautiful for any common sense…

ah, yet, on such a day, we may
agree we find time expands,
at a glance from those
makers
of perfect sense
from pastence, old lines
yes, optimo, fine lines
the best, in fact
oh,
some time ago, when all were mad as I.

---------------
While watching Hepburn
as the Mad Woman of Chaillot,
because, voila, I sought a forgotten line, from when,
as a boy of seventeen, I played Yul Brenner's role,
while then, my best friend,
some while dead, now,
had the role Danny Kaye plays
in the movie, I never watched
until today.

But, why,
of course, your curiosity is piqued, perhaps

the perfect point,
what we reexperience
is richer than just fine, it must be truly optimo
to meet criteria of old age mere satisfaction,

whereby we call all our ghosts
to laugh once more, exactly as before.

Of course with somewhat greater effect.
Assuming you know what I mean,
those Jungian types are quite alive… the greedy,

the payers of tribute
to Trump and his ilk selling
Israel fine American genocide tech.

Priorities —
Obsessions —
Where our focus flares
So too do our fixes —
You have become 
Another line item,
Order #
Thank God that I can pivot,
And return my focus to You.
Then
The obsessions fall by the wayside
And I can re-shuffle my priorities
Back to You —

You pull me through doorways
with cherry red charm.
You fill me with whiskey
and hang on my arm.

We waltz through the wreckage,
the crown and her guest.
Your hem lined with ashes,
the last of what’s left.

The clerk asks for blood.
The stone has run dry.
We promise, tomorrow
and feed him with wine.

The clouds now move faster,
with voice of hard wind.
It speaks to you only
as thunder moves in.

You twist here beside me
and curl like a vine,
your teeth in my shoulder,
reliving some crime.

You hold me so tightly
and whisper your vows.
Your secrets stay hidden.
Your tears are so loud.

Overthinking leads to no thinking, 
dead thinking or mind shrinking;
Heart-sinking —

So, what's the re-thinking
I need to assimilate, relinking
my spirit, head and heart-syncing?

Poetry mixing?!
Send new neural pathway tricksing,
increasing symbiosis by osmosis,
Boom...Hope winking!

To quote a friend
I’m better
But still in the negatives
Things are looking more positive
I’m healing slowly
But I’m still sitting below zero
Rate my mind from one to ten
It’s better
But still in the negatives