The Genius
Philosophizing the universe
One who thinks of quadratic theories of space and time
On his free time
The one who thinks of beautiful poetry
To a delightful muse

The Madman
Inventing ways he can put math to his cause
Always thinking of things to invent
Ideas- a storm of them
Intelligence- enormously, yes
Standing behind a corner
Stalking his love

I ask you:
Is there much difference between madmen and geniuses? Aren't they the same?

You asked me how I would spend
My last twenty-four hours if they started
At this very moment

We talked late at night planning all the
Things we'd have to do, like camping
Or watching the sunset
But I was too afraid to admit that
I would only need to fall asleep
Next to you with your lips
pressed against mine, and I'd die happy

I got to thinking and realized come August,
We will all be spending our last twenty-four hours
Together in the summer sun, and then
College will take us far away to start our
Separate adventures out of this small town

Sitting in my bed late at night
I couldn't help but cry because if there's
Anything I'm more afraid of than death
It's being alone, and I can't take another year
Of starting over

I envision you in your Sunday best
Taking off my clothes in my tiny one bedroom apartment.
Just enough space for you and me.
Kissing my neck and moving down my torso,
Down to my heart shaped box.
But I'm stuck here alone,
Just for now.
Touching myself,
I like it so rough.
pretending it's you,
You,
You,
Oh my god, yes you.
I want you so bad right now.
I can see you in my head,
My breathing gets so quick,
I crave your touch every second,
I can't be satisfied.
Give me what I want.

The sound of your voice,
that feeling of you next to me-
it used to be all I ever craved.
Just wanting to spend time with you-
get to know you-
It's all I ever thought of,
all I ever fantasized.

I used to imagine
the moment you'd walk up,
and whisper.
Whisper words
that would make my heart
skip a beat.

With you,
I wished to develop a love.
A love so powerful
that noone
could ever tell us otherwise.
Yet,
you insist on war.

You wish to fire away
and prove you're superior.
Strike,
when I least expect it.
Attack.
Attack me witha  sense of doubt
in your heart.

But my treasure,
answer something for me.
If you truly feel nothing,
then why do you hesitate?

Your passion for me
is beginning to show
through your amour of pride.
A sense of stability
is what you crave.
But how can you
when you're trapped
between the crossfires
of love and war?

"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood"
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)


~~~


perhaps.

can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?

my voice poetic keener, age-softened,
grows less popular
for it
no longer reaches for
christmas ornament words and creamy cake-in-the-rain imagery

leave that to the better ones.

cherish simplest:
coming home to fresh sheets,
plumped pillows,
music,
tousled hair on pillowed histories,
river walks,
the lightest hand touch that rouses
the fireplace of contentment to glow briefly,
from logs that are more embered ash moments
than substance
capable of more flaming

the rumpled strivings of the young poets,
creativity of the masters of
voice and dancings bodies,
shopping lists of life~items that
reshape, restore my old~ness,
the revelations of the historians,
inducements to believe
in yet, more.

these exteriors are comprehendable.

don't forget the orange juice,
the first chilled swig from the plastic,
confirms I am breath-yet-capable,
one more poem-mission ready,
the mission objectives still not published.

Sun east welcomes me,
woman puttering kitchen coffee noises
it is neither spring yet or winter gone,
in-between like me,
in-between naissance and history remnant

question thy fiat,
Mr. Eliot,
cannot frame myself,
my who-I-am
six decades of myself.

can it then ere be said,
his poetry communicated
or ere contained ever a single
genuine word?

can I communicate
what I cannot fully comprehend?