the raw confusion of the nucleotide fusion,
the great concoction of recombinant DNA,
when we cross over our own boundaries
and subsume, integrate, reformulate our
very selves, with inhalation complete of
another human being; the danger’s inherent,
absorbing a foreign body totally is the creation of a new being entire, vulnerable
despite the new totality of the resources of
two hearts acquired for mergence

and the rush of two different bloodstreams
now circulating, stronger by far, and equally
vulnerable to diseases never prior considered,
these tissues patches, interwoven skins, two
fabrics, silk and wool, a smooth itchy, that
makes us stronger with yet unknowns of weaknesses, and then we encounter what
cannot easily be digested, comprehended,
for even new cells split apart, and the terrible
terror of dividing division that is the side effect of integration, new subdivisions never
ever forever foreseen cause volcanic tremors
and trusting your other half is awful,
until the fear subsides

this is the why
I write of
only love poetry,
the study of this process
so poorly and powerfully
misunderstood
is the atom bomb
of the human psyche

in rivers dark we travel,
oars with cotton muffled,
for there are dangers on each bank,
and in the waters beneath
the salt and the fresh
excitingly & violently blending,
different weights
somethings fall to the bottom,
others rise to the top

and when the process is nearly resolved
(for never ending,
by default defined,
for end is a conflict
constant
interrupted by truces fraught,
fragrant and vulnerable)

this then
is living,
this physic of the
bio-il-logic process
called love,
and the endlessness
that it requires

the inconstancy
of the
constancy
of the
deepening well,
and the
redemption of
redefinition
of what is
well

<>

2:10pm
nyc
10/21/24

have a credit in your account at the
First NATional City Bank.

Some free advice:

Spend it unwisely, with reckless abandon!
If you do, the credit balance will irregularly and improbably be increased in recognition of
additions to the sadly diminishing stock of
beauty, kindness, and the essences of humanity or some other derivative
thereof,
but  by

Writing more poetry,

an instant coffee poem scribbled
on the back of an iPhone, and mailed
to the motley crew hanging in these
environs

my request, your bequest
<>

never had an article of clothes
that required a hem to be tailored,
but you my daredevil darlings,
bring me now
you &  yours,
a hem of thy choicest choosing

that I may taste your dew,
this and thus
enlivened,
I will love you,
far more than forever,
beyond my overwhelming
incarcerated capacity
to absorb,
but to exist and seize
the dew of your souls,
each an adrenaline ephedrine
shot to our mutualized brain
~
our soul’s temporal abode

the meaning plain!

you too
will forever be
within
the unlimited scope of this script
on the universe of the internet,
far longer than any intimate moment
we could share ,

a sensory
beyond the physicall

I beg you
please!

9:19 am
Thurs Sept. 12
two thousand and twenty four

~
Precious Padma
You dearest aquatic flower
You grew in murky waters
Unblemished by its impurity
But come they did
To ****** your petals
And leave you a burning stem
Never can they take from you
The spirit of your plainsong
It continues to grow in your sisters
And in a time and season so near
They will sing your hymn
As one substantial voice
The changing winds will then
Lift it higher
~

you owe me
and yourself

to repost e v e r y poem
that gobsmacks, renders you prostate,
that brings forth the whimsical smile
and/or a guffaw and a  laugh-out-loud,
but especially those that:

invoke/provoke/ evoke an involuntary s i g h,

that make you wince in recognition
(and breaks you)

but most of all those that make you utter
all of the above
and
make you think

****!  how  I  wish  I
had written that…


which is why I repost (costless)and bring forward (costly) so many
for the pleasure and pain you provide…

nml

(trigger warning: my apologies to the long poem haters,
nah, not really)

<>

Dawg!

your last and latest test be driving me crazee-
the poem conception birth rate is out of control,
them titles intriguing, stinging,
falling like curling up and dying oak leaves crunchy neath my feet,

and this little town don’t allow no burning thereof,
inclusive of leaves, poem drafts or witches

it’s not only the skin-pores, inhaling,
but the braniac neurons
that are clogging up
(ex. where’s my coffee mug hiding
when it ain’t hiding in the microwave)
and there ain’t no legal Drano for the
upper cortex contextual,
and condoms on my ears looked upright atrifling,
small & unbecoming, 
so pse. put a lid on it,
without sacrificing my nice head of grayling fibers
you graciously let me inherit ~
(thanks mom!)

soooo,
need to provide a method of contraception, legal and100% poem~proof, to keep me in decent metal health, with a natural speed limit on steadily in~fluxing immigrants of
seditious inspirational insights,
and these insider’s outside sights/sighs that
my eyes catalogue, and remind/tell, as well,
my buddies, the animals and the elements,
who constantly are hinting ‘n suggesting themselves
for yet another scripture of praiseworthy adoration

(esp. the rabbits, the ospreys, &
the nighttime starry skies,
a living tableaux de peinture…)
to pretty please
cease and desist
before *I
seize (up) and de-exist,

overwhelmed by piles of dead leaves
and out of computer memory
for anymore inspiration retention

Your earliest attention to this
Matter of Urgency to me, and

What‘a that you said?

Start a petition?
You kidding?

Might as we try to buy indulgences,
in bulk at Costco,
though they are never in stock!

I get it.

Using Pandora as your voice never fails.

You just played Judy Collins singing
Pete Seeger’s Turn,Turn, Turn.

Unsubtle.

This is my seasonal hint too,
part of my timed descent towards the
shadowed valleys + visible peaks I’ve
occasionally reached

My finale’s approchment nigh,
yet, don’t turn my heart or my senses
just quite yet,
from the spark divine you have placed within us each,
don’t let it burn brightest before
it flames out of existence
into extinction.
Appreciate the heads up, really

Most don’t know ‘bout this method of our conversing,
and the hint, the seasonal changeover, taking place now,
is mourned by my utterance with every breath of
a Kaddish prayer
contained within
a larger message:
natty, it’s time to
turn, turn, turn

Which way when,
of courses,
you’ll musically clue me in…

but you impatient being,
drawn after all in the
shape of humans,
fast forwards, nay hurtles this human,
with chariots spun from a summer sun’s
fonts and hints,
accidents and incidents,
by spectacles through spectacles,
colors emboldened by  
in a glory, glory, glorious
sun-nation

****!

Vienna Teng sweetly invades singing
Homecoming (Walter,’s Song):

“but things are good I've got a lot of followers of my faith
I've got a whole congregation living in my head these days
and I'm preaching from the pulpit
to cries of “Amen brother”
closing my eyes to feel the warmth come back
and I've come home
even though I swear I've never been so alone
I've come home
I just want to be living as I'm dying
just like everybody here
just want to know my little flicker of time is worthwhile
and I don't know where I'm driving to
but I know I'm getting old
and there's a blessing in every
moment every mile…

well I'll kneel down on the carpet here
though I never was sure of God
think tonight I'll give Him the benefit of the doubt
I switch off the lights and imagine that waitress outlined in the bed
her hair falling all around me
I smile and shake my head
well we all write our own endings
and we all have our own scars
but tonight I think I see what it's all about
because I've come home
I've come home.”*
(lyrics by Tom Hall)

Got it.

so many summarize better,
but even still a bit heavy handed when
you follow up with  Sting’s “Fields of Gold,”
and even, jeez, Louse,
“Danny Boy?!”

Your DJ is a ham
(I know, not exactly kosher).

It’s my season of the muse,
extracting every remaining incantation,
knowing  there are hundreds, thousands,
of notional ideations
in my draft files,
some born even before HP!

But deny them not their use,
they cannot remain forever
unemployed,
but at their peril, double toil and trouble,
be them entrusted, encrusted, secreted
in someone else’s existence,
by your annoying divine persistence

Demanding Being,
have you no sense of
sufficiency? (1)

Eva so sweet Cassidy
ends this trip
with “Who knows where the time goes ?”

Gonna pack up this ditty,
containing a peace of deity,
drive back to the city
where all my sorrows
are streeted above ground,
inescapable resounded …

now down to  2% battery (ramming)
and this cracked -screen
whispers too gently,
“no mas”
my dearest companion,
you still don’t know
when to shut up,
or call it quits,
but I’m hearing a new crew
old familiar poets, awaiting,
who will take one up & in,
relieve you of you earthly sins,
and I hear up there,
you’ve got
unlimited
data storage
and no need for cords
and
batteries

Seeing the schooner drawing nigh,
must be the season of
‘at last, here is Shelter,’
repentance (2)


<>

n.m.l.
Weds. Sept 4,
2024
while sitting by
my dock on the sound,
who insists that it’s
soundless wavings of water
get the last silent
mention
published Friday Sept. 6,,
Sabbath Eve

p.s.
(and that’s how u put the playlist
in an Audio Visual poem,, kid)