all evolutions,
revolutions
to absolution
by liquid?

can we drive always away away away
our sins that are burnt into our
skin?

Without the spillage of a
witness of wetness?

is my own sweat insufficient?

product of sunrise and rays
testing the body’s hydration,
my words beckon to reckon
to emerge,
purge my seditious  sins,
my owned dissolution,
with false, half hearted acts
of contrivance contrition?

Why are
my daily confessions,
halved by inability
to give myself up a
full~on
fullsomeness,
but words available,
censored by a stub of
unwillingness
to embarrass
what little honor
left in my shrinking
possession

I am guilty of ******.

this act of admission
is legally insufficient
to sustain even
sky painted clouds
to cease moving,
there, it’s sad said,
and i breathe no easier
only comfortable that my
shame is openly accounted
for by you, my jurors…

The old poets haunt me
they taunt me from the shadows
following every keystroke I type -
they’re critical of phrases,
they demand narrower themes
and mock the very clichés they invented.

I remind these frightful spirits of how tenuous
life was, how I’m blindly living these experiences,
how prevalent desire is, how human it is to chase
the things we’re told will fulfill us, like goals and love.

I try and explain this Internet thing,
how the more copious my writings,
the more people it says are following me.
How I really don’t want to sound paranoid
but as hard as I try - I don’t see anyone.
.
.
Song for this:
Too Much Time On My Hands by Styx
Reelin' In The Years by Steely Dan

From dust we are born and
to dust we shall return

Born in diapers
And in diapers.
We shall return

However, that’s not
Even our biggest concern
We learn to rationalize,
Soon it’ll be our turn

However that’s not the
worst of what is to come
Memory loss, the ultimate cost
Dementia, Senility, Alzheimer’s

True it doesn’t happen to all, Just some
Who answers the call
However evidently nobody
will know their outcome

Add in a myriad of
other ailments for good measure
The word “walk” at your own leisure  
has a new meaning it’s rather demeaning

Each person’s, inevitable fate
Life’s journey Check Mate
We learn to slow our gate
turn another page life’s gage

Yes we celebrate OLD AGE Ironic, plutonic
Chronic, crate paper crinkles like her skin
Beautiful hands now liver spots wrinkle
and black balloons they think that’s funny. Oh don’t fret honey. Just the Young ins  

They don’t understand
What it means to have a good day
No significant illness’ to speak of today
Why do we celebrate so many ask
Living with ailments, is a laborious task

We celebrate;
The life we’ve livedThe love we give
The things we’ve seen places we’ve been
The people we’ve known death shown

The things we’ve done While having fun
In our prime, another day another time
We were bigger than life, 10 feet tall
Even the gladiators eventually fall

Nobody ever ages gracefully  
Most Fight it every step of the way
The Golden years worldly and wise
We shrink before our very eyes
Our skin wrinkles sagging
The immense pain ever nagging

The wonders of age and getting old.
A word of the wise don’t believe the lies
It’s not for the weak meek its for the bold
I will age gracefully I’ll never be too old
I have the propensity for living life large

Even knowing
Sickness will bring  us to our knees
“The JUICE  is worth the squeeze”

Inspired song
1) Grandma‘s hands by Bill Withers

don’t believe in
divine intervention,
but all~so(uls)
don’t believe in the
accidents of coincidence

the Pandora Box gods eavesdrop on my mind,
looking to match the music to my mood,
(box to box, they cruelly smile)
Providentially Provisioning
me with inspirational food.
to collect and let
what’s brewing,
stop stewing,
and come out
in a you know what…

that old song,
500 Miles,
keeps
returning, unplanned,
auto play repeatedly
entirely accidentally,
(U believe that?)
my mind keeps on
knowing
I’m up~blowing,
there’s unfinished business
a-firing, a forest fire
of a 500 miles~s-acred blaze,
the firemen intuit ‘tis
of a kind,
it can’t be stoppered
until you and it,
self extinguish, (ex~sting-you~ish (1))
burn itself,
outside inwards,
reverse phoenix,
not sparks left,
until it’s dead

and the song,
and it’s power o’er me,
** ** **, is un~finished
busine business,
having fun with
my undoing

Lord, I’m Two,
both of us,
in words unspoken,
know that the/a fragmentation
grenade that is my brain,
dancing on the thinner
blackest
red line that asunders me,
twice, into two unequal halves,
is inflamed, infected, dejected

Both of us,
hear that dog whistle
loud blowing
one inch, a salty pinch,
or even
500 hundred miles,
makes no difference,
cause Lord, I’m two

reminding how far I am
from my owning
my very own
personal homeland security,
complete with self-sourced,
sovereign jagged glass pieces,
intended to jag, jog, tear, penetrate, break, annoy, till~this line……ends
,
the errata of this man’s
quasi, semi, repeating
mess-ups, that are
erratically invoking
benedictional confessionals,
of poems unwrit

those I dare not,
until and unlest,
you board a plane
to come to save me

Lord, I’m Disordered,
Lord, I’m Three,
a trinity of Myself & I & Me,
siblings who just
can’t along,
but can’t barely survive,
as separate human beings,
for one cord connects us,
keeps attached like on a bus,
though at a modest
moderating distance,
cause the fights are
frequent

Lord, I’m
(yeah yeah Four, say no more,
just rap it up son,
there’s work to be done!)

am I finished being,
an unfinished being,
will I ever make it to Five,
get home, even barely alive,
Lord, will I ever be One,
just like you,
put together,
a jigsaw complete,
a whiskey neat,
a whiskered gnat,
a graybeard bit
of fluff
with a wide smile of a
Cheshire Cat?

Lord,
give me sleep,
& poems born written
pre~complete,
so alls that required is to just hit
SEND,
a journey shelved,
ended before began,
a pieced together whole man,
give me rest,
eternal and blest,
make me an archaic kept,
in an archive slept,
and end this song,
with a fini
of
quietude & peace?


4:35AM
Sabbath Eve
- Av 12, 5784
- Aug. 16, 2024