She caught me cleaning the countertops
in the kitchen,
coffee stains and crumbs of
corn chex
needing removal and
crunchy disposal.

she came unexpected.

off to shower, she had said.

she watched silently,
then wept copiously,
bawling as if it were the first time,
tears and copious were married.

what! what did I do?

you cleaned the countertops,
reminding me why
I love you.

I lent her my paper towel,
for surely she needed it now
more than those countertops.

ex libris,
from the library
of my vocabulary,
draw a slender text,
old, yet untitled,
needy for a birthright,
transforming unlined, unwritten,
into a flesh and bloodied word concoction

there are many similar such,
empty volumes,
on my mental bookshelves,
literary clocks that
have yet to commence ticking
from floor to ceiling,
from soles to mind sight,
their patience untested

this book, these words,
are ex-me!
for they are a
welcoming,
a thank you note,
a hello,
all of which can only be extant
if in the mind of a receiver

as I compose, I own,
as I post, I disown

they are more than shared,
more than gifted,
they are ex libris:

briefly my own,
but now wholly yours...

Saw Kafka's "THE METAMORPHOSIS" last night.
In dance, words realized and a man sticky
As he decomposes,
Composes his family.

But without the usual inspiration,
Afraid to tackle what can not be made more
Beautiful.

So instead I scribble an equation
And put my head underneath the
Bathtub water,
And calculate my foolishness,
Dabbling in the mathematics of
Love and poetry.

Oh You Grinchy Woman**

We wake and two poems are,
Birthed, hourly.

See back to back contributions to our nation:

Offshore Oil Exploration,
Fantasy.

Some formerly sweet,
Now a Grinchy Seuss complete,
Woman,
Has accused me of being an
Ex-poseur (expose-err? Exposé-her?)
Of our private life.
On some **** poetry site.

She would be
100% correct, **** right!

It is not my fault
If she dresses me in
Love and inspiration.

Don't you agree?

This ditty makes three.

It is safe to let it out,
Because she went off to yoga,
Wearing a little pout.

For which I say,
Thankee!

Ogdiddy Natsh

July 5th

be tender of words
and
tender of hearts,

be strong, be kind,
forgive us, them,
forgive them, us,
yourself as well,
for ours are walls
needy for overcoming,
and yours are too oft
too high

lives of tasks and taskmasters,
these oft self-appointed,
responsibilities - rocket-******
upon shoulders of mortal materials
uneven for and unintended
for the job
of carrying the world...

and yet,
we do
carry you, carry the world,
imperfect and scourged,

those self-righteous,
beheaders be wary,
I will not atone for you,
I will speak no tenders for you,
on this day of forgiveness,
there is none

With each passing poem,
The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher,
Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised,
Domain, the association of words, ever lesser,
Repetition verboten, crime against pride.

Al,
You ask me when the words come:

With each passing year,
In the wee hours of
Ever diminishing time snatches,
The hours between midnight and rising,

Shrinkage, once six, now four hours,
Meant for for restoration,
Transpositional for creation,
Only one body notes the new mark,
The digital, numerical clock of
Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing.

Al, you ask me from where do the words come:

Each of the five senses compete,
Pick me, Pick me, they shout,

The eyes see the tall grasses
Framing the ferry's to and fro life.
Waving bye bye to the
End of day harbor activities,
Putting your babies to sleep.

The ears hear the boat horns
Deep voiced, demanding pay attention,
I am now docking, I am important,
The sound lingers, long after
They are no longer important.

The tongue tastes the cooling
Italian prosecco merging victoriously
With its ally, the modestly warming rays
Of a September setting sun,
finally declaring, without stuttering,
Peace on Earth.

The odoriferous bay breezes,
A new for that second only smell,
But yet, very old bartender's recipe,
Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline
And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted,
Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings.

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger, by force majeure,
Declares, here,  poem aborning,
Contract with this moment, now satisfied.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.
___________

4:38 AM
September 8th, 2012

Greenport Harbor, N.Y.

Woke up with children in my mind, wrote two new,
then stumbled on this...
I give this poem to an orchestra leader I know, who understands better than most, that conducting and being surrounded by many, is oft the loneliest task and who knows best the meaning of
"finally, all synchronized in time and space, on a single continuum, within, without and through."

Thanksgiving Day 2011

Through
the picture window,
watching
restless generations,
multitudinous compilations,
children's backyard runnings,
all about, hide n' seek,
uncoordinated coordination,
well calculated randomness,
perfection in its
discombobulation

Within
my bloodstream,
chemical changes,
blow thru my veins,
direction home,
like leaves,
on a November weekend,
windswept from a thousand directions,
endless energy, noise, and commotion,
results of internal tremblings,
the side effects of satisfactions,
in ways I could only dream of...

Without
knowing, nonetheless,
the knowledge rests within,
footage of future days of
quietude and satisfaction,
recalling earlier simplicities,
records recorded somehow
before it happens,
records recorded now and then,
but only for
future consumption.

Harmonies of times,
well deserved,
to be future spent,
now, finally, all synchronized
in time and space,
on a single continuum,
within, without and through.

They say that Einstein erred,
time cannot outrace gravity,
therefore it cannot be
that I have seen the future.
Yet, I know with
unerring certainty,
these truths
posses the gravity,
that thanks,
I have and
will again,
gave,
and will give

The remainders,
the children,
the net of our gains and losses,
within them,
        my thanks lives,
without them,
        I am lessened,
through them,
        I am whole,

My life is about never.

you say we will never meet.
my life is about never.

I lived a living death for decades.
awoke each day begging that it be
my last, my now, my never more.

never was my watchword.
never was fate.
never was my hell.

you better go back and
read my poems from
A to V.

therein lies the stories,
true to each word.

rivers I almost jumped into.
mental faculties rusted brittle.

until by accident,
I lost the N.

never became ever.

there are the magic twenty five.
met one and the journey,
trip has begun.

a world tour,
I will make.
gonna knock on your door at the poetry hour,
around six am,
and with the biggest smile,
will hand you this poem,
and pronounce this blessing:

Gotcha.

need no will,
need no way.

cause I got me a passport
issued by the authorities of
Neverland.

As a degreed graduate,
I learned magic and how to spell,
never is spelt ever.

we will shake hands,
whenever,
whoever,
wherever.

but always
ever,
forever.

gotta get me a big suitcase,
these crazy twenty five,
who always ever read every
poem I wrote, I will meet,
on this planet earth.

they live in the craziest places,
but I got maps and google earth.
and I will find them and you sir,
hands will I shake and then grab you,
soul and body,
shake that too.

insouciant
— adjective

free from concern, worry, or anxiety; carefree; nonchalant.

Can barely pronounce it,
Vaguely recall it.

When I was twelve,
Lived by the Atlantic Ocean,
On my red cycled steed,
Disappeared, roaming for days.
My parents were not insouciant,
Tho I surely was, by definition.

Perhaps
Someday,
Will feel that way again,
Recognizing the carelessness of living life
Without regrets, worries, all kinds of
bills to pay,
Re-collecting payments made
From my freedom, my early days.

But I wonder to you, H.
If my life was indeed insouciant,
Would my poetry be any good?

“A poet's qualifications include common sense, knowledge of character, adherence to high ideals, combination of the dulce with the utile, intellectual superiority, appreciation of the noble history and lofty mission of poetry, and above all a willingness to listen to and profit by impartial criticism.”


Ars Poeti a (ll. 295–476).[10]

Sometimes the pen,
unnecessary.
The poem, fully formed,
in his mouth, born.

Silent back labor,
unbeknownst the existence thereof.
Yet knowing now
his contractions,
coming fast and furious,
eyes many centimeters dilated,
the sac's fluid breaks
upon the poet's tongue.

He pronounces in a single breath his
Immaculate Completion

When the poets hand to mouth goes,
like Moses,
when he touched the burning coals,
tongue burnt,
the words are signaled,
freedom, born, released.

The words announce:
We are now created, conceived.
This new oxgenated atmosphere
is now our
final resting place.

This child, this poem, this exhalation,
once freed, is now
lost to him,

Its been renamed, retitled,
by hundreds of
newly adopted parents as
"Ours."

So
when you hear the poet-man exclaim,
I live hand to mouth,
weep joy!
by, for and with him,
for his true meaning,
now clarified.

An ode to joy has
been birthed this day,
*a child for the people.

Why employ an ordinary word
When an extraordinary one
Excels?

Let us wed, let us vow,
Henceforth, let us never
Wish ourselves away plain humbly,
Goodbye.

Let us end our day,
Bid our lovely comings,
The tragedy of our departures
With a gentling
Fare thee well.

In the company of the dawn,
Let us greet the one
Who lies besides us a stirring,
Not with merest hello, morning or
The accursed howareyou,
Replace haste with a deliberate
Welcome, well comely,
To this newborn day!

Tho do confess,
That like numerous others
Who have counted the ways,
There is no sweetener substitute for
I love you.

I will n'ere address thy grace
With appellation dissatisfying of "girl"
When woman suits thee best,
With all its attendant glories.

Should we encounter upon the street,
Address me as man,
For of that word I am a fan,
But say it not with routine irrelevance,
But in tones of softest reverence,
For I am not a child or dude,
A sir or sire, a mister mister,
But I am a man.

Our lives are not a game of chance,
Yet chance aplenty do we countenance.

Having stumbled, fallen into a subterranean,
A place where I know thee well
But likely not your face, your visage,
Thy honest name,
Accept these excelsiors as mine
Poeming opening gambit,
My closing statement,
Summary of the that, that has and yet to pass
Between us:

Peace be upon you.

had to
give a speech
at a funeral,
tried to leave them laughing,
happy to be sad.

but i done it.

whipped those rivulets
back up and into
those emptying tear ducts.

bring on the next act,
be prepared, scouts,
to exercise your
laughs lines.

you see,
when the deceased
and me,
walked twenty paces
behind you,
close enough that y'all
could not hear,
we cackled and cracked jokes,
in joyous wonderment
of our own foibles,
drunk silly on our silliness.

the jokes went from
bad to worse,
the worse it got,
the harder
we laughed.

so i ask you this?

did you're hear the one about
the grandpa
who asked his grandchild,
could he possibly source
a little yellow pill,
in return for
twenty bucks
under his pillow?

Sure, said the grandchild,
he knew where
his dad kept,
hid his stash,
free cash.

Next morning,
the child found
$120 bucks
underneath his pillow.

asked his grandpa,
what's the story, gramps?

the  twenty was from me,
as agreed.
the hundred dollar bill, well,
that was from Grandma.

a true story, maybe.

so long grandpa,
thanks for the good advice,

always leave 'em laughing!

then he broke down,
weeping inconsolable.

It         is in, the how,
not the why, the where,
or, the when,
no, no, it

Is         the how,
that provisions and provides
all the answers
that any lover needs, for

In         the how, one revels,
but also,                      
unbeknownst, unwillingly, reveals
what one's heart wishes to secret, and conceals
and with

The       single stroke
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
raising sky colors upon
thy skin's patina and,

How    commences the matina,
with petals of white cloud roses,
blushing anew in your cheeks,
loveliest of failed cover ups,
laughing, I airbrush your
almost, invisible tears away,
residue of melodramas of troubled sleep,
stilled and stolen, mine,
to pacify, keep,
tranquilized in my breast

It,        Is In, The How,
What,  You Are Thinking.

What   vincible arrogance
humans possess when we pray,
we hope, knowing that we are infidels,
hoping to mislead
the eyes that glance upon us

You     give up the shadows painted for me when
filtered beams, rays of
a, and of...kind,
lance shield of densest lead,
lain upon the chest to cloak
the tremors of volcanic hearts,
the eyes of hurricane thoughts,
containers of need that

Are     so full of oh so
many questions, yet,
singularly resolved,
with the answer of
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
knowingly full well you are

Thinking  there is no exit,
no right of way to negate
the sum of what we let to ail us,
O disbeliever, how simple be,
for all, all of

It,        Is In, The How,
What,  You Are Thinking,

I soften and modulate,
your conflicted complexion,
with the answer of
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
all that is mine,
to encapsulate,
recharge, refill thy vessel
with Bocelli tones of
passioned, gloried harmony

Worry not if my eyesight dims,
be unconcerned if
my hearing, my voices
wearies and weakens,
for all the answers
we shall ever need
remain, contained in  
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
and
this is how I know now,
and forever more,
what you are thinking

As long as skin is the coverlet
o'er the bell jar of mind n' heart,
as long oxygen defies gravity,
I will know how,
unveil, open secret chambers,
now and forever more,
what you are thinking

Dig deep poet;
You too reader;

Commandment One:

Both must obsess to possess,
Air the curvature of each line
shape with two hands, creasing and
no ceasing not till the air waves have filled
your flushed face with compressed comprehensions

You weep as you compose!
Good!
The well of tears where hid
the pool of emotions
in cavernous reservoirs
in the center of your
gravity,
needs a daily tapping,
a draining, a purification,
a quenching sweet and
raucous

where you dig, salted water will come

in the soiled, imperial but imperfect body/mind cappuccino,
there are swirls of treasures, sins and histrionics
that need discovery, expiation, expulsion,
when~then, object is surgically removed,
accept surging water will desoil,
and you can revel
in the revelation
of honest effort

Debate Commencement:

reveal, which, what and how
much, how much? how much?
(this reverbs)
what must be shared,
what must be reburied,
what must be refuted,
what must be reconstructed,
refurbished,
and what must be
demolished & deconstructed

ah, but as soul judge,
you hold yourself to a higher standard,
but in all of this but two constraints rule:

the quality of the recalled data,
the quantity of storage space delimitation

do not tease us with rivulets, nor bury
us under thunderous rushes of memories
spilling and cresting with a reek of abandon,
unless, you’re abandoning the memory en tout,
giving us your newly orphaned all innermost,
then, we must accept the product of your labor,
whether it be spoiled fruit or glorious
                            truth

Tuesday Apr 16
8:32AM
(the year of pollard, a/k/a 2024)

Been off stubbing repeatedly,
my toes,
on the raggedy twisted
sidewalks of a sinking city, not mine,
where here, my own metaphor,
is being hand delivered,
to me, for me, by me

too many cayenne creole paroles,
none of them getting me any freer
none, as of yet,
making me a free parolee

been off studying some
of what I cannot yet do,
parole in libertà,
a language cosmopolitan
of creation, via creative writing
remolding all of the dix senses

been drawn and french quartered,
drilled down, found no unknown
solace deep bedrock grown,
so doing a redistricting of the map personal,
exposing my gardens, my Doric columns,
to any passerby with the
audacity so sheer to look me
in the face direct and say
laissez le bon temps rouler!

looking to liberate my words,
looking for liberty in my words,
in a different melting *** where here
I am a semi-low semi-free
person of color called
Old Fashioned White,
looking for a seasonal hurricane
to move me along,
push me to write in a new style,
developing cayenne words
smothered in jazz à la mode

multi-flirting with multi-fluency,
searching for Experimental
mellifluous words
stolenlen from, and built upon
a thousand years of languages,
river wide delivering its mountain deep
cargo of silt, a city of words, upon it built,
just like the great Mississippi,
changing course every one
                                               thousand years

my mouth, a river opening wide,
catching both salty and fresh,
god's love delivering,
doing the best I can,
writing real fracking poetry for poetry's sake,
not text messages of asstags
kissing nobody's ads of sad dead #hashtags,
following nobody noticeably,
but thrusting your good stuff into my orifices,
most pleasurably deep
                

but never parrying,
                   

      I am a poet social only in this:

my devotion to my crew
                                   stronger every day
for and
                           of that particular poetry,

           I can write better than anyone,
              so big,
                                    sooooooooo easy,

and that's, Steve, Bala, y'all,
how and what I'm doing
and by the way,

Putain Zang Tumb Tumb

you could look it up

Dear Carlos: Poet & One Man Band,

have heard these words so many times,
always bemused, trace~smile appearing,
but this time, it hit me like a Blue Mountain
extra hot, micro~window-waving cup of java Jamaican,
that is me, this was me, always, even before
I knew how to poem to music that I had always
head-heard, before I understood that these,
my songs were soul~pieces escapees, my…legatees

I leave them them in puzzle form, surely a piece,
or three missing, but no matter, each piece an
individual composition, standing alone, but the
big picture no one will ever see, understand but
that is the poet’s audience, his own one man band,
no bandwagon attached, a solitary figure quiet
contented with his disconnected discontentment,
a lifetime spent in refining, defining…refinishing

2 poem themes crisscrossed cross in my head,
interweaving themselves instead of becoming
two cells, one split apart, I call this process ruefully
reverse me~mitosis, blending that coffee with
a quarter cup of white milky, leaving me a caramel
colored confection, perfect in unity of trinity, that
combined cuppa plus my insides warmed, cozied,
the heat combined with the fire inside to write…one more

on the “two-to-write list,” in the “draft”y attic chamber,
were two titles, twins, now conjoined; the first, an
expose of why I choose to write these poems, and
the other, why I have a life of few friends, the few
chosen ones; the inherent conceptualizations differ but
cross the same forests and deserts, hid in my own Northwest Territory, rugged and inhospitable, where to survive, it required 
accepting lonely solitude, with a ragged welcome, & an honest mirror

an unequivocal, no equivocation permit, that telling yourself grand lies was pointless because you were a criminal on trial, prosecutor, defense lawyer, judge  and jury of your, ha ha, peers all rolled into one, there will never be a higher court wanting to grant an appeal, what is…well, is; a sad bliss but after decades of trial and many errors, wonderful and awful partnerships; it was modestly
perfected, dis-satisfyingly…satisfying

this goes on too long, like an intolerable avoidance of
answering, there, a phony confessional declarative; the whys un~provided, so fall back on that all encompassing
defense of temporary insanity that was locked in those
self-same sealed cells, carriers of my tainted DNA,
looking like bagels~donuts with holes, no, voids,
a central, air pocket of emptiness, with no surface to fill full,
or to adhere to, a drifter, an observer, never, a full participant

these empty holes, were just fried dough, sugar coated,
a fleeting life~lies of no substance, that I’ve spent
a lifetime trying to fill with worth, and I’ve written a few
moments of kindness, unqualified unreserved loving, but
too few to justify my existence to myself! That’s what
happens when you judge yourself, no defense strategy
can succeed, the fight is fixed, but I write on vaingloriously
hoping that there is yet, a flawless poem waiting within,
that a one man band, can both play and enjoy…

fav poets: Whitman, Hafez, Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Pradip and so many countless others on this site…

**** she your momma
misspelled your name
shoulda been Raygun
or Learjet

I sure wish you were a
physicist
so you could help me write my
General Theory of Poetry

teach me calculus
so we could prove Newton
was all wrong

but I posit a theory:
you must be an electrician
of the human body

well my circuitry is all ****** up,
if you read your way crack back to my
October, my doc told me I was a dying
and he didn't want to doctor me no more

so you see my bits done byte me good,
but named me a "dead" line in human fashion,
Nay, by May Eighteen, got finish my theorem,
cause I'm black hole'd and ******* myself

so have Leah bring a coffee refill,
let's get to collaborate,
I will operate in the ether of fudge factors,
you, will solder circuitry thru modern chemistry
and I will have my theory but no answers
but then I can give up this hopeless
poetry gig one lazy time and just
live your New York dreams

Read http://hellopoetry.com/raygan-keller/

Blessedly, funerals,
don't have to go to too many,
though went to one
just this day,
for our next door country neighbor,
the nicest dour-looking,
rascally dearest man

The Catholic church full,
the hymns lovely,
the priest spoke
simple and beautiful,
about the paschal lamb
and the
Judeo-Christian Heritage
and
Life Everlasting,
an interesting concept,
that I had long forgot about

Must have conjured up
three minimum ideas
for poems,
not even including
this reportage

maybe I will write some,
tho the normative jelly of
Manhattan bus shaking
mine own recipe for inspiration,
when combined with
my peanut buttered
sheltered island by the Great Peconic Bay,
both, will be my swirled
inspiration everlasting

Can't write about
moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies,
the way I write is
just the way I think
writ out loud

so to the essay at hand,
funeral of a man,
mine all planned,
the invites ready,
awaiting the correct postage stamp
of a future time and place

the date, more or less sketched,
the poems, selected, notated
for whoever shows,
pick a read,
win a free trip to the cemetery
and maybe one back to his "parlor"
where food, drink and bon mots are
vous parlez'd and his spirit,
now a parolee, will be watching

smiling, for funerals are camaraderie,
so longs and fare-thee-wells,
and the hands of friends embracing,
celebrations in their own way,
and a time to tell stories of what
treasures they have left you,
silver linings of a life well writ,
and tho someday,
they'll be time-tarnished,
even half forgot,
the stories and the love poems
are the seeds of life everlasting



Passover/Easter
March 2014

Glint

Reflecting mirrors,
Each leaf glints,
An illuminated individual
In a stadium pool of
Waving faces.

Paying homage by shining,
Mutuality of existence,
Chlorophyll for oxygen
Light for life,
A fair bargain.

I am here, waiting patiently for her,
though long time no see
like in ever, like in never,
my absentia, dementia,
both critiques of self-censure,
here, then, my cadenza,
dedicated solely soulfully for you:

as the sabbath sun rises over the East River,
saying, mocking, laughing upon me,
“still here, though long time no see,”
for though I cannot never look upon her as well,
my sun, my sun,
yet she, too is everywhere-inside of me,
woman-sun, both warmly illuminating my muddled mind

They had not seen each other in fifty years.
In between, a world war and a concentration camp.

Then my pop,
Erwin of the Homburg hat clan,
Went for the first time to the land of Israel,
From the safety of the United States.

A side trip, an unscheduled tour visit-stop,
A private memory to re-collect,
To a special hospital,
Where the survivors who did not really survive,
Live in tender care until there are no more.

A childhood friend to see, a dust to be disturbed.

In comes a man, now an American, a family man,
But with a European goatee, un-accented English,
Yet a boy, a young man from the Hamburg clan,
When last seen in the 1920's.

A voice calls out happy,
A miracle I call it.

Meine kleine Ervin!

My little Erwin!

What can I say other than
I weep as I write.

Late afternoon, tween twilight but before the dusk
in time for afternoon prayers, ******* followed by
the evening service, The Name reached out unto me
to touch my face, wake me from a lifelong slowing slumber.

My man! My good man, I’ve been numbering those days,
you will have no disagreement that you’re quite the closer,
close by, the chapter finale of our story, your living, a well
thumbed novella, enjoyed by many, and a favorite o’mine.

Do not restless rustle, no busing bustle, the Set Table^ cleared,
tabulations done, the sums and dividend distributed, in sync,
your words well distributed, remainders to be dearly shared, saved,
showings of great love, valleys of feeling, these your humble attire.

Look how easy the (our) words come, the fluids of a man for which
we have been long patient be awaiting, the company all in readiness,
for confession and days of permanent new creation, fast beginnings,
think on it, to be called child once more, how glorious this unknown!

Dimensions recorded, measurements tailor-taken, silk tuxedo deep bleu, luxe, a hint of violet, here-presented, patent, the leather for blue suede winged dancing shoes no airport dare ask you remove, before they beg you, say, save grace, just once, pronounce The Name, the one of Seventy!

To walk, talk, rhyme and theorize, to forget and memorize, always refreshing, knowing nothing lasts, except things that last forever, or last never, poems and decisions needing completion, choices, reordering songs loved best, repleting all sorrowed pains, uplifting prayers, hallelujah hymns, last rites...

You, a world to us, a microcosm of a triathlon life, juggling the many, last of a lineage who could^^ pray, making rain, reading poetry to angels, giving comforting absolution for making storms, plagues, tidal waves, volcanoes, concentration camps, death marches, stillborn children, incurable sadness.

Quick when the curtain calls, listen close for the cue, toe the mark,
take position, hands upward joined, eyes down, ahead are fearless words,
a soliloquy lasting hundreds of years, balances aligned, only now you  needed, to make mercy allocations, putting paid next to all my periods, all in place, properly positioned, now comes an  evening song.

then to commence the writing of only love poetry forevermore.


5:00pm
Sabbath May 23
5780