"my day will be different today"

she declares, when she sees herself hidden in
in a passing spending and breaking broken
drive-by scribbled-pretend, urgent poem,
stumbled upon by a heavenly calculated accident

gladdened, saddened. now dressed to the nines,
that piece of me, wherever it be, the parade ground,
where the words and letters assemble,
where the firemen train,
adding logs, love, accursed ego,
to the hearth,
steady on burning, to practice putting out the
ohms and uh-uh's
of electrical resistance that
your response, a shiny knife of a self-reflecting observation
has...** ** **
sparkling stabbing mirror

this one, a simple script, a written pyramid,
built by an Israelite, who by command, perforce
mustn't but does write prophecies
that may or may not come to being,
poem pyramids,
surely none will not survive Darius's desert sandstorms
ravaging kisses of time's forgetting

but your simple complementation
fits inside quite nicely, for its simplicity,
because it is a
provocation stabbing piercing  a self-questioning, of
why to write I need pen paper and ink,
and don't forget those stupid teardrops in the clear vial

the Zola j'accuse
of every poet, even the gone-ones,
looking down
at highest bar in poetry!

did I really do that?

even for a brief moment,
a nanosecond,
me words
modify the entire continental shelf
that another writer occupies,
change its axis, the rate of spin,
the angle of another's
solitary human's day

nah  

all i did was read (all) her poetry, imaging imaginng
a life so foreign, putting me inside of thee, and
let my stubs, the remains of worn fingers do the rest

so I guess it could be true
what you wrote,

but about me

"my day will be different today"

and why I practice this
wonderfully ridiculous
craft,
cause the pay is so
**** good

10:36am

the sighs in our chest that emanate from a different kind of
breast cancer*

wrote these words prior,
then, certainly uncertain of the exactitude of their meaning,
clearly unclear of their useable intention,
yet the too real wrathful sensations
that inspired their caesarian creation,
the sigh's very own exhalations,
floatations devices for the interned-no-longer emotions,
escapees via the crevasses of chest ribs splitting open,
return to glory thanking me for freedom given

let posterior eloquence suffice, let brevity guide
my self's interior diagramming,
lengthy explications and deep analytics, I leave to you,
the astonished medical examiner and the horrified mortician

chest ripped, my hand reinserted, the blighted scourges,
the abscessed cancers, the obsessive relentless cankers,
asking shamelessly why have I returned to the crime scene

the sighs are air-borne, ready for air plucking,
all cloud seeded, deeded for poets to seize and commence,
to plant and invent, a mountain top trickle to a mighty
river of poems to be recovered and discovered,
unrehearsed and unleashed

but you and I have unwished, unfinished business,
as of yet unwritten, one last poem to honor our
mutually assured destruction,
for this day will be
rewritten differently

for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars
<•>

fluids in, fluids out  

wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together,
it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd  the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere,

so what if it's spat-past midnight,
isn't this one of those soul-criticality's,
staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive  

make sense to you?
the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out,  
doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of
yeah yeah yeah,
my professional courtesy answer to their  dire warnings repetitious  

tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream,
a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson,
and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid  
is strong transformed into words

water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again

water is words, words are water,  
the difference huge, the difference minuscule,
both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids,
all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh,
staying-hydrated is primate

place a new cold bottle in readiness for my
3 o'clock feeding

The Allusionists (Mary Winslow and Jeff Steir)

these two allusionists  **(not illusionists!)

composition is a criminal sentencing, a full-time sensitizing,
a never ending t/rue seeing, recalling, photography by word.

I am a career criminal.  I know.

these two retranslate by digging into word wells and
well hid storage closets under stairs so that we,
the not-in-attendance may envision their sightings with
two hands clutching, comprehending almost better than
the one who is actually there.  

for our version, the one they provide is,
coffee with cream,
scotch with a  beer chaser, tea with honey,
all to be, sipped slow, so
the hot frost on my the chest, infiltrating nostrils,
Vaporub-spreads slow and easy, brainward.  

the allusionists.

the habitual employers of this
specific filter,
(word weavers, I call them behind their backs),
weaving is not in my eternally planned skill set.  

I do so admire their tapestries
that guilt alone demands tribute and obeisance
and this poor imitation.  

I do so admire their tapestries.

surprise surprise I read between the lines,
gobbling up the bread crumbs youse guys leave in;
yours and hers in the edible empty spaces and
hints and clues from other lines from other places

grew up in a family of storytellers, historians and book writers:
we did not play Scrabble in my house; was too contentious,
and besides, someone excelled in literary obscura and
Ancient Poets,
which made it most unfaira

instead we read the dictionary for fun and
broke into the unlocked local library at night,
were called The Borrowers in our little town,
I think affectionately

The FBI employed my momma,
the Original Literary Profiler,
cause she could see the signature of the same writer,
no matter how many names or disguises he tried,
in everything they had written

  the skill was transferred genetically,
which is visible in all my escapades poetically:
I live here under many names so superciliously,
but I never have yet, fooled myself^

composition is a criminal sentencing,
a full-time sensitizing,
a never ending true~rue seeing,
recalling,  every photograph my eyes did see,
by word.

I am a career criminal.  I know.

I used to live alone before I knew you

so
of the mundane tragedies endlessly writ
repeat rinse repeat
repeat
how awfully awful
is the complaining without cessation
of busted everything;

recall the the doctor’s office sign
"no cure for the broken heart here"

so when I hear a Buckley sing
the words of the Cohen, High Priest of Songs,
I, a broken hallelujah,
smile with recognition
  though the true cure is
yet  still forever being researched

patience is a patient within me,
for my muses and their endless,
poking aching whispers of write, write, write, right,
they are the company I keep,
they are the company that sweeps me up
I, a broken hallelujah

they are not the desired flesh, true,
that affirms confirms and denies me
denying my needy frailties
but for now,
mine company to keep,
so when we do meet and
you greet me with a
tell me about your previous lovers
as you humanly must

will recite my poems from
from before I knew you