Fri, J 10 l, 2025    12:20 NYC
walking for flowers
                ~~~~
the steely irony is not bittersweet,
nor is it
white horseradish Passover stinging,
yes, the slow perfunctory defunctory,
measurable in cc’s and centimeters,
drip drop drippings frittered away by
the brains self-destruction of
cycling and recycling,
yes, and dying,
that occurs
all **** day long,
daily between the sunrise and sunset

Yet, here, right here, poetry words
somehow
fall freely,
no hesitation,
from brain to page,
no coitus-interrupt-us,
as if I was composing,
am decomposing,
mine own psalm

no need for proofs,
it was lying in wait for
sweet release,
a trigger pulled
to assemble &
stand and deliver the freely
given, albeit stolen goods

but in the ordinary course of human living,
I, fumble, stumble,
anger from my gut rumbles
up in actual screams of frustration
as the individual word sought is sight unseen
in a forest of hedgerows purposed
to interrupt free flowing
verbal animation, invading excitations

cannot remember
ten digits of mine own
cellphone number,
but the address of
my residence from early childhood
trips off the tongue, lightly and fantastically
and uselessly

the name of what’s their names
is a rock star
be a solid stone, large pebble,
s t u c k in my gourd,
or the little strength needed
in your fingertips ,
to grasp the individual coffee beans
you just dropped,
scattered over two rooms,

strength that arrived snd went,
and the cells of your body parts,
ask you
what’s going on, going wrong?

making lists is inoperative,
for the whereabouts
of said list is curiously
gone to the devils on my back,
cut out to
the dead cells that were once a warty grey,
now a withering deadening and
deafening, deadening, defeated
black hole
(******* in data for destruction)

seven generations of accumulations
erode,
chip chirped & chipped away now so oft,
onto those ***** city sidewalks
they fall and to dust,
to down ground, by steps of
passer-overs who care not a
whit,
what's that word that
rhymes to
writ?

it is imprisoned on
Devil’s Island with
what’s-his-name

took out the fixings to
make an antipasto salad,
placed all upon the counter ,
but couldn’t
locate the fig goat cheese, and
no it was not on my nigh-table,  
nor hid in the fridge,

grrr, that fridge that I fully emptied,
twice,
for twas sitting on the counter,
snickering
the very first item removed,
and also
to be
the first forgot

high to low, and reverse course,
having not left the abode!?!,
where is my watch,
so the hunt for the Red October smart watch awaiting
my lovely wrist,
is not to be found,
for it was well
hidden from searching eyes,
alr  eady on my wrist,
hiding upside down,
beneath my shirt cuff,
announcing publicly it’s
smarter than its
cuffed up
owner

admire a painting upon a wall,
but say nada to the world,
for the word mural
has evaporated, an
evaporated not no more
subjective Objective

I, intentionally
cut, rip off the pockets from every coat,
leaving in each but 
 one,
so I can be comforted
when wallet searching,
that endless patting repetitive
of pockets visible and hidden,
has now but a singular solution
thus,
may yield resultant missing object
sought and more quickly
found,
maybe

a thousand poem bits o’ honey
fully finished, or just a phrase,
needing a body, heart and head,
lie in a dank and dark
dungeoned file,
Former Memories

but the where when
and the critical tickle,
the why,
formation is still needed
for them to be despatched
to their fate,
unless it’s
“just because”
a better reasoning,
other than my
own guilty
diminishing capacity
“is no longer in service”

p.s let me save poor yocum
complaining this miss/ive
is too long,
SO there!
I’ve done it for him,
even though it is highly unlikely,
for that!
is the one thing
his memory
has proven
infallible...

genetic & embedded in both
the left and right brains and
heart muscles, pores and parts
that participate in the body’s
daily ritual colloquium regarding
the necessary amount of magic
needed, upkeep required,
to please the Lord, 
whose designers were
co~missioned,
tasked-to make a self healing
being, with a reasonable shelf
life but with built-in imperfections
and to struggle and to
honor  that idea that we born blind
and our goal is
learning to see,
envision
our better
version

the
correct redirection of
constant course corrections
using the
secret compass chord
playing on the harp of our
heart strings

<•>

903am
1/23/25
on a day of addition and sub traction

~For Lila and the others~

there exists
a subset of us,
those who
for whatever reason
do not write,
but “just” repost
other’s work

Above see the word
Just
emboldened
for this selfless task
is justice inherent

For this act of bringing others
to our over constrained attention is an
action of justice,
or more profoundly
doing away with
injustice  of
our human limitations

We could spend days entire
pursuing the works of others,
but life and the extraordinary demands
of writing anew, when the spirit is upon us,
are oft unable to spot, isolate, and
highlight
capture
the best of the rest,
and bless those
who reorient our eyes
away from our own bounded rivulets,
to the tried and truly,  away from
habitual familial familiar good stuff,
but bring us revelations of gems,
caught within the mass maskings of missives that grows hourly, exponentially to
out attention,
to reorient
our attention,
to their filtered selections

Let us say in unison then
a blessing of gratitude
to The Reposters:
*Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the Universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, to give thanks to those who enable others, to reach us this season

~Jan. 9, 2025~NYC
<•>
The words of Walt Whitman (1)



~~~~
The origin of all poems!

Oh what a sweeping promise
does Whitman, proffer,
you to entice, to succor.
ease out from within yourself,
that which is therein ready,,
to organize
what be the
fermenting stack of seeded cells of
fomenting
stacked
multiple
simultaneous
observations,
poetry lurking, thine owned senses,
a catalyst cataloging constantly
and you happily despair  to
capture, retain, s u s t a i n,
the pieces of a whole that
knowing only you possess,
that only you can
perfect as the combo
expression of
your
pre~owned assembly
as a solitary protagonist, witness,
and audience!

Understand the origins of the poem,
because it is original to you,
comprehension of this principle,
means that you will never be
starved for inspiration,
record the ordinary and the peculiar,
the off drink that when mixed,
shaken and stirred
that only you
can pour and better yet ,
s h a r e!

Disclaimer:
an unintended very long poem
from a very long walk,
hoping it might come
to rest within your
heart
but feel free to go your own,
another direction
<•>

“Another writer told me a few weeks ago of his New England Yankee mother,
who believed there are no problems
that aren’t made at least slightly better
by a long walk, and
none that are made worse.“
<•>

a moderate walker am I,
on the Promenade,
hard by the wide & narrow strait,
a tidal estuary, that divides our urban island
from its suburban Longer cousin,

this my path, most oft traversed,
a time spent usually creating,
reciprocating verses from a
copulating mind

every walking expedition is
an-in-transit composition,
an enchantment by a song
anointed, appointed and a
derivation
of a song about
going home

the last of my family
to be buried, l,
to be interred,
finally grounded,
in a park of cedar trees,
next to my immediates,
for can’t think of any other place
that might, would willingly,
not resist mightily, taking me in

it will thy will that they bury me
there if they can get permission
from the heavenly authorities,
but told the betting odds
are 3 to 1
against,
the Lords of song not so happily
with the quantity and the quality
of my unseeded spilled,
of my un-indeeded actions,
they were not entirely
rainbow colored,
some very berry blackened,
urgently misdelivered
with no justifiable delicacy
warranting memorizing or
further discussion

most likely will continue
to remain a pedestrian,
though unlikely I’ll have to
look both waysides before
crossing over

I’ll carry copies of  my scriptures,
psalms and even my one and only
flawless poem in hand,
wrote here so long ago,
s small proof that my theorems
were not
always entirely wrong,
but my replica action figurines,
were posed and struck,
were sufficient evidences
that my overall demeanor
of demeaned marks,
were negative numbered,
irony, they were unlettered
and ungraded,
mostly average, only worthy
of a place in the sadeyed lowlands

So walk I shall,
hoping they give me decent
walking & wailing shoes,
a warm suit,
a fedora or a watch cap,
cause it is more than chilly
down by the uninhabited riversides

this thinning vision is not
tinged with
any tingling regret,
nor sorrow,
what I did, what I wrote,
every word mine alone,
the way I lived,
walking solitaire is
something grown quite accustomed,
and a pretty fair pre~text of a
judgement coming
down

on the morrow,
will walk with no
measurements needed,
not speed, nor distance,
not counting crows or any other
unenumerated birds of a feather,
those on a wire or a river railing
spying observers watching,
who will go unnumbered,
as will all my
steps of no value

so this poem’s title absolute right,
no needs for solving
for absolutions,
was never ever sorry for
taking a walk,
and there are no more vocabulary
modifiers,
unneeded words left, like,

but nonetheless

only
just don’t know how
this river poem got
so long

12:53am,  January 3,2025
New York City
<>
A Traveler notates these words to my attention, but only because I make myself
a convenient target, for truthfully,
it is addressed to one and all,
to the royalty of:

We,

who speake out loud, to all those who ***** these damp woods full of wet words, that spring up overnight, ripe for the plucking, there for the taking, an exacting where & when they did not even exist
the twenty four prior

These purloined overnight creatures are

white and  black

lettered truffles, like the pages on which we inscribe, the letters raw, exquisitely tasty, shaved, measured in grams, but only when shared with others, in the privacy of our open minds, after being spooned from within us with exquisite care upon the pages that decorate our lives, sprinkled
with great care and cunning…

but when consumed, our five senses rage with aromatic pleasured pain, for these letters, so tiny, so powerful, grow only when
combinatory, individual bitty granules,
but when leavened, they enhance, provoke!,
they sauce, the

flavors  of the ordinary

of our experiences,
creating the extraordinary
when interacting upon
our five robust senses

for without the spaces of delineation,
our jumbled words are but the
random jingle jangle of the sounds
of night winds, rustling a tune
pleasant but incomprehensible

Here I take your leave,
with the liberty taken
for speaking in all our names
to a Traveler
who so succinctly captures our work,
the glue of our interactive Us,
Our,
Collective of Individuality