when the triumvirate,
HBS
(heart, body, soul)
virates in unison's embrace,
with alarms,  belling belligerently:

kid, ya honestly think,
your old enough to be
young enough, to desire
the pain & heartbreak that
makes the agonies surrounding
the sounds of loving, yet bear
your temblors of infatuation?

have you lost perspective,
it was not so long ago
you forswore the risky
unrequited version of
chancing love, now glinting
hintings unhinging your
sense uncommonly
predictably,
and you walk a tightrope
on your fingers,
over waters of
disaster, and
   is a fall and broken bones,
an injury you can
no longer afford,
no lingering chronic condition
sustainable
for the kiddie giddiness
of trying one more time?

go to your nookery,
bring pillow, wine, rhyme
and senses to remind that
this drug you have perfected
and permitted to entertain your
bloodstream's coursing through
the map of your unities, and stay,
write, but dare not imbibe the
elixir that has too often anchored
your poor heart in the dredges
of the ocean bottom?

why look at you even now!

you have been corrupted by
loving rhymes
forgetting the
freedom of free
versing, and your
eyelids encrusted
with diamond dust,
and all you can see
is the
far away horizon of
possibility

gladdened are you by the late
drummer of summer's fading glory's beauty,

but heed your internals,
curse those infernals,
loving is for the deserving
and you are not!

here I am authorized
to remind the heart pain
you endured from losing,
had no cure, and the excesses
you attempted to distract
from the doctor's blunt assement,
that loving feeling.
that left you reeling
the doctor stated,
you, the unsaited,
you, of the physical pain
of that long lasting
heart breaking occlusion
insane, had no cure

suffer not any illusions
a life of heartbreak is
not sustainable,
nor a lifetime refundable,
fall in love often,
take it and its quick deteriorating
high,
but I see you grimace,
you way past the point,

nah, you want it all...
good luck with that....

another diurnal marker attained,
but no one will be issued a
Boy or Girl Scout badge,

an unverified few will remark,
"this is a day that counts
my halftime voyage
circulating the sun,"
but detect no
other difference tween
day prior, day after,
and will let the passing thought, pass into the fibers of their
existence, aling with the millions of others that humans create,
then let lay,
absorbed into their uncountable,
uncollected collective

but it is the divisor!
the median mark
of a year,
and the world Earth
will be however old it be,
plus a half, like some of its
inhabitants

to be X plus a half,
is not an indifference,
a halved year is
better than no more years,
a solitary tear
still marks the moment
of a moment,
a refraction pointillism,
to reflect a passage

so treat it
not!
with
cavalier,
but go off and pause,
in a quieting places within,
and think,
I am more,
greater than before,
and with grace elevated
will complete my space
occupied on this rotund,
robust earth,
and
be thankful for the embers of
oxygen in and ex
ha(i)led,
greeted,
stating
this breath next
is an opportunity,
and will spent it
usefully

"I write for the ordinary souls
who can't always sort out the
meaning in all the metaphors and analogies
that grace more sophisticated formats.

Indeed,
together we have
struggled over
the potholes of existence
and in my case,
heath,
but it's nice to not be alone
on the weighing
to the way

I do welcome your company.
I try not to complain
and be down,
but it's a struggle I often lose.
You can call me on it,"

by
Anonymous
<>
R*esponse:

a kith & kindred soul,
to I,
as well,
*who too,
whose
soul is still
crazy after all these years

our pathos paths cross
but lit~er~ally
but
we are
allied as well

simple *simpatico
and
words interestingly
suffice
when
suffering
is cognizant
and the parallelism
is truly
literal,

anon!

(You!
can call me in it)

First know this:
In my peoples’ history,
an old evil, revived,
a real pretend
a”new” enemy, but
merely a derivative of a-prior,
old name, same hatred,
irrational and raw,
rising up in every generation,
under cover of a ‘philosophy,’
lies buried a purity of motive,
purity of hate for hate’s sake

<•>

For my people
and their beliefs
Our secret to our
survival is manifest,
you may have heard it called,
A Secret Chord (1)

Tears and Laughter,
Tears Behind Laughter
intertwined, or else,
we would not indeed be  
the long going on tribe
studied by curious
historians & idiots

me?
still crazy, after all these generations

Grandparents & Parents
chased by ‘professionals’
from places well known to you
(hey! we somehow got away
with huge luck, and courageous daring)

Not requiring your sympathy
not asking for a special empathy,
not rejecting your clucks,
but we manage
though tears aplenty
that we mask under a guise
via self-deprecating humor

I would love to tell
the Bible and the liturgy
is full of sly winks,
cutish double entendres,
bartender jokes,
but it ain’t necessarily so
don’t ya know

if the bible had made
gentle laughter at/of/
angelic & human foibles
and maybe
even God laughing at
all too human characteristics

but that’s a very big ask,
not sure He’s up to the task,
making fun of yourself
when you’re the
top of the chain
requires
humanility
which’s not a master’s
first calling
but should have been its
first blessing

so that’s up to us,
we irreverent creatures
of his design,
and why we are the absolute tgw only
species that cries
to express
sadness-
and mockery maker
of ourselves
the oy in
oh vey beings
Still crazy after all these years

“A man is about as likely to ask for help for depression as to ask for directions, and for much the same reason,” said Real, who struggled with his own depression issues. “It's part of the male code, part of masculine culture.”

~~~

when they ask,

I say, parrying fast,
how you doing?

to the persisters, I mutter fine

which is 100% correct...



been fined for the accumulated

made-mistakes, wrong forks taken,

the weight invisible but the

body sags, nonetheless...



you know they know,

you know their thoughts,

why doesn't he snap out of it,

after all he is a man,

he has always been

what we needed,

why can't he

just go back to the person prior...



this code, is not law,

ten times worse,

genetic and culture passed,

double ******,

code so real, like the headaches,

the nightmares, that forbid equanimity...



not true,

we don't expect that of you,

thankful for all you have done,

but eyes betray,

a simpatico misunderstanding,

the instillers, can't take back

what they celebrated previous...



the signals everywhere, few ascertain,

cause the rule is never complain,

don't go near windows,

lest the sunlight diffused, offers no cheer,

but escape temptation ever on offer...



forgive yourself, someone intones,

but what infects my bones,

is non-responsive to the forget antibiotic,

which does not come in pill format



ask me for directions,

I will talk/walk you to your destination,

but when I'm lost,

I'm just a lost man,

who needs to do better,

forgetting is not in my DNA,

but lost is...choking on expectations

of being everyone's savior,

with no one to save you from yourself...

expertise irrelevant, a knowing
recognition where & when & why,
venn diagram inflection points
intersect, and also confine

the nirvana nexus on a line of dots in a
movingly motion connected by a formula that
has an equal 🟰 in its muddly middle the man’s best sole instructions to her only

solve! me

when in an moveable interaction
the power of rushing baking cake & it’s filling
is akin to trying to hold back a bucking stream that cannot both be ****** or dammed

running words, making
you obsessed to remember
every detail, but commas only,
never a period interrupting continuity no
essential points of exit and entry

and yet…

you cold stop to breathe
wondering how came you
to be a container intertwining
motifs and motives, desires contradictory,
control contrives to be a
controversy pressured pressed
together, and you want to stop, go,
turnings to touch,
she be tablet and he the pen,
and you wrack to remember each
detail, the poem complete or will
confusions reign supreme
and all the fantastical
schemes are shot to
hell, ink spilled,
house doused

and she good naturedly laughs at you,
cause she knows poet better than himself
and forgives him his inspirational
dazes and gazes of confusion
because it is hard to give when
giving birth to
a dream’s obsessive demands
to love one more
than the other

each deserves no rival, just a final fini,
she wants the same, but the heart
is where he keeps hid, exactly
what she needs, so forgives a
little, because loving a crazy
man after all these years
is taking the excesses
costly cause that be
an insanity desired,
what she loves,
the dusky duo
inside him
a constant
battle re
fusing
resolving
the man’s contradictories,
that she cherishes him for
more, his mired mind, more and
laughs at mores, cause it is never ending;

his more is feature why she loves him very best, she showers and laughs, he rushes in
puzzlement featured on his face, so invites him in and as he falls to his knees in a watery
embrace, while grasping her hips, she
states with a finality: “‘
*”let us discuss the importance of proper endings”