upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history.

my hands fit
irregular-sized gloves,
life summaries,
slightly worn,
marked down
for the discount table.

my creases are
covered up
underneath a few
genesis survivors.

a "handful" of
youthful blonde hairs,  
failing to depart,
as time has requested.

these blonde survivors,
refuseniks to
time's ravages,
mockery makers,
of history book writers.

yet, these cohorts few,
are in cahoots with,
wave machines,
tidal decay suppliers,
gray color,
content providers,
to the balance
of my body.

nicks and grooves,
crisscross stitches,
vanity disrepairs,
someone is
counting down lifelines,
one million billion cells,  
used up, only shells,
wreckage of death stars,
jails for membranes,  
forgetful fabric memorizers,
crumbled fractures,
patches designed by
an unknown haute couturier,
a failed revisionist
of the original conception.

All our hands.

upon closer examination,
Jubilee finale,
arrival day of the  
Halcyonian,
mythical bird,
powerful enough,
charm the winds,
calm the waves,
harbinger of
our demise.

that date,
initialized,  
DVR recorded,
visible,
right there,
upon on all
our hands,
all our history.

Source coded
in a language
for which the
Rosetta stone
yet undiscovered,
but visible,
right there,  
on all
our hands,
all our history.

Halcyon bird,
comes
when it comes,
though we,
always, surprised,
oblivious
to the obvious.

Halcyon bird,
coming, to calm,
and to lament loss,
coming,
to still the wind
and wave within
the heart,
repair the
deepest rent.

So these words,
caresses,
coming,
to calm and to lament,
from my hands
to yours,
asking modestly,
for acceptance,
for forgiveness,
for another's hands hold
mine, my heart.

Yet my hands wave on,
each wave, a day,
an entry in and on my handy ledger,
where recorded,
upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history,
the what is
as well
what cannot ever be.




-------------------------------------------------------­-----------

* http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/halcyonian

(Halcyonian, a mythical bird, said to have the power of charming winds and waves into calmness, associated with death)

~~~
dear god, what you demand of me
is inhuman,
which is likely why
you demand it with
gleeful and gorgeous
word-worthy delicacies

walk forward to the small rise
overlooking the water,
the new cloud variation of this day's
particuliar peculiar moment,
a watercolor painting deserving
of the posterity of oil and
yet another poem...

raise my arms
half beseeching,
half grasping,
you color me every day
with your revisionist perfection
every day, nay,
verily each minute,
a new canvas revealed,
each an indie movie shown
but once,
then never again,
as seen from my reclining platform of soil,
kneeling on the crest of my sheltered home's soul

am compulsed, compelled,
addicted to finding new words
praiseworthy of a unique finger painting,
recombinant blue earth, soon turning, light green water,
all ring fenced
in the white ermine of a cloak of sand,
all worshipping alongside me,
the newborn sky of every moment,
majesty so nonpareil
that it chokes my tongue to silence,
hard slams shut my
desperately, deficient dictionary
to praise proper

yet every pore eager to share,
fall upon my naked knees,
as supplicant and mendicant both
to the majesty of this
particular minute's DNA
tasked to me to regift so pathetically

a man destined to fail,
who in advance knowing
unequal to the task,
grandeur impeccable,
in words henpecked,
mortal kernels of awesome and wow,
just don't cut it,
for this late afternoon tapestry of a
summer day's coronation,
it deserves far far better than this

the now multi-blue shaded water
wears tinkling diamond dust,
perhaps a piece of the sun's tiara
has gentle fallen to earth through
the puffs of Mistress Skye's
white, shift-shaping unceasingly changing
etchings

knocked to my knees,
gasping at the greenery on the far shore,
color contrasts from across the ocean,
raising the bar even further,
enfeebled by a chronic-need,
an aching desire
imprisoned in the right brain's stubborn will
to create,
to write down in words,
the glory of this workmanship

begging impolitely,
please oh please keep on testing me
this way,
so that I might
cry aloud my
failure in words,
just once more,
gleefully and gorgeously

for what,
for this,
dear god,
that you demand of me,

I thank you...

~~~

Shelter Island,
this moment,
this Michelangelo ceiling,
this
August 10th,
and days, years, centuries,
yet to come,
et en passant,
2015

Caught red-handed,
You reach for the first thing
Your grubby metacarpus can find,
Be it a sabre or quill.

You ****** and parry away
In your journal,
All in the hopes you might
Besmirch me,
And strike it rich
At the same time.

But like Dido, Queen of Carthage,
Your bags of gold
Contain only sand.

This is your hapless undoing,
Mr. Hamilton,
Despicably so.
Don't use me as a crutch,
Fall on your own sword!

Talk about a fair amount
Of revisionist's history,
But we'll save that for
Another day...

Suffice to say:
History is in the eyes of the beholder.

June 26, 2025
<>
a verily un~silly query,
for mine be already composed,
"A Flawless Poem", [1]
but
this doesn't beg the question,
as to what the answer
for you be;
and the 3:22am thoughts
are pouring over a tea bag of steeping darling Darjeeling
brain cells,
which sadly are not
resippable
and I fear are already long gone,
dissolved
but will be dragged back
from the irregular edges of
faint memories
for your
sipping them
later. letter by letter
<>
my slow dissolving, by a patient lengthy dismembering ,
this body's suite
of methodologies of self~distraction
to and from
its own destruction are numerous, varied,
well chronicled
<>
it is a dismembering of
disremembering,
a catalogue of life reviewed,
even occasionally revised,
for many are the memories
paining, and requiring
revisionist repainting;
an analog of a well thumbed catalogue, whose glue has tired and
the outlines faded,
as time and sad space
for you reach it's nigh
occlusions of conclusion,
reviewing, re-concluding
better outcomes than the actualities
<>
I see my ashes dissolution,
and into water traveling, well dispersed across continents,
their contents contented to
be filtered, but part and invisible parcel of a tinging invigorating particles of me,
will be shared to your body
for inspiration and even perhaps
reincarnation (mmmm);
me will be
tingling tinging the water
you
sip,
and old combinations of
new words will reemerge
from your fingertips and
silent scripts of
utterances
<>
thus,
we recompose the decomposed,
reassemble with a reassuring ease,
a last and ever lasting poem
anew,
and over and over
a once and first
timelessly
delivery
<>
this quaint notional of
passing conjoined words
through and over your lips
(ah ha!)
pleases me greatly,
though the lengthiness of
this creature goes on too long,
but @ 3:58am, length is a minor
to the adult need, to expound
every last kernel that is passing by,
for its inevitable retention and
ultimate
forgetting nonetheless
<>
iron of irony,
this is but a faint and impoverished recollection of
the harmonious words I heard in my head before they were etherized
<>
and a poor recapitulation of
their essences sensory density,
and yet, this revolution of
recapturing recall the question posed,
What if you only had one poem left, what would you write?

perhaps an extremely and extended
siren song of my exterior erosion,
my mind's muscle memory discarding its residue of residuals,
we call memories,
allowing our peculiar perceptions
to fade and yet,
find a way
to away to
you
for your
(wink)
reorigination
<>
As the Jewish King & Psalmist wrote
a thousand years ago,
there is nothing new under the sun,
but somewhere a poet
greets the sunrise
with newly inspired words,
as if it is a first birthing of
a great
and unexpected creation,
deserving of a last~ing

co~memoration!

Upon closer examination,
my hands, my history.

Irregular sized summaries, slightly worn,
like gloves, marked down for the discount table,
my creases covered up underneath genesis survivors,
a 'handful' of youthful blonde hairs,  
failures to depart as requested.

Refuseniks to time's ravages,
mockery makers,
yet, cohorts of, in cahoots with,
wave machines, breaker bringers of tidal decay,  
gray color content providers,
to the balance of my body.

Nicks and grooves, crisscross stitches,
vanity repairs to counting down lifelines,
one million billion cells,  
wreckage of death stars, jails for membranes,  
forgetful fabric memorizers, crumbled fractures,
patches designed by an unknown haute couturier,
failed revisionist of the original conception.

All our hands.

Upon closer examination,
Jubilee finale, arrival day of the  
mythical Halcyonian,
the date, initialized,^
even DVR future recorded,
visible, right there, upon
on all our hands, all our history.

Source coded in a language for which 
a Rosetta stone, yet undiscovered,
but visible, right there,  
on all our hands, all our history.

Halcyon bird,
comes when it comes,
though we, always, surprised,
oblivious to the obvious.

Halcyon bird,
coming, to calm, and to lament loss,
coming, to still wind and wave within
the heart, repair the deepest rent.

So these words, caresses,
coming, to calm and to lament,
from my hands to yours,
asking modestly, for acceptance.


--------------------------------------------------------------­----

^http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/halcyonian

(Halcyonian, a mythical bird, said to have the power of charming winds and waves into calmness, associated with death)