Archive for the ‘Draughts from the Lee of the Loo’ Category

What If November

What if November comes and I am still here 
and the dullness and lack of vision persists. 
The laughter only comes when I visit a place where it lives, 
like getting a New York parking spot by buying a car that's in one.

And if the days pass like flipping pages in a table-bound book 
and the edges and spaces and stories and pictures lace together 
In a halting video performance out of the early days of cinema 
and my cup doth not run at all; much less over

…and I still wait for Godot and find nothing in my shaken boot 
but the remains of last week's look there 
and a sad feeling that this will happen some more.

The days are shorter than I think I remember them 
and I look at the calendar and am not surprised but, dismayed 
at where the date has gone to and the month I know I'm in 
is the one that I was sure I would be over this in. 

So the fountains don't play anymore 
and I don't seem to care very much about them 
but I remember, with a pang - faintly, 
             hoping I would.


What if never was impossible, ever were in its callow youth and 
yet but, a difficult improbability? Sun would shine, trees would 
green and swallows would molt, mate and migrate without permission 
or apology. The vast pressures of the continuum would bear down on 
all things pressing each hard against the surface of the nothing 
that separated it from the next and tranquility would remain a 
matter of opinion to all. 

With that firmly in mind I step off, vigorously, into the remains 
of my forever wanting surface; remembering edges.

One is given so little madness…

to start with that it is critically important to nurture it into the fullness of its destiny!
“Festus, I plunge!”

I am doing all I that can in that vein.

I have spent too much: 

of my life wandering to go
and too much of it to linger on
going feels too much like risk
staying feels too much like same

i am trapped in here
because there sucks
no here to hide in
no there to run to  



Why I Was Young Once

Why I Was Young Once
            a working hypothesis (rocks back)
It was the wind, I think,
Whistling in the shrouds of daytime
Tinkling in now-and-ever's chimes 
with forgivefulness coloring every scorn

Maybe, (catching edge) almost, later,
Pricking those needful times
Dashed, perhaps, like stones on sand
To lie - unbroken puppies - in sun and sky

It was the chiaroscuro sky , Looking Up, 
along that streaming vision, 
(our reflecting eyes)
Into that half-dark mirror

perhaps the smell of blue, then,
of that cashmere sweater
And the edges her nipples made
In that rippled sea of deepening age

I think - her breath,
Warm and wet on my neck and ear
And hand, with fingers, as happy as sky;
Smooth as nap hair 

On my thigh and dreams

Think on this!!

Where would we be if Pasteur had not invented the cow?

Consider the consequences if Poe does not invent the clapper in order to give
meaning to the polysyllabic tintinabulation, with the necessary meter for his poem.

The bell would toll for no one and, as usual, no one wouldn’t even notice…can you hear that??
The absence of tintinabulatory distraction – right there, outside the quiet sphere of my matter-of-factitude.


Place a dab of luxuriance upon the palette we use.
 The one from which I draw the hues.
 These with which to force our need upon the fabric 
             that will be the tapestry we live.
 A touch,  the artist's brush, into that  puddle.
 A wanton sweep over the work in progress.
 You, in variant hues and shades imbue, coruscate, bedazzle.
 Limning that which he so deeply...feels. What else?
 Thy will,
        my will
              it's will
                      be done                     
                                and not yet over.

Birthing Mirror

an inchoate blackness bled into the waning gray,
cloistering in its chiaroscuro brooding.
a restless sweep, its deliberate cloak, insinuating
that pallid geist onto the remains of our precious day.
Ardorous night; beguile, delight, I steal your restless soul,
with sudden attention, away with these accidental disguises.
she, a woman – I, not;
looking together at separate pieces
up along the streaming vision of our reflecting eyes
into that half-dark mirror, slicing twain;
that one infinite, inaccessible
this one less so…



Smiles came

and made me to cry

        and laugh

and then to sigh

with depth… and  insight

         into that kiss

that made me die…

in those two eyes

       caressing the night



Smiles that make me cry

laughs that force a sigh

tears that make me laugh

a kiss from which to die

eyes that love the night

and hands that carry light

arms that know no fear

ears to bring her near

a mind that sees the storm

to hearts that wont transform

and will that makes it real

for  sovereign souls to feel






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