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Thursday, April 30, 2009

WHAT IS IT? An Adaptation of E.Fried’s, WAS ES IST?
An Adaptation of Erich Fried’s,

It’s nonsense,
Says Reason;
It is alpha and omega,
Says Heart.

It brings suffering,
Nothing but unending pain,
We may never breach
The Grand Canyon,
This separates us,
No matter how many,
We celebrate,
The wedded years, the bliss,
Rejoins Analysis.

It is the beginning and ending,
Hence the chief, the whole,
Affection mightily counters.

The height of irresponsibility,
It seduces us
From nobility and labor,
And would have us forget,
The disappointment,
That sad story we already know.
Insanity to repeat
What had happened before,
And expect, again, different result,
Reckons Logic.

No! Not so,
Love hollers.

It is a state of grace,
Not the means
To one thing, or another,
But end onto itself,
The first and the last,
It signifies God’s Eternity,
Claims my Desire.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

WITHOUT YOU, George St. Heartbreak II

George St. Heartbreak II

I am sick with rheum and aches,
And a congestion of the lungs.
I cough constantly.

Insomnia stains my eye sockets, like charcoal,
And, for the first time in my life,
I actually look older than my real age.

Years ago, when a child,
I read auguries in the snarled pattern of clouds,
And practiced divination in how snow
Accumulated to subtle differences of height
On the post rails surrounding the corral.

I watched the frozen breathe of horses,
Looking for some hope of bliss but abstracted
Solely gloom and heartbreak.

Today, desperate and preoccupied, I try

To pick out the future from the way
Antennae wire twists against the white walls,
And falls up and down
Along the molding in my bedroom.

All omens promise bad luck.

My mind has fallen into moat

And bad mood has dungeoned me.

I keep to the apartment all day,
Flipping over playing cards,
Looking for my destiny every time,
A queen of hearts appears from the deck.

It's going okay tonight, not too bad.

"Stanley, don’t be wearin’ that stickpin

Opals are always considered unlucky!"

My luck isn't very good as it is.

I don't think me wearing an opal
Changes the out come of life that much.

No eulogy for this affair of heart.

No photographs left here for me to remember us.

I see no people down the street to witness
Me drive off in the Ford alone.

Rain and cold, happy couples walk the avenues

Huddling close, tight, one to another.

Your name has been deleted from the speed dial.

It has vanished from my computer screen.

I guess these musings are the closest

It may ever come to a biography of us.

I must wonder if this whole fantastic romance,
I once imagined, amount to no more, now,
Is it footnote in this big book of my own?

No children will be named for us,
Not that you wanted it anyhow,
The children being named after either you or me.

No admission will ever be charged

For entrance to the home where we once lived,
Spoke ardently of love one for the other,
And I tempted verse to celebrate us for the ages.

And despite all the noise coming from the street,

All the appointments I have to keep this evening,
I can only lie on the floor and look to the ceiling.

The light is going out of my eyes.

Some people lust after every thing.

Lots of people crave more than fair share.
I, I just want you, your love, dear,
And while life goes on without you,
I am feeling increasingly impoverished,
And have fallen into awful ingratitude,
A grand poverty of spirit,
Like some refugee forced to flee his home,
Abandon his bed and kitchen utensils,
I know the analogy rings false,
Wrong to venture such outrageous comparison,
But sitting here alone,
It’s as if God has left me nothing at all.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

THE WORD, A Lover’s Exhortation

A Lover’s Exhortation

Well! Was sagst du?
I believe I say it right.
Still it is only God, Who knows,
The one dimensionality -- the real tragedy --
The empty when we call upon the soul.

But, sweetheart, Hey! I tell you now.
Forget it! Fly straight!
Think of the Frick with its fabulous El Greco,
Small though the painting is, it amply captures the fury,
When Jesus castigates the money changers,

Das wort ist klar!

No man may serve two masters.
God loves the prisoner, the downcast, the lame.
He loves the lilies of the field.
Grass need not care how it may clothe itself.

Though great it may be to be King, what profit in it,
When the first shall be last and those with least,
Most, and beggars shall inherit the earth,
And children be fountains of wisdom,
And rabbis know not the Lord
When He stands before them?

SERENDIPITY, Against All Odds

Against All Odds

I know it's cosmic!
It's like, heavy, man!

Mystery inscrutable to regular analytical tool,
A Logic whose outcome sits beyond
Scope of rational, academic exercise!

Even with reference to twenty, ancient texts
I could not begin to fathom
How in a parking garage,
That on weekends became a swap meet,
A regular New York City antique flea market,
With stalls and all kinds of old and colorful goods,
Jareck, a friend, and my helper,
Who always had kept counsel his own,
-- This, the one instance, for he never, never
Interfered, ventured opinion on any other matter! --
Interrupted the normal, business routine,
The booth’s weekly setup,
And with all the patience he could muster,
Explained to me, not once, but on a least, half-dozen,
Separate occasions, a notion, about our being right,
Good, one for the other, in every special way.

He said you wanted me.
You later objected,
Said no such thought ever entered your head,
That his estimation was wrong, yet admitted
Women frequently flirt to their advantage.

I had noticed you, to be sure!

You were a regular customer,
But no thought of romance had entered my ken.
I had not imagined us a suitable couple.

No! Not at all,
Until the one, very early morn when,
During a heavy rainstorm, I drove across Brooklyn
To collect you from the hostel
For our first daylong excursion, and brought you a
Single exotic flower in a clear glass vase.

You, sister, Oeland, Baltic island woman;
I sprung from the land-locked plains of Illinois.

Consider it, the millions-to-one odds
Stacked against our favor, I... I, I mean, duh!

I trust you may come to believe

This thing of ours rests outside human command.
And let’s remember,
Whatever the divine designates together

No mortal may draw asunder.

This is it! I do! I do love you!

Tonight the pilot naps in the back seat.
I fly the aircraft. The bright,
Rollover arrows signal the glide path.
And over the wire direct to my ear,
Ten thousand watts propel the voice.
It says, 'You do! You do love her!'

Friday, April 17, 2009

OH CHICAGO! Suite White City, Rewrite

Suite White City, Rewrite

Chicago I see you,
Though to be there I must tap root scenes,
Now, very long ago, what I share
Might be more dream, fiction,
Than actual, history event, my life enfolds,
I see it in pictures,
Lake-front parking, a lover’s lane,
Way down at east end of Foster,
The time I and my son’s mother,
A woman who in future becomes my first,
The one, my one and only wife,
From whom, today, I count,
Almost thirty years, divorced.

That fellow came out from within the bushes,
With a great length of metal, gaffing hook,
Then a big overhead swing,
He punctured the hood on my Dad’s Chevrolet,
Brand-new, 1960, four-door, hard-top, white,
And we survived the attack,
Intact, secure behind the doors and car in reverse,
We were lucky, I guess.

That time in the high rise, near North Side,
Where up on the 18th floor, my buddy and I,
That cop, yea, she was fine.
Oh, Chicago, I remember her, what fond delight!

I liked her 9MM slept with us,
(She placed it under the pillow)
And her uniform with its badges,
Leather belt and boots, both when she wore them,
Or when they were thrown, scattered and heaped,
All her garments, I remember well.
They looked good on the rug of the bedroom floor.

Later, in the back seat, police cruiser unit,
I joined the convergence, while she drove
And her partner sat shotgun, chased the culprit,
Down the alleys, fast, 30mph,
Galvanized cans popping, their lids flying like saucers,
Garbage was raining all over the concrete.

Riverview Park, my first high school,
Down the block from the Ferris Wheel,
Reader excuse the free thinking,
I leap here to insight and meaning,
Back to the time my great grandfather,
All the way from LaSalle, came to see the lights,
The white city, magic, and when he returned, home,
Told tales about the city, twenty-years after the Fire.

He, my great grandfather, he returned home,
And when he told the family about alternating current,
How white the city in the middle of the night,
He ignited my grandmother’s lust, she wanted a part,
She sought the grandeur, she sold her soul,
Oh darkness, the narrow, women’s common lot,
The drudgery of hand laundry, the knowledge
She frequently lamented, “Yes, I was born too soon.”

Ironing with implement heated on the stove,
Early to bed, early to arise, the great bore,
Small town life, it was said she bed the devil,
And many claimed she had, when she married
My grandfather, an iterant painter,
Who went from town to town painting church murals,
And following the grand cliché,
He drank his liquor as others might milk from a jar,
And to add to his cocktail’s already heady mix,
The family’s romance says, he had bad habit,
To moistened the stylist between his lips;
And we know, the paint his day had lead for base.

He promised her life, incandescent, a large role
In Illinois history, remember,
The new town rose up from the old, up from ashes,
And was there not real truth,
Behind the story, the Whites, the miracle,
How they had been rescued at Fort Dearborn?

She sought energy, electric, the moment
She wanted city burning, burning bright, resplendent.
Oh, Chicago, it is from you that I have my life!

Thursday, April 16, 2009

YOUNG LOVE, It Drifts Away

It Drifts Away

Mask of youth, and its costume still upon you,
When we had met, year-9/11,
It marked the city forever,
Downtown burned, towers had fallen, and all the dead,
The smell dominated the air,
Yet there at last days of December,
All the way to West 26th Street,
A bad omen, I guess.

You were different then, more girl
Than the grown woman you are today.

I remember that first Christmas Eve,
And how you had bought silver jewelry,
I was at market and you stood before the showcase,
Studied the pieces, awaited me to make the move
And price to drop, bargained without word,
Used patience as your tool, you figured,
I was in a hurry, wanted to get home.

It seems halcyon, when I look back,
When I picture you, recall your eyes
Expectant, be-all, the end-all,
Tomorrow’s promise, stayed awesome and bright,
It was etched, but lineless, across your face.

You were different then, more girl
Than the grown woman you are today.

And you seemed happy, light upon your feet,
I judge your back had not come to bother you yet,
And you had hopes for a child,
Maybe you wished the start to family,
Saw for yourself a real, happy ending, hey?

My defenses were still intact,
No idea you would play, lead in dream wish,
Whose title read, cherished above all others,
That when I fell within the sphere of your limbs,
I would start believing,
Make it an apostle’s creed, a matter of faith
Though love is only a feeling, it drifts away.

The pleasure of your company engulfed my mind,
All good sense and sensibility abandoned, I was yours,
And once I placed my hand upon your knee,
Oh heart beat, beating fast, lasting long, day after day,
Together, no matter what I might have done,
However I might have conspired to end it.

You said you would love me, now and forever
I know it’s trite, nothing I should write,
Unworthy of poetry, your promise,
Yeah, until the end of time, and you,
Today I feel as if you had purposefully taunted me,
You laughed at notion, desire might ever wane,
Though love is only a feeling,
You swore ours here to stay.

Anyone who seeks,
Fervidly wants dream come true,
Gets the sense of what I am saying,
The terrible desire, that were it possible,
A replay of yesterday’s grassy splendor,
To enjoy again the glory in the flower,
Despite the rapid descent, the finality marking,
Every bit of human radiance and beauty,
No matter how grand, ambitious the effort, knows
The rainbow comes and goes,
And though lovely the rose, it blooms and is no more,
How impossible otherwise to variegate the end.

And for us, for you and me, it’s same old story,
Agony to cling to silly notions, and call them right,
When the telephone is off the hook,
And all the doors are shut.

World knows, love, only a feeling,
It drifts away, and, I, fool, believed, I believed,
I thought at odds, forgot the foreboding,
Paid no heed to events,
The lasting heritage, that first December,
Sure we were masters of our affection,
Our land, the land called Eden,
Positive we had won, and continued the delusion
That, and as you had said, ours was special,
And contrary to every dictate of reason,
I had come to believe we had found it,
Love here to stay, bright sun, morning after morning,
Endless awakening, fresh flowers everyday,
A bed with gorgeous sheets and pillows fluffed
Despite love, it being only a feeling,
Like the youth, we at one time owned, and
Had been our possession, it drifts away.

LOVE POETRY, Lost Without You

Lost Without You

How about some love poetry?

Right now I am so desperate for your touch
That I can barely speak, let alone write a thing.

I could walk out the door into the hallway
And scream with such ferocity
The neighbors might think
I have taken leave of my senses.

When I think of food,
Nothing compares to how I savor you.

When I contemplate delightful vision,
You are the only vision in my eyes.

I love all music,
But no sound is better than your voice.
I await every telephone call,
And lead you with questions,
Just to hear the timbre of your talk, which I adore.

Nothing makes me sadder than a bad connection.

Oh! Baby! I love your smell.
Intoxicated and pathetic, I make the bed,
And fluff the pillows,
I do so expecting the redolence of you.
And when you are gone,
Even after a day or two,
And your aroma is lost, I am lost, too.

At wits end, I circle the bed,
And pace the bedroom floor, like some pet
Whose master has not returned home.

I am frantic without the fresh smell of you.

BEWARE, Reckless Love

Reckless Love

Should this book pleasure you, beware!
Know an idolater has made it,
Though he tried to subjoin his words to holy theme,
The mystery of how earth and heaven be in spirit, one,
He failed and remains unredeemed,
Then to his hands that writ he did betake,
Which he disclosing read, thus as the paper spoke

That it had been sworn, even every single line of verse,
And all else he calls his own,
Believe it or not, his life itself,
To graven image, he worships
Finite woman, a girl made of flesh and bone.

For her, it was all for her, for her alone,
He had conserved his health and appearance,
He tempted fame and fortune,
And since the days of youth,
When he marched in line, the bishop’s Confirmation,
No sacrament meant more to him than day with her.

And he waited;
He waited as no else could have waited,
No one in this world would have waited for her,
For anyone, as he waited for her, his patience,
Unparalleled, he had not despaired. Believe me, believe,
Reader, though it sound trite, he exampled axiom
Within the human breast, hope springs eternal.

Oh dreamy picture of love,
That all force of history might conspire,
Act to exact his design, no, no, not reckless,
But true, he built for the future,
Knew it was right, that she return to his arms
As surely as the clock measured the hours
He waited for her, heart and mind,
He waited for her as no one else would have waited.

Let me drop the pretense,
This whole business of third person,

As deer crave for running waters,
So I crave, so I crave, so I crave for you,
As a mother wish for an absent daughter,
So I wish, so I wish, so I wish for you,
As a father long for return of prodigal son,
So I long, so I long, so I long for you,
As a pastor ache for member lost to church’s flock,
So I ache, so I ache, so I ache for you.

Friday, April 10, 2009

HEART’S ON FIRE! Lunch at Panera

Lunch at Panera

The streets are joyous, full of fun.
I hear laughter wherever I go.

I could not ask for more.
I walk to the door of our home,
Then, before I enter,
I picture you and hear your warm, ‘Hello!’

With racing mind and energetic flesh –
I can not believe it, the joy!
I burn intensely! Heart’s on fire!
Something here inside can not be denied.

You want to stay, to be my friend.

When we sit down for sandwiches
And the simple glass of water,
Two washed apples for desert,
We note that future ages write,
Our table talk has grandeur,
Words at lunchtime attain immortality,

Everything we do dissolves the difference,
We loose distinction between yours and mine.

I see out the window,
A bright light illuminates the scene.
I need no coin for the wishing well.
My goal is close at hand.

I have never witnessed
Such contentment on a woman’s face
The web radio forecasts sunny days.
Now I learn the poet’s proclamation,
The meaning of new morning,
That though I, unworthy and lost, have grace,
Sufficient that I may delight in weakness,
Know triumph from hardship and failure,
That when I am weak, then I am strong,
And despite my want, lack of proper schooling,
Lord grants righteousness,
At my command vocabulary of redemption,
I am reborn,
The bounty of great love saved me.

No matter the physical distance between us.
A part of you, a part of me always stays with us.

I take you in my arms and hold you,
As I hold you in this verse of mine.
Let me take you in my arms and tell you
How much I have missed you,
I miss you so very much since we have been apart.

SHOUT OUT, Ecstasy Overpowers


Ecstasy Overpowers

Uneasy, when it came to sex.
You made me feel
I was doing you wrong.
Your body stiffened,
And. I remember. once you said,
‘Too incredibly intimate.’

Later I watched in movies,
Men drop to the knees,
It seem nothing special,
No more than regular business,
Hollywood does its usual fare.

In a recent film with a Bedouin setting,
North Africa, camels on route,
Over windy hills of sand, oasis to oasis,
Hardly a trend setter,
The lead takes his captive,
Wife number three, and there
Within the walls of village home,
He keels, while camera spies,
He takes love by mouth.

Since I knelt before you,
It’s months now.
I wish I might kneel,
As the sheik did!
But you, and health, and work,
And sleep, they have gone,
Fled irrevocably!

I wake in the middle of shouts.

I taste you, still.
The taste, it fills my mouth.
I try to write,
But swoon instead.

Were I not driven, lost to distraction,
Able to clear my mind and gain proper distance,
This poem might be better by far.

Oh, Oh goodness!
Fetch a chair! ...Never mind,
I’m fine. I’m okay.

It’s the terrible heat!

Thursday, April 9, 2009

SAD STORY, Crazy Love

Crazy Love

I am at a loss, dumbfounded.

Neither of us forgets the depth,
The big range, affection ready at our command,
We always felt exceptionally well-suited,
We were great couple in so many ways…

You proclaimed our special bond.
One early Sunday evening,
It was sometime mid August about year and a half ago;
You may not recall, yet
What you said, it meant a lot to me.

We stood at the corner, remember?
Seventh Avenue at Twenty-Fourth Street,
Awaiting the red, traffic signal,
When I told you a recent article from “Science Times”,
Reported the outside perimeter,
A year and half at tops, the intensity of romantic love,
The passion subsides that quick scientists argue.

Oh! You immediately demurred,
We had not even crossed the Avenue, before
You objected, challenged current science,
And proclaimed, said “Not for us!”

You professed the special heat,
How our romance,
Our romance more akin to eternal flame,
Not subject to normal wane of heart’s intensity.

My soul took flight;
The change was quick to my entire demeanor.

I felt like Superman who in single bound
Able to leap tall buildings, I believed my power
Greater than steam locomotive,
That I ran faster than speeding bullets,
I could bend steel with my bare hands.

I would run away with you!

Poppycock! Pure tomfoolery personified,
And me, idiot, to believe, to accept
A word you might say,
When past history proved
Honesty, something you never learned at home.

By October you were gone,
Your every promise, your solemn vows,
Your abject assurance to be good, prevarication,
Everlasting love, indeed! It lasted
No more than seventy-five days.

I am sick of it, this terrible romance,
I can not go on, I feel it’s charade,
Too much, the caprice,
You toss me to the ground, stomp upon me,
The ungrateful child’s unwanted toy,
However you may have wanted me,
I exist no more, and am broken.

For both of us there’s plenty desire,
You sneak up on me; watch me from a distance,
Stoking the flame which still fires your heart,
And neighbors tell me they see you,
Saying how you haunt me,
How you seem unable to let me go,
Signs the real extent,
How much you must still love me.

And I write this love poem,
Though what was once this thing of ours,
This breathe and we wondrous, beauteous mates,
Finished, driven apart, and my verse,
Pathetic exercise, sorry chapter
In story gone nowhere,
It bears title, everything about us so crazy.

Had I not become accustomed to your way,
Spent no time next to you in bed;

Were I smart enough a man,
Avoiding you in the first place,
Never saying a word to you,
Except perhaps the usual humors,
The greetings ‘Good Morning, and Hello’,
The simple inquiry about your health,
Asking the everyday how-are-you,
I would never have gotten to the point,
That loathsome feeling, you love me no more,

Or worse yet that you had never loved me,

And equally, both sad and disturbing,
That mine, the warmest of regard,
Turns to disdain, and fervent wish,
We speak no more, and I never see you again.

I feel you, woman. I have the telepathic gift
To hear when you think of me, and you know it!
And this power runs two ways.
Right now I could clench my teeth,
Do an inward scream, whose loudness
Would awake you and disturb your sleep to dawn.

I wish I could caress you,
Practice the arts, embrace my erotic bent,
Oh had I been allowed more time to turn you,
Make you a slave to love, enthrall you,
But I really wish, I might have forgotten you,
Relegated your touch to darksome region,
A place free, blank, where I
No longer remember your name.

Can’t you fall in love with someone else?

I know it’s wrong for me to say,
I love you. So let me go.
Time will strengthen my resolve,
I shall move on. Chance to reconcile,
Prove your word, sincere and true,
Though once allowed, has come and gone.

Darling, we have fallen and are amiss,
No! No joy, fruitless to embark upon a road,
A road running to distant horizon,
Yet it goes nowhere,
With ultimate destination, the final end of us.

My pledges of love, all my dreams, now lament,
My mind is rent, my heart, devastated,
My joy, sorrow, my victory, nightmare defeat,
I am mad for neither can I live with nor without you.

I believe I love you, but the love has gone.
A while ago hot and bothered, now I am cold,
My regard for you now soured, turned to disdain.
I desire your return; take you back readily any ol’ day,
Too bad I no longer believe a word you say.

I’ll say it using the cliché, maybe make it clear,
I am rock steady, but I’m beginning to shake,
How much more, this heart breaks, can I take?

Friday, April 3, 2009

HER GRANDMOTHER, Early Morning Refrain

Early Morning Refrain

Was not handsome, nor was she particularly wise,

No one ever said she was the smartest,
But she painted well, an artist,
And following the common adage,
Different time and place, who knows the fame,
The renown she might have attained?

She dressed the girl in pricey sets,
And every one appreciated it,
Oh isnt Elsie wonderful!
The child was orphaned,
Her Mother was sick, and
Had to stay long time in sanatorium,
Dad was gone,
He ran off and started another family,
Two other girls, her sisters, older, abandoned,
(They stayed with his father and mother)
And she, the baby girl, was cast off, separate,
She went to her Mothers Mother and Father.

The girl was tall and pretty,
A natural blonde with face classically proportioned,
And possessing happy disposition,
When dressed right she looked as though,
She modeled for childrens fashion magazines.

But Grandma, she had had her ways,
Thats to put it nicely,
She paid no heed to underwear,
Only interested in outward appearance,
Think on this a moment, for who could see it?

Though it be tattered and dirty,
And Lord knows should have been replaced,
Especially when one consider the expense,
That she cared not for the dollar of any outfits cost.

She favored subtle, flower prints,
Nothing garish; she was master seamstress,
A healthy woman, who loved her cats
(Fed those both inside and outside the house)
And took in every kind of stray, animal and human,
A former dancer who partook of chorus,
Had her training at LUNA PARK,
And, all who knew her swear,
She practiced kicks, over head, when
She had already celebrated birthdays past seventy.

Did she swap a place for her star on the walk,
Take lead role in gilded cage instead?

No way, she was tough and worked hard,
Created a wonderful home and with natural talent,
She made a big garden, a green-thumb delight.

And guess what! To top it off,
She married well, a union man, a good provider,
A leader, he was respected and adored by all.

But something went amiss;
Grandpa went upstairs to bed,
Grandma slathered in wintergreen,
Slept on living-room couch at night,
Hard to believe,
For twenty years they spent their lives that way.

And when Mom from hospital was finally released,
Grandmother balked when time came to return
The girl to whom she had grown accustomed,
The girl she helped to educate and raise.
She pretended the child to be her own,
Hope to keep her daughter at bay.

And then I heard,
I heard her granddaughter say,
We sat at kitchen table,
It was very late; sun had begun to signal new day.
I heard her wax, granddaughter waxed on the refrain,
Though she said it quiet and was ashamed,
I can not wish she were here.

I do not wish she were here today.

ILL, A Two-Part Diatribe, Part II

ILL, A Two-Part Diatribe,
Part II

You could not tell your mother

You were living with me, home with me and in my bed,
That I had touched you in so many intimate ways,
That you had professed your love for me,
And solemnly promised to cherish, honor and behave.

You told me you would make me proud,
That you were woman of parts,
You claimed piety, and beauty of extraordinary soul.

You misrepresented your every intention!
I mean, it hurts me more, more every day,
I simply can not believe,
Believe how often you misspoke to me.

I understand that I must,
But I have this difficulty getting over it.

I shake my head in disbelief, your cold, cold heart
No exaggeration, here, my spirit crestfallen,
You trampled my soul,
Aborted any hope, and deprived me
Even to semblance, a hint of dignity.

You continually lied to your mother,
Chasing back and forth, duplicity,
When the telephone rang you lived at the hostel,
Not with me at this address, this was your home,
You lived here with me,
What nicety allowed you excuse,
How dare you adopt and practice such perfidy
Whose scope took me more than a year to realize?

But the biggest lie, the lie you tell yourself,
And here, I guess, dwells the real evil,
About the past being the past,
About your ability to forget it,
That no such thing as trauma exists!
Why call it domestic abuse,
Just sweep it under the rug.

Thats your claim; in spite your readily apparent pain.
Good Lord, take a moment,
Review everything that had happened,
It is as if you were saying, I need no help,
My involvement with that man, the horror,
It has no impact; it does not affect my character!

When I hear your words,
When they run through my mind,
I accept how you have hurt me,
My soul cleaves, a man cleaves unto a woman,
My souls always a part of you.

You want to be my friend,
You say it over and again,
You say its what you always wanted,
But you show no effort to prove it,
No recovery or willingness to accept
The central fact you must face the sickness,
It rules you and your biggest lie, your failure,
Your wrong, how you hurt, most, yourself,
Your living a lie, a symptom of the thing,
The monster within who plots your death,
Here is the real truth, your disease it kills you.

You saw my conduct, how I lead with my heart,
Suspended disbelief, dropped all critical acumen
To woo you, to be proper man, so much love,
You commented praiseworthily
About the propriety of my ways,
And you saw how I raised my child.

Princess, and thats a title your heart fancies!

Princess, the world bellows,
Whole world does see, my marvelous girl,
Its the price paid, it frequently happens to nobility,
It happens to many, when to privilege born.

Your life now public and up for rebuke,
Your lousy demeanor and ultimate want of character,

The lowness of your family life soon immortal,
Your treachery to live forever in published verse.

You say you want to be my friend,
Yet do not acknowledge bosom requires
Both honesty and accommodation, and you,
My love, have not inclination,
You seem to have no talent for neither.

I hardly have anything left to say,
Ill eat some candy, open a can,
Ill have some pork and beans.

I curse the day,
The day my dream of loves uplift turned to descent.

Some one once wrote, I believe it reads,
In noble minds some dregs remain,
Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

ILL, A Two-Part Diatribe, Part I

ILL, A Two-Part Diatribe,
Part I

Ha! Aren’t you something!

You’re asking me to be your friend.
Forgive my lapse into the colloquial,
I lack another, another way to put it.

Where? Oh! Where do you get the nerve?
What unmitigated gall propels you?
You lack common decency, and
Pay no heed to norms of self respect!

Have you no concern for well being?
Want even slightest inclination, regard for truth?

What are you, how nasty, how you have hurt me!

I curse the day,
The day my dream of love’s uplift turned to descent.

Have you no shame?
Pitiless you are! You know how much I love you,
I felt are souls were as one.

Remember your cruelty surfaced at the start.
That May Day, our first real Holiday together,
Remember, our first full day together,
After your return from the homeland,
After we had not seen each other for seven months,
Not having seen each other for seven months.

I wish I could sincerely say
That I am fine, that the pain inside subsides.

I wrote you all those letters,
So careful to oblige, put you at ease;
Had we not know each other for years?

I waited for you, honest and true, tried to make
Your homecoming right, worked my ass off,
I found an apartment, moved furniture and belongings,
Ran the business, wrote poetry….

You treated me like…, well I must,
Here I must resort to vulgarity, the vulgar,

You treated me like shit,
Were I simply able to look straight into the mirror,
Claim for moment that all the effort was worth it.
Excuse me, if the verse here
Should stick its lingual ribbon right in your face!

You were skilled in your ways,
You started on the offensive.
Picky, picky, picky,
It must be a symptom, for it certainly
Points to the way you eat your meals,
Good God! At the end, there were two,
We were reduced to two restaurants,
By the end of it we had two places where,
We might have something to eat.

And you played your hand skillfully,
Practiced as you were in the art, prevarication,
Playing me on for months on end,
Lie after lie and I never caught on, then.
You were shameless, hustled me for vittles.

The happy days, where are they?

Those days were few and seem so hard to find,
Whatever happened to our love,
You did tell me you loved me, or am I dreaming,
Were you playing me, was I the fool?
You did ask I await your return?
I thought it might be real nice,
I wish I understood,
Wasn’t it once so good?

Please, darling, please, might you notice
How much our affair revolved around food?
The eating of it and the gaining of weight,
I am still not over it, everything,
Your collecting recipes and filing them,
Assiduously clipped from cooking magazines,
To how you loved TV’s “The Biggest Loser”,
You once said pointing to some porky contestant,
“If I ever get like that, just shoot me.”
I believe I said I would happily comply.

And the drama was strange, strange indeed,
Once you went through the garbage,
-- By habit I always double bagged it. –
Then after your inspection, you complained,
You complained when you met me at work,
I had not cut the watermelon to the quick,
Too much fruit remained upon the rind.

Oh, my darling girl, sorry I displeased you,
Perhaps some day I’ll mend my profligate ways.

Junkie, tramp, liar, what a creep!


Plain, old, common, everyday nutriment,
Feed’s always an issue.
I figure the reason you can not behave proper,
You can not swallow your pride,
You can not finish your dinner.

Some one once wrote – perhaps John Dryden?
It was an historical figure nonetheless,
In noble minds some dregs remain,
Not yet purged off, of spleen and sour disdain.

And when I objected, understand,
Had no desire to pick up every tab,
The extra super-market purchases
You were buying for your own room,
Nourishments you had no intention to share with me,
You pulled a fast one, tried a rationalization,
You bullshitted me about
How your father treats women,
Oh my God! Did I really need a lecture
About his generosity and free spending,
His financial chivalry when it came to the opposite sex?

(Reader, had you only been there for that recital,
She had full-of-herself smugness deep into her face.)

I had to stop you, and in a letter I reminded you
-- You had told me already --
How a court order was necessary,
Him to support his ex-wife, and kids,
Strength of character, epitomized, a stand-up guy,
No! It seems a lack of backbone.

Think, sweetie, you must have inherited it from Dad,
The fear, the fear of your mother,
Guess what? Fear is an enemy,
Though when it confronts the sick
It masquerades as good counsel,
Frequently pretends to be a friend.

Was our love a game and you set me up for loser?

Some situation, hey!
Your Father’s situation, fear engendered,
One son and three daughters,
And there are grandchildren, no mention of them,
Never mind possible grand daughters,
All of them alienated, they have nothing to do with you,
They never speak to him at all,

Chivalrous indeed, what a crock of shit!

You, you had me pay for food, food
You ate alone in your hostel.

You cheat me, and yet you must know,
Know how great my love for you!

You offered me nothing in return,
Except the sad story, a sordid tale,
And not yet the real truth, that you would drop
Later, like the other, proverbial shoe,
The evil of your partaking, of a long-time affair
With a man who proved your alter ego,
Who proved it over the years
His love was equal to yours.

Both of you liars, what a lovely affair,
Match made in heaven, I am surprised,
Struck by the short duration, only five years,
When you two lovers seemed so well suited,
Sweetie, how do you do it? Remain absent
From his arms! You, poor child, I know you
Still love him, hanker for the mutual abuse,
Listen, Misses, where talk exists there’s desire,

Oh when Stanley’s standing by, my o’ my,
The dreadful things you must say about him,

That awful, old boy friend and all his lying,
His constant running in debt to you,
Promises, but repayment absent,
And the way he with sex abused you,
But who knows, who knows what happened,
What’s really happening?

Wonder if you are in contact with him, again,
I mean your old lover,
Wouldn’t surprise me, when
Dealing with you one never hears the truth.

The stories, oh the stories!
Remember that date with Mora?
Out of the clear blue, you had to spend the night,
She was a long-time girlfriend, you said.
But I had never heard of her before,
I had to be reminded of the story of your meeting,
I don’t believe I ever heard of her again.

Mora who? I questioned. Let me meet her
Or tell me her last name. Ha!
You, you would never deign to answer.

Your response was silence, you’re haughty that way.

Learned at home when native in your native land,
The terror, the fundamental disquiet,
I guess few may imagine, how desperate your life,
How ill at ease, how you must bury it,

“Let’s spend the day shopping,” you say,
“Go searching from store to store
“There you see, you know me,”
“It’s what I am like anyway.”

A running dialogue you pathetically repeat
And convince no one, not even yourself.

Your home here in the states, your lessons,
You studied hard, gained Advanced Placement,
Here’s the humor, wasn’t it National Honor Society?

But what you learned best was deception,
The past arises each time the telephone announces
Your mother, you lie to your mother.

And you, you’re a woman within the year,
The age of Jesus, Crucified,
Still you are unable to reveal truth to your mother!

It’s all laughable, were it not so awful, terribly sad.

Is it my lot? Shall I continue to live in torment?
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