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Wednesday, January 26, 2011

SOAP OPERA LOVE, January, 2011

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January, 2011

Piqued, the morning she moved out
I gave her back the photographs.
Let this thing of ours become distant memory.

A top-notch beauty, she's sensuous,
Smart, thrifty, and disciplined in her work habits.

But she does not keep her word.

After our first year together,
(With literally hundreds of communications then
Back and forth between us!)
In a call to voice mail,
She poured out her suffering heart,
And confessed that her former boyfriend,
He had physically abused her.

It was during the course of their longtime affair.

I remember Princess Diana explained
A third person had spoiled her chance for happy marriage,
With us, the same, this man’s specter, a constant presence.

I shall not forget she cowered,
Readying to walk out the door,
Childlike, fearful, shoulders slumped forward,
Eyes to the ground, she replayed,
I must guess a previous experience.

I did not raise my voice.

Were that not revelation enough,
She admitted, shortly thereafter
To eating disorder, 'a form of anorexia',
She called it. So at root of our affair
Lay poor self image, somewhat explaining both
Her being with me, a man twice her age,
And that other, five-year romance
With a beast, a criminal whose coercive
Words and deeds proved his love was true!

Later this week
From a spot above the head of our bed,
I'll take down her Grandfather's painting,
– A birthday gift from her to me --
Icon-like, it portrays the infant Jesus,
Who is held in his Mother Mary's arms.

I’ll return it with her gift of the Lord's Prayer,
A hand-colored photocopy of a document,
Though adopted from modern language and character,
The letters composing it
Mimic an old Swedish, Gothic script.

We have it tacked on the wall,
It occupies space directly next to the refrigerator.

Does she believe in God? I ask myself.
It's early morning and I am tired.
Yeah, but I still would like to know.
She's sick; she doesn't know what she believes.

I have a big blank spot in my schedule.
I feel bad all the time.
I don't know what to do.

What am I without her? I wonder.

Can't I – I mean... Is there
Any way I could make her better?

I feel like shit.

I want to get up from the keyboard
And go into the kitchen and weep.
I may never speak to her again.

I loved to sleep with her,
Hoped she would stand next to me,
Become loving companion, a wife.

Instead I got her boasts,
Sadly Pyrrhic confidences about her imminent victory,
She vanquishes the ghost of her former lover.

One day she came to me at work,
Asked me to step outside, and whispered
How at 4:00AM that same morning in our bed,
In our home, she recognized her failure,
The fact she could not give herself to sex, or love,
Would ultimately mean his deviltry triumphed.

In reality she had lost the fight.
The terror was ascendant;
He stood beside our bed.

But now a fool is talking.
I am the one, screw loose,
Who hoped we might write love songs,
Which themselves become legend,
Who wished the kind of love, no restrictions,
Limbs askew, monkey love, she and I
Bound up in a passion limitless, a universe,
A thrilling heaven, like some Islamic vision
Whose paradise has eternal, physical bliss.

By God! Given over to this physical ecstasy,
That happiness and children be our bounty,
That we might enjoy peace,
And our love attains power of example,
It brings cynosure, light for the ages.

No! Intimacy failed us.

She lives in drama,
Where terrible wound reopens, Fanelli's, Dojo's,
And the Tavern on Eighteenth Street,
Each a scene, time, time and time, again.
She enjoys the nightmare theatrics,
She eschews healthy flesh,
The pain of the past captivates her soul.

I am afraid. The demon drives her.
And now, when all is said and done,
He alone is her dream lover.

Monday, January 24, 2011

BY LOVE BEGUILED, In Mood, Subjunctive, January 2011

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In Mood, Subjunctive,
January 2011,
Rewrite, edited.

Don't get me wrong.
If I appear distracted,
Look knocked out by the light,
You make a very strong performance,
A singularity round whose axis my mind spins.

I remember once, years ago,
When I landed in New York,
After living a year and half in Europe,
How the neon of America,
It appeared so awesomely garish, and bright.
Yet, when I close my eyes and picture it,

All seems pale before the radiance of your face.

That two people would meet for morning breakfast,
Look out the café's window at the steady rain,
Walk here and there along avenues of
Inviting store fronts, and before the day is over
Fall into grand attachment one for the other,
As though there were something in the air,
Perhaps some electromagnetic charge,
So the occasional electricity might overwhelm us.

Or that cupid would steal behind fixtures of thoroughfares,
(I spied him crouched near a mailbox,
At start of our walk on Main Street in Point Pleasant!)

That the winged child pull from his quiver, arrows,
Whose heads, dipped in love potion, that once he aim
And shoot them, grievously would they tear mortal flesh
To make for a ruckus extraordinaire
And expectations suddenly become great.

This romance presses hard upon me.
It’s an affection I am compelled to profess.

To gain your confidence,
To prove my mind sound, not at loss to reason,
I couch my verse in mood, subjunctive,
A grammar I use hoping to temper
My over-wrought affection and quiet,
Soften the immodest and elevated parlance.

Were I not to employ this principle of language,
One might believe my love for you be shameless.

The mood, also, provides proper relief
For the all, too-far-out attitude, the conceit,
Whose command animates my senses,
That I have come to possess a gift, as it were,
That Higher Power had granted me prophetic mantle.

Understand. I solely express my own wish and desire,
That all I say remain contingent,
Of mind still hypothetical and dependent.

I do not use the imperative, I make no demand.
I have no special outcome in mind.
I dwell in fortress called Zion,
And come from it in the Pilgrims' coat and hat.
I look in the mirror and see their collar and tie.
And, like those passengers on board the Mayflower,
I know the Lord to be my helper. I fear not.

Who among your former friends has ever said it better?

And were you to live a long and hearty life
As all actuaries predict, what future friend
Might ever phrase it near as well as I have put it?

And if you for a moment ask

That this lyric arrive, transcending everyday concerns,
That it join, Sentiment Supreme, Him, the real pilot,

That when we drove in the white, Ford van and crossed
Jersey's North shore highways, while the soft brown,

Oh that magic, dream-like, living, pale, ethereal,

And somewhat golden light accented the downpours,
Whose constant unleashed falling, more
Like rain the Lord had promised Noah,
Than any explicable, temporary weather.

Wie es eigentlich gewesen.

“The carriage held but just us -- and immortality.”

That when we traveled our first day together,
Though it is months ago, and now becomes the years,
All the time which has passed, I suggest
That it would feel shorter than the day, that day
I first surmised the engine's mounts
Were tied to point, and that we, too, were belted,
Hurled straight ahead in solemn league with Eternity.

Mercy, let it be known, Mercy freely bestowed,

Not for this, the one earthly moment,
But for our children’s children,
Drawn and signed, delivered,
A grant for us and them, settled in this verse,
Sure as Word once promised Abraham.

I hear the text my grandmother spoke.
I see her at work while she ironed and folded,
I watch her nod the affirmative nod,
Repeat to you what she said to me,

“And I will bless them that bless you,
And curse him that curses you:
And in you shall all families of the earth be blessed.”

RED ROOF INN, Love North of Trenton, NJ, January, 2011

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Love a Few Miles North of Trenton, New Jersey,
Version, January 2011

An impossibly large bed stretched out across the room.
Between its feet and a long chest of drawers
A narrow aisle traveled the length.
It ran from the front door to the back of the room.

And you, there, in your bikini briefs, in an alcove,
An enclosure directly opposite the bathroom;
It occupied half the suite’s entire width.

Your back to me,
You stood up against a cantilever table.
It was a wall-to-wall vanity with a mirror,
A mirror whose length matched the table’s surface,
And it covered the back wall up to the ceiling.
Recessed lamps provided light from overhead.

You brushed your hair, and
With each stroke I saw
How your shoulder blades flexed.

I rose up from the bed,
Took a few steps,
And then, still from behind you,
I bent my torso forward at the waist,
And extended my arms,
My hands reached both your legs at the ankles.

Head-down, I pulled myself close to you.
My left shoulder found the center,
It rested right between your buttocks and legs.
The left side of my chin found a niche,
It touched the back of your right knee.

I was squatting and each of my hands
Was wrapped around one of your ankles,

When I stood up, I told you,
I had never personally encountered a woman
Who looked so much the better naked than clothed.

“Wow!” Burst out. And you said,
“You sure know how to compliment a girl.”

‘Woman! Trust my veracity.
‘Do not confuse my honest praise with flattery.’

I spoke these words only to myself, my tongue was tied.

Yet, then pretending to further my defense,
I more or less recalled the poet’s immortal words,
Those lines about truth and beauty being one,
And is not response to beauty, truth?

I ran the maxim in my mind, I was dumbfounded,
“‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty.’”

I dwelled in total awe of you.

And when old age our generation shall waste,
And time brings world to more and other woes,
We have had this moment and its sentiment remains –
‘Darling, that is all,’ I quoted the lines to myself,
I had not uttered a word aloud,

‘You know on earth, and all you need to know.’

Friday, January 14, 2011


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Peace Be With You

If God did not love you,
How could you have achieved
All the good that you have done?

May Peace be with you.
And joy remain your possession,
And may nothing disturb you,
Or ever frighten you again.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

BLEEDING LOVE, How Divinity Empowers, Version January 2011

How Divinity Empowers,

Version January 2011

Somebody wrote me,
It was in response to a video;
He commented upon a You Tube up-load,
One in which I read some love lyrics of mine.

The writer noted that a man my age should be content --
Say with gardening and maybe a grandchild or two;
He claims my time is misspent,
Wasted upon romance,
And no fool like the fool whose fate it is
Stuck in the rut of heart-rendering verse.

Yea, sure, but grant me my own life, and frankly
What do I care how purveyors of joylessness think?

Hey! Anyways,

I thank the commentator for his time,
The time he took to compose his thought,
I give that response its due,
Yet I insist, no fear, no worry of rebuke,
I have no problem when I proclaim.

I keep bleeding, bleeding in love.

I take delight,
Announce that more command of Word,
That more love’s vocabulary resides within my little finger,
-- Audience, forgive the boast --
Than occupies all the many heads,
Which march in the armies of negativity!

I keep bleeding, bleeding in love.

Once Son of Man lost life,
He was crucified and nailed upon a cross,
And when He rising from the dead,
He fulfilled the Holy Writ and dies no more.
And we ourselves after Resurrection,
Shall be ‘Ever with the Lord,’
And lo and behold he who loves,
Not necessarily wisely, but well,
Remember the promise,
He shall be with Him today in heaven.

I keep bleeding, keep bleeding in love.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

A SONG FOR YOU, January 2011

January 2011

You are not mine to keep.

I may never possess you.
I just wish to take care of you for a while.

You have lived for years and years;
Yet your presence,
You being in my life seems prefigured.

I wonder the truth.
Could some sweet destiny have intervened,
Brought you to me, along with the book,
Which contained these lines,
Insisted I copy them and then proclaim their content
At once to you and in time for world to hear?

You are not mine to keep.

I may never possess you.
I just wish to take care of you for a while.

Up and down the country roads,
Along this big ol’ city’s streets,
You have had some tears and smiles,
And your plenty share of dreams and wish come true,
Yearnings may change,
Though the impulse never falls from style.

Do you ever cry when you‘re alone,
Think about me and wish that I were there,
Hope that we shall have come to share,
Might we enjoy the quick experience of passing days,
And celebrate the moments of our allotted time,
Having learned the terrible lesson that life is brief?

Do you silently wait for me,
Wish that we might have a chance
Once more to share our daily repasts?

Once I cease to live,
Someone else will appear, I suppose.

I know you have had some lucky breaks,
Found fair quota of goodly things.
You can not be blamed for how we had gone amiss;
Many were my own mistakes.

You have lived your life as your own.

I write this song so you might know,
Should you happen upon trouble,
Fall to times of fear and woe.
Should you loose your normal, steady course and fail,
You know, feel awful about something you have done,
Or maybe bad happens beyond your control.
You have this verse, my love for you,
And I trust you remember the times I sat behind
The wheel, and steered you safely home.

I wonder the truth.
Could some sweet destiny have intervened,
Brought you to me, along with the book,
Which contained these lines,
Insisted I copy them and then proclaim their content
At once to you and in time for world to hear?

ASS, Equus Africanus Asinus

Equus Africanus Asinus

I once saw a man
Who, though he already sat upon his donkey,
Yet feverishly set upon
A search for his donkey.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011



Children see me run through the streets,
And wonder, what is it all about, my hurrying.

My eyes push forward,
Cause me to squint,
And then I break into a smile.

Night after night in steady flow,
Feelings and ideas collect; press fierce,
Hard against my brow.

The pressure makes for heat, then fire in the brain.

I hear words march with noise
Akin to soldiers' boots slapping on pavement.

Then I see your face.
The beauty of your large brown eyes
Makes my brain run riot,
Engulfs my neural circuitry.

Oh I smell wheat grass!
It's being blended with fresh strawberries and oranges.

I love the juices' heady odor,
When ever I breathe it in --
I am reminded of you.

We looked out the window.
We sat upon stools at a Formica bar,
A long, plate-glass window provided unobstructed view,
And we people watched the intersection,
Corners at avenue and street, the sidewalk before us,
They became our theater, and we agreed;
It was pleasant evening’s entertainment.

Pressed, cardboard cartons contained our suppers.
We ate our meals with plastic forks and knives;
The napkins were brown, recycled paper.

Believe me, no irony intended. Honest!

Every memory, every instance
My being with you, every occasion was lovely!
I shall die a happy man.

Die a happy man?
Here's my defense.
However I may wonder,
Whether ultimately I write fact or fiction.

Do I possess truth or fall to illusion?

I know that two forces bind me,
As is the case with Siamese Twins,
Who are born to share common cerebrum.

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