KNOCK OUT

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KNOCK OUT




Describing the awful upset, the melancholy,
The force which has struck me so hard
That I have seemingly become unconscious
And have lost all capacity for right direction,
Has me contradicting every principle of sacred philosophy.

I am forced to postulate the existence of a physical soul.

Your absence, the thought of your
No longer being part of my life, has floored my spirit.

I fear that my vitality has been stopped.
My training in prayer has failed me.
I lack the muscle strength and the great breath,
Despite my belief in the audacity to hope,
I want the stamina to continue the match.

I have been hit, and I am down.
I bleed, darling, I bleed.
I struggle to my feet, I stand just before the ten-count.

Your blow has opened a cut above my eye.
What salve, what ointment staunches the blood!
The men in my corner struggle to fix it.

They will not let me face another round.

The bell keeps clanging,
I hear the terrible roar of the crowd.

The referee enters center ring. I have lost the fight.

SEEKING A MUSE

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SEEKING A MUSE,
Personal Classified Advertisement


I know what to do!
I am not at a loss, despondent, or down and out,
Not at all! I've got plenty of options.
I'll run an ad on Craigslist,
Or a personal in one of those free weeklies.

Hey, there are plenty dating sites on the web!

I'll write, Single, White, Male,
Looking for a muse,
A girl to inflame my verse,
Make my heart sing a wondrous refrain.

I'll say she must be educated and smart,
Tall, slim, and good with money,
A brunet, who has a pleasant smile,
And whose buttocks own an exquisite form.

I'll require her voice to possess subtle timbre,
Her smell to be sweet and, above all,
I'll demand that she be
Disciplined in work and habit,
Someone to put me to bed early,
And early to arise, a woman who might
Qualify suitable mother for a child or two.

Oh! Did I forget to mention?
I want large brown eyes and an olive complexion.

So don't think, don't believe for a moment,
That you are elemental, like some sustenance crucial
To happiness and breathe, for you are not. Ha!
You see how easily you can be replaced!

Get it straight! I know what to do.
Honest! It's not that big of a deal.
I'll run an ad on Craigslist,
Or a personal in one of those free weeklies.

Hey there are plenty dating sites on the web!

IMPOSSIBLE DREAM, A Lover's Question

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IMPOSSIBLE DREAM,
A Lover’s Question        

I have an astounding dream to report.

It has me running down a long hall in the semi-darkness

With a key in my hand. It's a cylindrical key,

And on its end it has a single, protruding notch,

The type of a key used to wind an antique clock.

Mounted to the wall at the end of my run stands

A giant, three-dimensional cartoon heart.

Although hand-painted, it has a natural color.

It seems the skin of a Red Delicious apple.

On the right at the top of this wondrous heart

A gold-metal strike plate sets up over against

An aperture, the channel; I wonder if it leads

To the lock that might open, release your heart?

Have I the key? Or do I dream only to wake,

Awaken to nightmare day of awful longing and ache?

Have I lost my mind? Has logic betrayed me?

Do I confuse dream wish with reality?

Darling, answer me soon! Does my deep desire

Verge on truth? Will anxiety cease?

The promise of a new, peaceful kingdom

Is it to be fulfilled, here, in the affirmative today?

Now I stand before you, You, Love, my higher power,

And the congregates sense the blasphemy;

They whisper calumnies.

They say that I am my father’s son,

“He is the boy from the hardware store!

By whose authority has he the right to reveal,

Who does he believe -- just who might he think he is

When he revels in his midnight imaginings?”

And me, their belligerence,

The hostility of the locals does not concern me,

Not a whit, though they rise up

And ready to condemn me.

I pray ... I might have definite answer,

That I am prophet in this house,

That I may begin this, my public ministry, positive,

Carry hope for life anew,

And have news extraordinary, good, for all to hear.

Down a space eclipsed in semi-darkness, I run.

I have a key in my hand. It's cylindrical;

A single notch protrudes at its end.

It seems the kind of key that winds an antique clock.

Darling, please, your answer!

Have I the key to open your heart,

Or do I dream the impossible dream?

SAD*

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SAD*

Etta,  you do not seem to care if I am ill.

Remember last week, when a pinched nerve
Kept me in bed for most of the day?
I could not walk,
I began to panic, and
Believed my back might never be right again.

And your response, terrible, cold and unmoving,
You declared what in my heart was already apparent;
You told me that you had no aspirations,
That if I sought a Florence Nightingale,
I had barked up the wrong tree.

It hurt most, when after a moment’s reflection,
I came to believe your response sounded rehearsed.

It had a tone, which seemed practiced.

You had actually precluded any concern.

I had became lost to pain in an otherwise robust frame,
And you had shown no worry, commiserated not a bit.

Now that my health returns, and I am totally recovered,
I must wonder, no matter how many times
You have claimed that you love me,
If my being ill had not worried you in the least,
What good is it to me to be well again.

*Following an ancient writer’s reflection
\

HAD I BEEN BORN PERFECT

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HAD I BEEN BORN PERFECT 


Remember I told you how I handled Gregory?
He was a bad case, eh,
What with his doing 8 bags o' dust at a time,
And then visiting local bars, so sick,
Upchucking right on the patrons' jackets,
While they sat there, all innocent,
People on their stools were having a drink!


I didn't talk to him for years,
Refused all contact, I was afraid,
People had not realized how great my fear.
He occupied my thoughts night and day.


I thought he might wind up in jail,
Or dead, or a victim hooked up,
Like some medical experiment,
Doctors without options, practicing
Last resort medicine, wires and tubes,
And a parent witness to nightmare,
The nasty ordeal when intervention
Takes place during hospital emergency.


It's not death, for death is but a word.
It is the way of it. I feared.


I called it love, my having nothing,
Absolutely nothing to do with him,
Until he went for help, because he seemed
Unable to help himself, and cease
The shit with which he played.


I did not know what else to do.


Once he called me and said,
'Dad, I've got the monkey off my back!'
But I hung up the receiver,
Didn't let him explain.
I couldn't take it, no more rot!,
I knew he was still in the circus.


And Billy, a surrogate son,
You know the story, I … I treated him the same,
The same cold shoulder, not talking to him
Months on end, until he realized our friendship
Depended on his treating his own two boys,
Like a proper father. I wanted him to put
His children first in life, and I meant it.


Forget about my smile and easy charm,
It's never smart to test my resolve.




2.


But, darling, when it comes to dealing with you,
I find no form of human love prevails.
No mere earthly style or mode of affection works!


Oh, the poetry!
Look to the poetry I write for you.
My heart wells up, the warmest regard,
Right up to the breaking point,
In poem after poem I tried to portray
How great, how utter the abandon,
I declared, were fate to bring us to a terrible juncture,
A crossroad where all choice reduces
To either my life, or yours,


Gladly would I give up mine, I would die for you.


To proclaim the veracity of your physical beauty
I wrote, RED ROOF INN.


I spent a year and wrote, NOW VOYAGER for you.


The time, when in Brooklyn I found you,
That early, that rainy morning,
I knew you were treasure.
You, the reason, I wrote, SERENDIPITY!


And that I might attest to your strength of character,
Express my fondest feelings for you,
I wrote, then, over and again, I rewrote,
DREAM CHILDREN, verse which pictured you
In future time the mother of our two children.


How tender and constant the thoughts! You on my mind
Beseeching you, and ever so softly, so gently
I sought to play upon the strings of your heart.


And the letters, they are all love letters,
And we have a pile of them.


When in this correspondence, I said it wrong,
Overstepped the line, wanted propriety,
And for those errors in judgment and phrase,
The anger, when I fell, put my own bruised feelings
Before yours, did not consider your own hurt first,
And failed to acknowledge the great gift,
Your being in my life that day.

I implore you please forgive.


Whenever I lacked intellectual power,
Whatever defect of moral character foiled me from
Exercising both the restraint of my tongue
And the rush of my fingers upon the keyboard,
Where had been my even basic sense of compassion?
Still it was you -- your well being foremost in my life.
My intent was proper, though my behavior poor,
My expression amiss, my communications hasty,
And ultimately for my behaviors there are no excuses,
However I had meant the best for you.


Yet today as well as it had been then,
I wish you forever well.


Still I doubt all my love allows you any easier a sleep.
I wonder what technique,
What kind of human love might lessen
The pain, the disorder troubling you,
And calm the upset, which at end has us delivered
To this grisly end, the final stages of our romance?


Here I pray to God.


I fall to my knees -- such the will to believe --
Ask that Munificence be granted,
The Almighty do, on earth,
All those things that I had failed to do for you.
God's will be done.




3.


Had I been born perfect.


How I now regret, when as a child,
I wasted time playing with crystal sets,
And in the basement of my parents' home,
Spent hours profligately upon
Imaginary laboratory tables with chemistry,
Meaningless experiments with liquids and powders.


Had I been born a man wise enough,
The kind of guy who might do you real good,
I would have had you in mind right from the start,
I would have abandoned my attempts at writing.
I would have turned about,
Learned the illusionist’s trade,
And trained until I possessed every trick in the book.


Then I could live within the mirror,
Work the conjurer's art so that when you went to look,
When you fixed a gaze upon your own mirror image,
Instead of you, the reflection staring back,
My picture of you, the way I see you,
The enchantment, my awe, which is you,
Whenever you stand before me,
The image of you so bountiful and pure,
You, the brilliance at center of my sight.


Had I been able to practice real magic.


There would be light, love, and just approval,
And it would be my voice ringing through
The reflecting glass, no more whisper of doubt,
My wizardly spell, the timbre of my incantations,


Banishing any word of fear and sadness, an end to frailty,
Now instead in your head the lyrics to hymns of all courage.


I would rid the mirror's display of fault and distortion.
We would come to see a world without poverty,
And know only hugs, freedom and peace.


Were that the case,
Had fate conspired to have me born
A man capable of grand devotion,
The kind of guy who might do you real good,
I would have abandoned my attempts at writing,
Wasted no time upon fruitless experiments
I would have turned about, set myself on right course,
Learned the illusionist’s trade,
And trained until I possessed every trick in the book.
Then I could live within the mirror,
I could dispel all bad images from from its surface,
Let you see how great your love's delight.

KISS ME ONCE, Kiss Me Twice

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KISS ME ONCE, 

Kiss Me Twice…

I sing tonight. It's the ol' babalu.

Though tired and drawn, I am called.

I hear the knock at the door.

The prophecy takes hold.

The school lessons progress.

The command of language strengthens.

The student seems eager.

Dimension gains hold.

Dreams of tomorrow grow.

Wishes come true.

New life looms on the horizon.

Fantasy becomes reality.

The promises burgeon.

There is pregnancy of parts,

Ocean of delight lies before us!

Hello! Darling, hello!

“Kiss me once, kiss me twice.

Then kiss me once again.”

I want your lips on mine.

“It's been a long, long time.” 

COFFEE-HOUSE LOVE POEM

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COFFEE-HOUSE LOVE POEM


Another early Sunday evening has arrived.

You, you are gone, abroad;
I sit here by myself and drink coffee.


Tonight, instead of us sharing our dinner together,
I write verse about how much I miss you.


The notion, that adage about absence making
The heart grow fonder is nonsense,
To me, it amounts to no more than a hill of beans!*


I am no fonder, no fonder of you than I was
Ten minutes ago at the start of this poem.


Today I am no fonder of you than I was yesterday,
No fonder of you than I was last week,
Than I was seven weeks ago,
When you departed on business,
Left me in this big, old town, alone.
During that time, since then, my love,
My love for you has not grown even an iota.


Tonight I am simply sad.
I am lonely.
I feel terrible without you.


*A colloquial American expression as in “it ain’t worth a hill of beans,” Humphrey Bogart says it to Ingrid Bergman at the end of the film Casablanca. The phrase then gained world-wide notice. “Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world”.