you are more than

copper

–policing the heavens

you are gold…

conduit of the Son

Golden Boy,

and precious.

I am more than

silver

–lines in the cloud

I am Sun

silvered, which warmth

inside melts

edges

and complements

Silver Girl,

(I am)

yet tarnished.

Neglected and uncared for and

dulling in every sense.

Come, now,

Golden Boy

lose the club

(at waste)

forget the been,

and is, and

create what can be!

(forge ahead!)

forget brass rings

(piercing knows)

and I’ll forget plate

(imitation fill)

You and I

are

precious

. . .

sought after and treasured

–by most–

Let’s be molten

together.

(a memory lane poem–like all my recent posts have been–as I dig through reams of the written to form an amalgam of thoughts spanning decades.)

your soul can get

phat

–it can!

that food for the soul

isn’t low-cal

by no mean

it’s heightened everything,

and so sweet…

–but most for your toast

ain’t salad

(for crying out loud)

that ‘gimme some sugar’

is raw!

Plain as the knows in your faith,

for all it’s extra special, it’s

Good food

to mete–

Good God–

let’s eat!

Surprising, though, which

chow

lingers the longest

(a swivel of hips)

and which is quickest to go…

(a shoulder with chip)

take for example,

love.

It coats the spirit

for-e-v-e-r

(talk about those lasting pounds!)

>ker-thud, ker-thud<

long after it’s eliminated from

your RDA

–no matter how often you exorcise

it

swells the heart,

–no matter how frequently your head spins

‘but’ gets bigger,

–no matter if you chug-a-lug Spirits,

and carbo load angel food

your reflection is

permanently

plus

(1)

size.

On camera 2,

and while that’s neither well nor good,

it is

and now you’re probably wondering

which kismet kibble is easiest to lose…

(I’m projecting)

and that’s such a no-brainer

you’d have to be short-bussed

not to sense it innately

–at least a Little Bit

…

and do you?

trust.

Trust is the first soul food to go

–who cares if residual traces remain in your gut

–or if you’d stocked up last time out to Big Box,

and forget

your stash in cupboard with Cupcake…

it spoiled

Why, you can lose it just

thinking

about it,

and certainly

–certainly–

by passing it by.

put the fun

in funeral

get black balloons. . .

scatter ash like confetti

and hang a banner:

“get well soon”

to show you’re ironic

(“bon voyage” altogether too predictable)

an upside down cake at wake

or devil’s food,

and of course–

a piñata.

No sendoff is complete without

a creped animal

stuffed with bittersweets. . .

and later on,

if you sense the festivities are

beginning to

pall–

suggest a rollicking round of Russian roulette,

followed by Musical Coffins

(naturally)

and Hangman

. . .

played out as charades.

I don’t have a pet,

but bump into one

every beach day just the same

–as reliable as any

ever kept,

(even if the owner isn’t)

I can count on Prince to be there

stamping on my tootsies,

nipping at my heels,

and ready to play ball.

(an arch’type, you know?)

If I run–he runs

If I walk–he walks

If I fall–he falls, since

London Bridge is comin’ down, and

Prince can’t negotiate deep sand for sh*t

He loves the surfline, and

I don’t mind–

–it keeps me on my toes

and more the merrier, he

. . .

is such a good companion, but even so

–when I leave,

I leave

Prince

behind, and it’s only

right I should

–foregoing sands

for cement,

I know the city

won’t

Foot

Prince

feats.

She wanted to give him

–ideas

her number,

but she wanted to

dig•it

(up)

together,

figure the

–sound

phonics,

and completely in character

(s)

she signed him up

for 2 years

–like

and

tell•her

market•her

that she was

–words,

sent lots & lots of

aged mess

>whoopsie<

messages

via iDeophone

he may have misinterpreted

–I mean: I love you, but f*ck off? That can mean, oh…20 different things, depending on inflection

same as: aloha, only totally

and spectacularly different.

‘barraged him with so much rhetoric

that he eventually didn’t

give

a good goddam

–just a bad one,

and on this dam

(crap though it was)

her ideal words

wrecked…

jammed in logs

of mono

(syllabic)

variety

>or<

“mono’slabic”

if she jabbered ‘em quick enough

(witchy did)

(oh yes she did)

‘breaking down into the smallest unit

of possibility

a Big conflux

(un)

composed

Largely of:

let-her

let-her

: let-her

(s)

 
Steeped in

flagrante

verbs

and custom,

staged in banqu’t

room

of starred

hotel,
 
 
starting

a midsummer

afternoon until

dusk,

she invited me to hyperbole

. . .

a place without motif

. . .

presented petit 4’s

meant to be 8,

scones w

jams & dream,

and the traditional, time-honored

hero

–sandwiched

in unencumbered linens

on silvered tray

–tiered

in

merry

~go~

round

–requesting guests

RSVP.

‘wear elaborate

baseball hats

festooned with flowers,

& broach,

but leave them

at the door

–synecdoche

& shoes, too,

since,

as expected–

it was a barefoot affair

at heart.

Running the gauntlet

and running a marathon

are the same

–and totally different–

the first is defined by

fierce

determination

to do your best,

the second by

fears

determined

to best you,

the one you swing your arms

–you’re fit!

the other

you swing your arms

–in fists!

the marathon

quickens your

heart beat

–causing you to sweat,

and the gauntlet

quickens your

beat heart

–sweating

your cause.

So, a marathon and the gauntlet

are the same…

like surveillance versus howja do…

but totally different.