it is the measure of things

He likes to compare. It is the measure of things. How a woman’s hair compares fragrantly to the lemon tree in an orchard of an Abyssinian city; a place he read about. Or how the color of her eyes compare to the ocean; one he has never visited. Could hers be deep like the cold Artic, pulled by the moon into vast deepness? Perhaps pale like the Pacific, culled by the sun?

No!

He concludes that the physical step a man must take is definitely the measure of things. For example, how many steps to her front door? Is it comparable to traveling an exact distance to witness a miracle— a lost city? An ocean?

How many steps are comparable to an act of contrition— to love?

Remember; for P

When we met it was winter.
I hurried myself,
my overwhelming self into her bewildered life.
Maybe it was too languid a place for me.
But I moved her, unsure
toward that greatness that is me,
but should not be me

In April, on Maiden lane
I damned my self on my porch
my heart upon my shoulder, upon her shoulder
I whispered about us.
Knowing she could not
or would not care.
But I had to move her sure.
--Whispered about greatness that is me.


A third week in May.
Our morals covered up as our bodies uncovered.
I traveled with Love’s own heart into her.
Traveled for her fruition. Tripped into her lungs,
tickled them so she would not cry.
--I made my trip.

In summer she broke with me.
She went to Chicago. Went out of me.
Pound it weak by the week,
As I tried to strongly slice my days.
Still, I thought of the greatness
Moving toward the greatness that should be me.

The Tuesday she came to me.
So beautiful to me.
Too beautiful for me.
We ate lunch;
Chewing our words secretly:
Myself, my anxiously exposed self, “No savior in me!”

Idea; birth and death

There is something about giving birth to Idea,
maybe an Idea of immortality.

Idea is not theoretical or imaginary.
Nothing funny about Idea;
Idea is serious artistic business.

Idea is life: a life that needs to grow,
be fruitful, carry forth after death.

Idea the seed; bring it to Fruition.
I hope to be a grand Idea.

Oh My Love; to be continued . . .

Will you tell me who my lover will be? Will she be the secret one, who kisses me behind that red brick wall, in the alley, beside the dumpster? Conceivably, she would be pretty, in a young coquettish sort of way. Tell me, will she be endowed with light hair, full sanguine lips, with eyes teeming with love for me?

You tell me who my lover will be! And I will love her immensely, like the essence that feeds that flower, there, strongly prevailing between the crack in the sidewalk. I will love her unrestrained, as the breath, here, in my waking lungs. I will love her without remorse if I can, and if not, with apology when I have not.
- - -
Tell me, who will be the lover of such a man:
I am bold and suffice it to say, sauced. I’m like a migrating sea captain without ship or home; eternally kept to land, searching the horizon for his ship, waiting faithfully to be told which one will be his to endeavor.

Connection of a different sort.

There is a boy. He is on medication. This boy has no strength to conquer anything, even the father who has conquered him his last 18 years. But this boy likes oranges, (hordes them from what I know) to look at, to hold, but never to eat. He only stares blankly at the dimpled skin. Why?

There is a girl. She is on medication of a different kind. This girls does not fidget with her hair, pens and pencils, or even hair sticks and the like. This girl likes to use her hands with objects such as knives, razor blades, and other sharp instruments. Why?

-Feel the air-electric with potential collision: she whispers to him as she pulls the orange from his grip. Perhaps she explains to him how she likes to peel oranges, the delight under her fingernails (like skin), how she savors the tender meat. Above all, how she takes pleasure in squeezing the dimpled skin, feeling the sweet juice running over her hands and down into her hungry mouth.

His eyes fall to his feet, which shuffle nervously, forever in the day trying to shuffle away the abandonment, the isolation, the medication. She smiles at him, although he doesn’t see her.
There is gentle conversation between them; hers filled with delectable words, his with silent wishes and head nods. There are internal technicalities at work here that can’t answer why, so I will not ask.

-Become involved: smell the fruit as she peels the skin, releasing sweetness, slowly like her encouraging words to him. Listen as each peel falls to his once nervous feet, you will hear the slight and essential sigh of one who has been released from fruitless isolation. Watch as she divides the produce, handing him the fullness of self in a half –with affective words, with compassionate action, with such simple tender involvement in another human. He smiles.