Like gravity, like pole-aligning force,

like proton seeks electron for a bond,

we follow the potential, in our course,

attract to high degrees, but then abscond.

Like fermions in space too small for two,

we might explode or else degenerate

in classrooms without windows on a view

of something real, for “Teach” to denigrate

besides the “lowly” scribe and engineer.

At least they take the abstract thought to task!

One swirls a wand, and concrete words appear.

One builds a tap, so you might drain his cask.

These graduates are bosons, but deranged,

identical, but scornful, when exchanged.

He’ll save two months of sweat in waste, (exact,)

organic matter, smothered out of life,

a stone from which, a promise, to extract,

to gird the quiv’ring digit of his wife

to be or not. The question is the same,

but not the lovers’ thrust—the parry-point.

Mercutio and Tybalt are to blame.

I’d sooner show devotion with a joint,

rolled by my hand, on paper from a book,

writ’ by my hand, to meter out our length

in rhyme and time that stuttered, cried, and shook

to ring your ears and prove your diamond strength.

A halo is much better than a ring,

a paean, not the same old psalm to sing.

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You might not even want this leaden verse,

to tie your hands and chain you to your bed.

My poem seeks its subject like a curse

plays on the ear; it’s only in my head.

So make a paper airplane from the writ’.

The right to rite of passage passes right.

If hard syllables slip, then make them fit.

The daybreak plots sweet deserts for the night.

I could say, “If you’d leave, this tree would die,”

and serve to you a mismatched petit four

that makes no sense, without the urge to cry.

Why don’t I cry? Why won’t it hurt me more?

I have no heart to feign, or beat my breast.

I have a hundred more; I’ll save the rest.

There is no magic word or rabbit trick

to tempt, to coax, the cat back in the bag.

“What’s left to say to the old lunatic?”

you’d rightly joke. (I did induce the gag.)

“So here’s a flower; love it and get lost.”

“Your love is for a concept!” you could shout.

“…like God, or pi, or winter’s second frost.”

“Give Bast the poems; kindly leave me out.”

“You’ll hold your court of angels in the reeds—

accept my blessing, I see daemons, too—

but beings made of flesh have tastes and needs,”

you might not say, but I could think for you.

My love’s not for the memory of a kiss;

your conscience set a bar too high to miss.

The hardest thing to say to Her is “Hi,”

but, if you blink, She might not take offense.

With grace, She’ll wink. (She often gives the by.)

Don’t do it twice; She’ll leave you in suspense.

I take my bread and water in a cell,

and, when I feel the knell, I won’t presume

the meaning or the object of the bell.

But once, it tells me, “Bury;” once, “Exhume.”

It is some holy trick I cannot match

that you could have the innocence to reach

inside a tabernacle—break the catch—

and have the Body thank you for the breach.

I only heard the prophet talk about

true beauty; what’s within is what’s without.

The Mother is the first great mystery:

pervasive, warm, concealing life, she bounds

a universe without a history—

or so it thinks. She moves, and it astounds

a world unnamed, like God—like gravity.

I move, therefore I am; I think I am.

You move, therefore I am. You are; I’m me.

We’re extant, one, discrete… You are I am.

I cannot say if that is what I thought,

though thinking of it drove me ’round the bend.

We strained, and cursed, and pushed, and pulled, and fought.

How could I know or tolerate the end?

To my surprise, it was not death, but birth.

I would not give my Mother up for Earth.

Anonymity
the poem’s essence slashes;
the Te is to cut.

I must relent. I must admit it’s strange—
exceeding strange—to give a pint of blood
as greeting card, for nothing in exchange,
and stop. Although you fear the crimson flood,
a pint is what you get, and nothing more.
So quaff it, since you’ll like it or you won’t.
You either take a draught and hit the floor,
and say you want it stronger, when you don’t,
or gag at the aroma of the hops
and sate instead on sugar and a wedge,
or pound it, dredge the last few tannic drops
indiff’rent, shrug, and say, “It kills the edge.”
My blood is not a holy sacrament.
It just diverts the otherwise hell-bent.

If you are unabashed to claim this verse,
then all its love and hate belong to you.
Some think it overlong; some find it terse.
Some understand, but most don’t have a clue
just why your rhyme and meter carry on,
when all the world’s an oyster to be shucked,
sincerity’s the foil to a come-on,
and “beauty” follows “beauty” to be fucked.
You have a verse, but do you have “success?”
The adolescent heart beats fast and bleeds,
and then, at twenty-nine, gives up excess.
It’s nature’s course. A poem, no one feeds.
You have a verse beyond their expectation.
Please take my word; you have my admiration.