Disclosure #1

Hello.  This blog is for posting my miscellaneous writings.  Thank you for checking it out.

I recently finished a novel called Nocturnal.  More on that another time.  But removing that singular focus has caused my creative attention to spray all over the place — a sensation I’m enjoying, for now.  So I plan to use this space to share new poems, song lyrics, comics, stories and just little fragments of things that don’t fit anywhere bigger yet.  I’m not sure where this will lead, but I hope it’s somewhere artistic, social and worthwhile.

The genre I’ve been most into lately has been poetry, mainly of the spoken word variety, so let’s start with some words meant to be heard:

Disclosure

Disclosures,
acts of disclosure:
yours is an open mind.

Since that personality paint-stripping
spiritual turpentine
splashed like projectile vomit in your eyes,
your disclosures are Stevie,
your love is Ray Charles blind!

Plus when what you seek, each time
you find unlabeled,
how can you know it’s right
but by heartsight?

Your heart says, “That’s mine.”
Heart say:  She mine.
She’s too fine not to be.
Maybe fine as me.
Maybe fine as me times nine

so ask The Divine
one favor
that will keep multiplying:
Can I have her, may I
savor that flavor?

True love makes you feel like a purse snatcher
at the Macy’s parade,
tell me if I’m lying.

As they oughtta say,
it lasts forever minus a day—
till the conversation
about which of you may
or may not be or is decidedly not
a mind reader,

or the better leader in a given arena.
Drawing the line a gray hair short
of invoking the name “Dream-defeater.”

Yet for that, glad and amazed each other
or anyone could still be there
with an understanding stare
year after year.
So it’s just a little nightly dinner theater
for those with a highly trained
sense of drama.

Then you have a daughter,

beautiful as the moon in darkness
in any and all phases.
And you’re reminded again
of all that remains.

She ain’t half grown
but you’d put her life before your own.

So you never did get to go
to any and all places,
except on special occasions.
Anyway, they were special—
so distantly aimless and strange
for direct hits.
You all concur on that shit—

like Father, Son and Holy Hat Trick.
Time pads you with—what else
to call it but fatness?
Interrupts itself with that
ritually unpredictable
sated grin on stank mattress:
flipping in the burbs
with the non-Academy’s best actress—

or maybe true as you;
somehow still hard to tell
when together you yell,
shaking like one bell;
when you’ve grown to share
a cadence, a smell,
and outside your union’s earshot
orbit only your wildest whims
in their icy valence shells.

Cool distance:  distant cool
like the depths of a remembered pool
back when you couldn’t wait to escape school.

Good times’ early timing,
So eternally rewinding
(with the high-five-sliding voodoo
of  doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo…)

You never knew
how such aching hope could feel cruel
in the rearview:
God, what’s new
not for yours, just for you?

Well, for one, you’re finally
old enough to rule,
and sometimes you truly do.
You rule this living;
You repel the rebel attacks.

If you’ve learned one thing, it’s the rhythm
between Try Hard and Relax.

If you learned one thing, it’s the rhythm—
one—thing—it—rhythm—
one rhythm this time;
one time for your life;
one life on the line;
one time for your mind.

 

 

 

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