Author: /mr

1)I arrived here notebook in hand
from the cool drizzle outside in
hopes of unclogging a stanza
or two from an
unfinished poem. the
waitress who brought my coffee
said “ok hun” on cue cuz that’s
what most waitresses in diners
seem to do,
and she was keeping
her end of the bargain, but I wasn’t, looking but not really at some lines promised by me a new life today, got to birth
some wordbabies
today, c’mon
but alas and while we’re
still not at it,
DO keep in mind
too much eros in
air with me as ghosts/W/soulful
erections sort of poems as of late,
got to get those little
wordmonsters in line,
with passion and purpose and
while we’re still not at it,
would it asking TOO
much 2) in from diner door
from the drizzle with
funky gray suede boots
with shockwaves of freckles,
swimming on in up down
drizzledface, when she
shook out
her formidable red braids, a
few droplets
landed on me. I went
from notebook and stilted, even begrudging lil’ wordmonsters,
to a stuttering heart,
when she took the table
next to mine
and I smelled
damp suede and drizzly
freckles, quite the breakfast combo
in this diner in the boonies, but
3) damn where’s the poem? no
not some grade-b Death in Venice (diner-take) for chrissake? as just
a table away, I inhaled suede and substance and silliness, side order of perfect splashes of nutmeg and
her for damnsure high IQ kinda way
green eyes, all of this
established, soon as
she’d shaken off the rain, some of those drops on me. her cell, her bell book & candle yes, this part
was my hallucination, but not the steaming espresso (nutmeggy clouds of course) all
delivered and arranged, all,
within maybe a dozen minutes. screw stultifying New Order of Poem Pledges, this was all within a dozen minutes
and stutters of my now delightfully disordered heart: but COULD I deliver all this? 4)all her drizzleddazzle all
this, from pen-to-paper by such a deliriously distracted heart?
I hear “hun” from the beloved AuntkindaWaitress who, to
table next to mine,
delivered one more
espresso and this
time too, a blueberry tart.

/mr
/2019

Say, in baseball I’m the starting pitcher but by the third inning
it’s obvious I don’t have my good stuff today, they’d call
the bullpen and
get someone else ready
yes a bummer but
that’s baseball, and redemption’s quite possible only five days
ahead, or, closer to real
not mythical Mets-me, say,
my solo on
2nd tune, opening set doesn’t say
much like, it’s not horrible but
heart mind must have been AWOL
but it’s quite possible I’d rip it
in 10 ,15 minutes next tune, I’d
play with more
or less fire, hit
some high ones or
live breathe love
in the coolNmellow downtown,
that’d be a not unrealistic
expectation. K, deal, Imma trumpet player (on-DL for a bit but not
a pro pitcher! but hey!) all
those roads to
what feels right on all those gorgeous days of emerald carpets, red clay, these late-June days nights ripe with
righteous left-right
roads to redemptions. Not
this so wrong here right now
inna poem in search of
a wouldacoulda, seems being
tired scared & Mr.Mojo
still MIA all that kinda laundry,
but whaablaah I’ve put us
through quite enough here
already. Let this simply be
what it appears to be, some
THING
of ignoble meanderings
I’d wish to reassign to a
someone else
RIGHT NOW, witha
someone witha fatter thoughts
witha tons
more of tougher leaner
less fear, to take
a real shot at realroads
to real redemptions to
tappy ‘long YOUR
lappy, to, please take this
and please have-a party
pump something
more entertaining and purposeful
than these gone
from GitGo lines
ago
lost, in any translation.

/mr
/2019

call this place what you will but
here even long-gone cats &
turtles riffing along on shores of
peachy peyote pebbles & a bessie smith
greets a jimi from a
more-way-else-outta-there
red or gin house for
ever delicious this fever &
hey jimi! it’s ok, little wings gonna
take you to peachypeyotepebble
shores, & brand-new electriclady
day, everywhere cliffs of feathers
blessing every child got its very
own, we will hug or

wail along THIS watchtower, an
empress & a jimi on fire that scorches
only in a good way so that
good-melting hearts of good
cats & turtles & just-folks here, where
the wind cries Ma Rainey too, she winks
at them both & says, you can fish in
MY sea! ‘long as james here anthems
us every hundred years or so, so it’s
really our kinda blue.

/mr
/2018

That late summer afternoon into
an earlier us, perhaps your
first surprise visit when you
jumped me and pinned me down
with your salty skin
and poise, mauled me with your mischievous eyes before branding me with your witha-wink
dig-my lusciousgirrlstink, your mighty molecules molesting
the room with not much
molecular space set aside for me
and why should there have
been? when you shackled me with witchery and summer grime
and then made me sign numerous documents BUT not
before licking my eyelids shut
so I couldn’t see what fate you’d
outlined for me, then, a mere 3
hours into this twistysoakedsheets marathon we were ravenous
for pizza but decided no! delivery
call no, not
until we read some Jane Kenyon and Frank O’Hara
to each other in this
jeepersjoy new kinda byU jungle
air, air thoroughly pickled byU,
finally,
so
very cool that we
post-coital postponed on pizza
delivery, right after you threw
your muddy toes on my lap and
said, first, poetry, asap.

/mr
/2017

lightning cracks the sky.
she inhales then chokes on
first raindrops, resurfaces and
gasps. she’s maybe 68 inches
and 110 lbs of black coffee and
cigarettes and, streaks of
purple popsicle flames shout
through her thick black bangs,
hanging heavy over this
sworn2b-blank2day face. like
a tired but
testy
young panther, testing,
pawing the fresh
mud on her bony haunches, she
says only

this: “yes I rule and
yes how ridiculous?” is
all she says, trembling
in a pre pouncy crouchy thingy way
on all fours, she
laughs then
licks backs of her hands, spits
into the mist:
an angry aroma, both
warning and
dictum both, delivered
to us all, delivered
directly into a dark
blue wind.
/mr
/2011/2019