George Washington never saw a funny movie.

Culture had not knitted lightning into now, yet,

when the leaven in my bread was just a ******
beasty idea attempting to pass Jesus is Lord testing

half-way through today, right now, middle
of everything that's going on in and
around the whole internet connected reality,

right now,
we have magic in our qwerty trained brains,
we can recall the music, baddabumbaddabum
baddadabadah bump, p-ting

college prep

learning to type, mechanically, like a machine,

some one far more famous than me,
told me in print that no real poet types.

I found him poetically unqualified to prophecy.

---------------

Dear Carlos: Poet & One Man Band,

have heard these words so many times,
always bemused, trace~smile appearing,
but this time, it hit me like a Blue Mountain
extra hot, micro~window-waving cup of java Jamaican,
that is me, this was me, always, even before
I knew how to poem to music that I had always
head-heard, before I understood that these,
my songs were soul~pieces escapees, my…legatees

I leave them them in puzzle form, surely a piece,
or three missing, but no matter, each piece an
individual composition, standing alone, but the
big picture no one will ever see, understand but
that is the poet’s audience, his own one man band,
no bandwagon attached, a solitary figure quiet
contented with his disconnected discontentment,
a lifetime spent in refining, defining…refinishing

2 poem themes crisscrossed cross in my head,
interweaving themselves instead of becoming
two cells, one split apart, I call this process ruefully
reverse me~mitosis, blending that coffee with
a quarter cup of white milky, leaving me a caramel
colored confection, perfect in unity of trinity, that
combined cuppa plus my insides warmed, cozied,
the heat combined with the fire inside to write…one more

on the “two-to-write list,” in the “draft”y attic chamber,
were two titles, twins, now conjoined; the first, an
expose of why I choose to write these poems, and
the other, why I have a life of few friends, the few
chosen ones; the inherent conceptualizations differ but
cross the same forests and deserts, hid in my own Northwest Territory, rugged and inhospitable, where to survive, it required 
accepting lonely solitude, with a ragged welcome, & an honest mirror

an unequivocal, no equivocation permit, that telling yourself grand lies was pointless because you were a criminal on trial, prosecutor, defense lawyer, judge  and jury of your, ha ha, peers all rolled into one, there will never be a higher court wanting to grant an appeal, what is…well, is; a sad bliss but after decades of trial and many errors, wonderful and awful partnerships; it was modestly
perfected, dis-satisfyingly…satisfying

this goes on too long, like an intolerable avoidance of
answering, there, a phony confessional declarative; the whys un~provided, so fall back on that all encompassing
defense of temporary insanity that was locked in those
self-same sealed cells, carriers of my tainted DNA,
looking like bagels~donuts with holes, no, voids,
a central, air pocket of emptiness, with no surface to fill full,
or to adhere to, a drifter, an observer, never, a full participant

these empty holes, were just fried dough, sugar coated,
a fleeting life~lies of no substance, that I’ve spent
a lifetime trying to fill with worth, and I’ve written a few
moments of kindness, unqualified unreserved loving, but
too few to justify my existence to myself! That’s what
happens when you judge yourself, no defense strategy
can succeed, the fight is fixed, but I write on vaingloriously
hoping that there is yet, a flawless poem waiting within,
that a one man band, can both play and enjoy…

fav poets: Whitman, Hafez, Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Pradip and so many countless others on this site…

April,
The month that produces a lot of new things.
It is a month that rain blesses the earth 🌎.
It is a month where fresh leaves are erupting to bless the life's of animals, New flowers were blossom to beauty our environment,
New fruits that blesses humans life with vitality and protection for man.

In this beautiful month a legend was born.
The man that is a savior in the world of fashion.
A giant amidst the fashion celebrity. This gift is no other person than you, the love of my life,
ENYINNAYA NATHANIEL, a.k.a PUREST ANGEL 😇.
This is your month and
I blessed God that you were born in this blessed month.

I pray for you to see more of this month in pool of abundance of wealth,health and happiness in abundance and satisfaction.

Happy new month to you my 💕💕💕 and HAPPY BIRTHDAY 🎂🎂🎉🎉 IN ADVANCE.

the brevity of a singular breath,
one that is full of peace,
such a rare glimpse but
if you look at his face, at the right time,
you might just see him smile.

then, much like an old spruce cello,
descending in suspense,
that smile  -evaporates-, and the
quick "bliss" is no more.

oh how old and wise is this cello i play,
if only it was genuinely surprised by the
intensity of such
-hair raising horror-
it faces in its composure, daily.

"but it simply ain't",
as Bukowski would drunkenly say,
and his quivering cigarette would rightfully echo
through the halls of this unholy Cathedral.  

"put me the **** down already, Charles", it echoes.

"no,
i refuse
to let go of my
identity...

...why would i let go of all

-i feel-

is left?"

he (i) is either a man,
or on the road to understanding
what this even means really...

...maybe he's halfway there...

regardless, he now understands,
he must accept
"reasons" to smile won't come often,
and one is subject to the tug of war of life,
of society,
of women,
of his children,
of his forgetful mother,
of his vices,
his hair raising horrors,
the torment,
of his absent father.

to continue is to face those suspenseful

-crescendos-

of life, with
"a ******* smile on your face",
as Bukowski would say,

no matter
-what-
he's been through, or
-how-
-deeply-
he
-feels-

...

-melancholicreator