11

Bicycling Circuit Sauce Bomb

What now, by these words, would you have to occur?

I've my own pref''rences as to how things flow,

But it is with you that I wish to concur.

Tell me in what you desire me to grow.

In what better way think you I could travel?

All goes so easy for me, I'm all ways rich –

That's how I desire to see things unravel

By science of the communicative stitch,

Of the mouth's silk strands of what not yet exists.

If eat a future of what this spit exists,

Then be it a butterfly that beares no curse.

Some speak of prophecy and God’s living Word.

Tell me what you call it, for something's astir,

What's between us fortune's weave: what's here occurred.

You are my driver just as I'm your chauffer,

Roughed up over the years, not a little marked,

Only poverty's rewards for all the risk,

But for you who are the cause I've this embarked.

So if you'll think of this as an obelisk

I'll behold one to its meaning this day wed.

Now to science I leave all that I've here said.

I'm done chatting – now your turn, upon this verse.

12

Growing Cigarette

Would that some good thing of these lines could occur.

I know not why of my words anything flows:

Why you attend me to debate or concur.

This is a “slope” indeed, if not vainly pose.

So I'll just say thank you as west I travel –

Which, midst overwhelment, is not much a stitch.

Unto what by this means do I unravel

Past efforts that were as poor as they were rich?

Better these words the less likely they'll exist,

But to yourself who knows of what they consist –

Blessed am I who with humans have small commerce.

I once thought your touch through the frisson occurred,

Between my here, your there, a tingle to bestir;

A wave, an arc, what's of note that way transferred;

Fluttering of wings, that zephyr our chauffer;

Instants of revelry, thoughts to be remarked.

Unto what, these years later, all yet at risk,

After all the sunk boats on which I've embarked?

Slow child am I of your genius light and brisk,

Yet powers such, if to tell, who could believe?

Still, I think this less than the magical weave

I'd sought 'pon asking you to join me in verse.

13

Unblown Rocket

What passage this day shall this hem wave to spell?

What truths shall not be spoken if this endeavor

Be to write unpopularly: no shallow well?

From what imputed shames would I to sever

Myself which are of a culture's place and time?

Did I in spices these verses develop

What truths would be lost to whom that is a crime?

How shall I with beauty this poem envelop

If I exclude from it all that is not pure?

Thus my trouble: how shall a poem I confer 

If I write without taint midst an unstained God?

“That’s disgusting” I oft find more disgusting

Than the act or the thing in itself being judged.

But I'm not scratching this page toward lusting;

I'm battling vague concepts that won't be nudged,

Attempting passage I can't get in my grips.

Sparks flare up into flames of breath one can't see,

So from where comes this page of now cooled wax drips?

Where else? – from what it's said a disgrace to be.

The more true some truths the more we conceal them,

Instead of sewing a seam, tearing a hem,

Afraid, for of who read few are deep or broad.

Yet, so what? Such weren't the worlds' loveliest words.

Though one could taste them, not being like these rest,

They were as milk which, too warm, spoils to curds.

Now with penguin's quill I this fog manifest,

From dead butterfly to not quite present waste.

It is passed, what was once with honesty spiced,

Unto this trail of wind with no visage faced.

All believe that by the truth they are enticed.

Yet, just as true, truth does wear concealing hems,

Which contest against more public stratagems.

And, 'tween nature and culture, how do you show?

I came by this hem to not much to define,

For too great is such with meaning in living.

It could use some asset, too, like a design.

But, as all's a secret, that I'm not giving.

So don't propose 'til hoarse some truth here to wed.

That's not the hid reason for this epistle.

Though some truth might have by accident been said,

I've tried to not wave its flag or blow its whistle.

Now, with the most words I can to say the least –

Don't complain: you've not added much to this feast –

This day's hem awave has not more to bestow.

14

Necessity of Pure Jumping Chocolates

I only speak and write; it's you who works the spells.

I'd most like to please you with this endeavor,

But compared to your rhymes little this one tells.

I am dumb – there no words that could ever

Show your greatness. Thus, simply put is this rhyme.

I describe humble. I'm not much developed.

I'm blown off easy in this realm of space-time,

Not but a quark midst your vastness enveloped.

Yet my words, which humans reject, you reflect.

What am I to you, with my worst to expect,

That you attend me as like you are a god?

I've in some manner honored you, I'm trusting,

Though dishonored as well, no doubt – I'm no judge.

I try to aim straight ahead, crosswinds gusting.

I build vehicles surpassing – which don't budge,

Their too-greatness come to no more then rusting.

Long since of all that, and this, am I weary:

These words fall as like what one goes dusting –

This page needs your sense of humor, so dreary.

Well, I'm a lone child reaching here to your hem.

My intent's not been to offer you a gem,

But to gain one from you, for today I plod.

These aren't the loveliest feet written on Earth.

If any milk it's of undernourished breasts.

No quiver, no shake, no vibration - what worth?

Invisible to me what this manifests,

Might you yourself make more of this than litter?

You've seen me through poverty, watched me through rich.

You know I'd better fare were I a quitter:

Fabrics impossible, of like threads, I stitch –

What's to be revealed, raise or lower this hem?

I'm too undone to sew any stratagem:

What precious to hide, for what treasure to show?

Such my lens this day, grasping naught to define,

What can I mean, this not my purpose in life?

I once thought words an asset midst mind's design,

Which I've come to know true – by but misgiving,

In the to and fro more harm than blessed wedding.

Thus, I've little to say through this epistle,

For what can come of it but more frayed threading?

Words bring less placet's “Yes” than thorns and thistle,

The more writ the more life takes, unto this least.

Well, life never was just, and words are no feast.

Of all I've read and scratched, what worth to bestow?

15

Regret

Shall I grow old knowing truth not for decades,

The masks of others my own how many years?

Endeavoring to know yours via these “braids,”

I come to a void even though it appears.

You know my ignorance is universal,

No less so by these yet transversive measures

Needing no interpreters, nor dispersal.

What light is this in which I own no pleasures,

Though now and again they bring me to weeping?

I've small skill at sowing or reaping.

And, are worlds' wonders not for more than gasping?

Now what shall be realized of this “flowering”?

Are you pleased by the poverties on this dish?

Well, just now my attitude is souring,

Bearing all the evil good fruit you could wish.

I here but make certain I've nothing to give.

Nor, since unique, will I call that an asset.

So much for “art” amidst the war where I live.

And now I suppose that you'll remain tacit,

For, as with me, what's the point of expression?

What a beauty, one more blossoming session,

Another eye 'round some truth without clasping.

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