i

we're not prehistoric poems, fossilized
under rocks or buried in forgotten
cemeteries under Yaffo restaurants
filled with pigment and Peking Duck.
we exist plain-view.

we could be blind, and still our genetics are
twisted within the molecular helix of DNA to
gravitate toward home. its representation congeals
blood into a temperature flux whenever a star meets her
season a million miles from historic origin.

i remember our scent on late turpentine evenings
before centuries divided us into millenniums. i needed
distance to validate reasoning and cultivate genealogy
from the diālis.

remember what we pledged:

love survives war like words. there is no past that can't
repair the pianola for another dance. maybe the atmosphere
has changed; the forecast dictates a gentler melody.

let's try. i'm certain you've learned to believe in what you feel
the way i've learned to spell. aren't you tired of the Gregorian
repeating itself every 400 years? let's sit one out; i need the rest.

tell me, have we grown-the-f*ck-up yet?
~

Wow. Powerful.

wow. thanks.

I like the sense I get from this one, it's a very interesting way to say that time passes, but the memory lingers on... I think sometimes memories can be very comforting, instead of reminders about what could have been. Too many times people let regrets get in the way and can't focus on the positive aspects of past experiences. (I guess because they need to "grow up" first.)

thanks, Alatariel.

ii


A lie camped in truth; you knew. A make-shift-shelter of debris
ensued, clan-destined to concave under the preservation of dishonesty.
Change fermented laggardly allowing vintage to soften vinegar.
That's the truth.

Discordant time frames manifested disheveled boxes of nests; evidence
of allergen remain unpacked between journals and canvas. The Twelve Days to
The Festival Of complicated navigation through altared forests.
That's the truth.

An all night drive to purchase a map of 1966 at the old Chevron
station off I-85 (to establish miniscule permanence) quelled nerves
before discovering it had been bulldozed for an industrial park in ‘89.
But Enough.

The lie was masqueraded as truth and solidified like magic-shell
to retain the melt; i knew. We both pretended not to notice the
expanding stain and neither resolved to clean it up.
That's the truth.

Truth doesn't consist of shelter erected from strewn wreckage but decisions
about what to pack in the aftermath; a carry-on vs. excess baggage.
Oh, and that story about the old Chevron station out on I-85
is a lie.
~

the latest revisions with accompanying art containing twin essences. i'm over halfway finished with the book and can only hope i live through this long enough to see the result! it's the most beautifully stressful and draining thing i've ever been through. i constantly feel on the verge of collapse. thought i'd share a bit to garner some response regarding the evolution of in conjunction with contrast within mirroring art and words.

god, God is too good sometimes. much too good to bless me with such inspirational insight. but, i think He knows a lot more than i, and that when i'm refined from the fire i'll make one of the best Jews that ever grated His nerves.

for those who responded to the initial drafts, i should've requested no response until after the kilning process. i apologize for that. the purpose of all this was to demonstrate firsthand the writing process from birth to maturity; the capturing of essence through the muse to vessel formation to glazing prior to the firing. it's a promise i made to God so that the gift may be glorified through Him. i honestly thought i was going to die in the desert of mundane this time.

so many people (myself previously included) think the perfect poem is just born. it's not. it's a lot of work to raise it, especially when dozens are being born at the same time. as previously noted, capturing the essence during birth is paramount to perfection, which can't develop from a stillborn. capture it and move on until the muse allows you rest. then you perfect. it takes dedication and commitment which more oft than not claim sleep and energy in return. but the peach is delish.

spelling police notification: "altared" is a reference to church and temple altars, not a misspelling of altered.

Ahavati, I love the first one and actually 'grasped' it. It left me feeling a deep yearning. I love reading and looking at the art you post, but don't have much to comment.