on_rod_mckuen daf If some pilgrim ever comes up to me and asks me who my favorite poets are I'll say "God and Rod." and if they don't know who Rod is I won't care what they think of my response. 080410 ... Doar just Pasting I enter you. Rest awhile. The darkness here is safe. I would love to turn the page of every day in this same way, see everything from your eyes looking out. Touch what there is to touch with your fingers, rub up against the afternoon as part of your thighs rubbing. My cheek grazing yours is like resolve, the sureness of forever. Your tongue is wet and lazy at leisure in my mouth the way I loaf inside of you.. The only movement in the world is the dawn's bright diamond necklace stringing itself across the new horizon. 080428 ... doar pasting again I always knew that you would find me, no clock needed to remind me that it would happen. I planned on it, worked it out hid in plain sight every day knowing you would pass, that way or this, come along, go by, pause in moving to here or somewhere; near or far it did not matter. You would arrive. It kept the heart alive and thriving in the clatter of times' travel to know that you would turn and see me then not turn away.You here or coming, unraveling the puzzle, kept me whole and safe and driving on toward this day. When the evenings, like forever, started fleeting, going fast I could see you at some distance disappearing in the mist. In the mass of fondled faces one imagines in a lifetime yours was there just out of grasp. As you fluttered in my future, fled throughout my lifelong past I expected every spring to bring you to my arms, to my side. When the autumns started coming thick and firm and fast, I never once gave up believing you'd arrive with winters passing, you would be here as the moon fell. As the sun rose we would clasp hands at first, then bodies closing up that awful gap that life without a life long partner leaves between the noon and night line. Did I falter in my faith? Once or twice perhaps, but never long enough to leave you languishing in some dream that wasn't mine. Because I always knew that you would find me, I never sent out distress signals, never tapped out SOS. I was blessed with growing knowledge, something whispered do not worry, it will happen, it's been planned. Nothing here is happenstance. Do not hurry. Do not pause to catch your breath. So it was I always knew Now and then I leapt to heaven on another's stroke or kiss, lent to me to keep me going in this sure direction. Afterward the same affection that I saved, assigned to you only grew. I always knew that you would find me and so I did not bother scrawling each and every new address on cloud or curb stone. Why? I was waiting, you knew the rest. A nocturne for The King of Naples, A serenade or two for those who got me through some fearful midnights. Sonatas for some faces time erases but does not forget. A double wind concerto for the wind itself; it could have blown me anywhere, but wouldn't, didn't. I dropped some songs along the way in laps of strangers, even laps I knew. But this music you see spread around you these notes and half notes, planted long ago, that grew and grew was/were saved, because I always knew that you would find me and help me with the harvest. The strongholds, the havens that proved weak and wanting, lessons learned, prizes earned, not always given. Paths I paved, paths unpaved. The rest of what I have to offer, little things this life's amassed; for you, for you, it was for you I saved the best for last. 080428 ... Doar Cant Explain I never saw so much of Spring as I see now. The tender willow turning amber. The nightengale, the sparrow in the heavens raving. The moon behind the spider making web, now blotted out by geese in trumpet, home again, home again, home to spring. The toad has found his roadside. Butterflies are jumping from cocoons, ants and crickets share the bush and every truth of this sweet season. The moon is now a pearl, a cloud its shell, as in the tall bamboo and reed cicadas sing in four party harmony. I think the older seasons envy spring and well they should. The roses are not blood-red or purple in extreme. A subtle pink, a lazy lavender, no single petal scorched by sun. All things al dente, underdone. How is it that in all my years I never saw this much of Spring? To think I once believed that tenderness lay underfoot of Autumn. I am the aging sparrow's twin suffering from ill attention, as all souls concentrate on April things . 080428 ... dafremen Viagra for romantics... 080921 what's it to you? who go blather from