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I wanna be your lover.
I wanna be your friend.
From the sorry beginning
To the sordid end.
It’s a slow fade to crimson—
On that you can depend.

I wanna be yr boggle.
I wanna be your brave.
Its only yr company
That I seemingly crave.
I’m yrs for a song;
Command me, yr slave

Yours’s for a song;
Simple, like Do Re Mi.
Let me in yr fortress door
And let’s see what we can see.

I wanna dance with you.
I wanna hold your hand.
It’s safe to say
I’d like to be yours to command.
Let’s hit the dancefloor—
Move Hot Mama! Shock the band!

I wanna impress you.
I wanna write you a poem.
Maybe trickle yr secret garden
Between the xylem and the phloem.
Not being the least bit tricksey,
Just ask dear old dead Gollum.

Yours’s for a song,
Simple, like Love Me Do.
Let’s walk and talk all night
And see if the midnight is really blue.



It was two glasses in
And the curling memory of brunette hair,
But she has erewhile gone
And Sonoma Merlot just doesn’t care.
The rhymes won’t come—
Here I am inside this couplet mess.
I guess it takes more than mere Love
To complete this synapsing poetic process.
Meld two roughs into one,
Balance the scan and mind the rhyme,
Maybe I’ll get some ‘Likes’;
I manage to do so from time to time.
Fear floods in;
I managed to lose my job.
Now with gray hairs and beard
Who now would care to hobnob.
Today next-door neighbor
Pleasantly responded to my hi and hello.
There’s no ‘there’ there
And it’s so past time for me to go.
Brother turned sixty—
Who knows about sixty-one.
Wish we were better friends;
A brother would be nice on this long end run.
We need a finishing couplet to release our tortured reader;
It’s all good, love from your poet, another forgotten bottom feeder.

Sweet Potato Praline 71

Insinuating bubbles emanated from the scuppered dragon
A fool’s bargain of untendered origin led us to just here
A poet’s lazily pulled rhymes flailed aloof on page one
A new path was desired, that much was perfectly clear

Could you loan me your smile since you’re not using it
Since my mood is lost in translation or nixed in transit

The meme of my distant daughter swears I haven’t Alzheimer’s
My phytonutrients seek softened skins and perplexity
Slices of hard orange sweet potato seek out boiling waters
But speeling is an acquired taste, marble at my dyslexity

Would you loan me your arms since you’re not using them
I’ve this tightness that rattles along with this morning’s phlegm

Heading happy back eastward on a defogged highway 71
Pralines and tourist cup delivered recorded on every tablet mile
But the aimless poet still cannot get off the floor of page one
Freezing rain means we’ll all meet here for quite a while

Could you loan me your eyes since you insist on not seeing
My arms and smile reaching for my most favorite human being