Rituals I Can't Live By

  The air is guilty of humidity, and I have not loved enough, I say in my best Chet Baker almost blue impersonation. Do I make such melody or am I just a wheezing-buzzing, Koo-coo Kazoo? If anything,  I'm a beach blanket stiff in the sun, not rewinding much, flipping through memory books, longing for a time when life was revealing and friends, not this Social-Medium, were Real. True Socialists of emotions, trusted curators of Psyche. ‘All for one, one for all,’  we laughed,  retreating to the car while you stood out in the wind smiling like a freezing Archimedes after the Feat.  You discovered your "Eureka!" We  settled  for sputtering  heat    and   watered-down coffee

And they said: A farce. A painted toy soldier.  Unreal. The beak like a Vegas billboard, a parrot’s geometry against the foaming tide.     "Et tu?" he whispers from the cliff.     "Who art thou to judge this form?" A wanderer from Ithaca, lost his way in Troy, drifted on an Arctic wind to the ice-floes, he wears a coat of exile.     Do not mistake the Buster Keaton grin.     The mind is la forza, the Iron Bird.  Above: the dark lords, Skuas, dive like Stukas. Below: bus sized squid turn tides bloody. He brings back the paycheck: Capelin, Herring, Sprat. Handfuls of silver coins pay the bills. Wings beat like stunted oars, a mini-seaplane rising up basalt walls, raising the daily bread  for the brood. No lamentation. No complaint. The little ones sleep beneath stone, and he, in his silent watch, dreams of those  old green fields sloping down to the tranquility of waves lapping melodic shores     

  Come to me when the descending sun throbs like a beating heart among the trees. Is it a tease finite like driving by a stand of jasmine in July? You are the honey I taste at sunset, in the mind's eye, intertwined, we are a montage of arms, lips, legs, groans, moans, kisses, perfumed by pungent cinnamon recollections  I remember long after the earth glides into night on quiet          black                 wings    

I wrote it   in long bliss but lost it quick. I prayed for its return, hoping to see through avian eyes wise a vision also sung in caw-caw cadence above my fray. There it goes, now I know, sweet chariot stanza which I did not copy to silicon will carry me  away no more