[Newspoetry] Poet in Love -- a thank you, i thank you, so does she

[Donald L Emerick]

Writing beings madly in love.
   for lou and peter berryman, "Poet in love"
   and scattered bodies of their listeners,
   moving between monuments of first moments,
   and using their wooing rhyme sublime.

First moments
When words were first spoken,
so warrior historians say,
the words were commands,
telling slaves what to do --
a history of word orders.

When words were first spoken,
so priest historians say,
the words were prayers,
telling God what to believe --
a history of verbal abuse.

When words were first spoken,
so science historians say,
the words were pointings,
telling others what to see --
a history of remarking men.

When words were first spoken,
so news historians say,
the words were memoirs,
telling readers what to recall --
a history of fashionate fads.

When words were first spoken,
so epic historians say,
the words were erotic,
telling lovers what to romance --
a history of passionate sighs.

Monuments
Every historian has his idea,
of why words came to be here;
all of their causes are true,
all of them and each of them,
any tale can be shown as true.

It's not causes of the words
that make us love using words,
but loving all causes coming,
when they come to us as words,
as anticipations of becomings.

Expectations exceed the earth,
or what's a heaven to become,
if words do not create space,
cause time to melt and flow,
excite quanta into quivers.

The word was before the world,
the word was yet in the world,
the world never passes away,
the word is the world it makes,
the world is word made flesh.

Movings
I love the body of a good word,
its limbs are smooth skinned,
its joints are flexed bridges,
its taste is sweeter than wine,
its sound a symphony in my soul.

I'll make love to a good word,
the way I'd love a good woman,
when I no longer float about,
invertebrate as a jellyfish,
tossing and sighing for her.

I'll stiffen up my definition,
stick to my self-defining,
until this word explodes,
like milky-way or milky-weed,
scattering the seeds of life.

In the afterglow of a good word,
no Apocalypse spreads sun shine,
but fails and falls and fades
from view, a child's nighTmare;
wet dreams beat dry ones always.

Thanks to you,
peter and lou,
Donald L Emerick
(now, if I could just become
some kinda funny imitation)