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poetic prose first draft for John C.

I am in a good mood and full of need to touch a soul. My Ernie dislikes that I spend my life now in a folding chair; he's not well and has been badly used by me, a fool, for trapping him, retreating to this darkened room to...
...to write at night, safe from sunlight's bad affects upon my skin and errant immune system.  Our city lights have drowned the stars, which once, when I was a sailor long ago, glowed so brilliant in the sky, yet never were near a cliche.
The moon is all that's left for me, brave enough to show its face above light-polluted Miami skies.  It's late for me at three AM, yet early in my day, to speak. I am happy because I will see John next week and I will, make a good show for a good great man; two men; though poor Ernie, he is stuck with me, the little nothing-now that's me.
I am not sorry for myself; I could have been born in Kenya, dead at three.  Instead I love for words which count for nothing, not for their rolling of great numbers, nor with luminosity; these words to wish to out-count stars above the azure of all midnights' open seas.

2 Oct 08

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This is more of a journal entry or, at best, a letter written for (I say for because of the title) John C. Can I assume 'for' means 'to' in this case? If so, then I would change 'John C' (3rd strophe), to 'you'.
...'the little nothing-now that's me' followed by, 'I am not sorry for myself' is a tad off-putting.
It is well written though, Nets.
 — unknown

Quite so. It is nothing but a journal enta parking here while I think of seeng John again soon, and he has no idea. It's game for corrections and critics.   And poor ass me and I'm not sorry are awful ooky out  of any purely personal context. It is just as you said.  thanks for looking at the draft.  Funny, Ernie hates ALL my poetry or says, that's nice, but John, being a musician and more: I could write yabba dabba honeymoon and he's go, "oh, thats's so nice of you.".  And Ernie loves me just as much, he just hates poets and poetry.
 — netskyIam

Point: here is a poem, cut to the essence, this is what we should, in my opinion, strive for:

These words to wish to outweigh stars above the azure of all midnights' open seas.
 — netskyIam

Just woke up.  S, those are my loves, not my lovers.

Had hundreds of male sex parteners my day.

Most are long dead.

There's a difference, even for men, between sex, and love.

I am going through a horrible poem list.  I can't "fix" any of them, at all,
except to transplant a few of the better ones, in time, to this account;
the netskIam account is 'dead in the water'

Looking for a truly great poem about this sort of subject,
I found a first draft, never retouched, and it sort of explains,
in pooky language, the difference between real  love and sexual lust.

http://www.poet rycritical.net/read/51157/
And it was written just then, at that time of re-meeting,
at the time of the slide show day.  Mark was off somewhere else in this world,
working. Both are so busy, internationally.

It was Ernie's first re-visit to the scene of an April 12th suicide of a former parnter,
who was only twenty three then (he was slated to die, a suicidal, brilliant schizophrenic charmer, named Scott.  Why did Ern take on Scott? Scott was a poet, and a shmoozer, a lost soul, though: he even seduced, and was a user of his own, child psychatrist, whom I knew only as a tuning customer: a married man.  Scott used him, but that doctor: he was a pedophile posing behind a stern, grim Quaker countenance. Really evil.

Anyway, Ernie had to ID Scott's body.  This was his first time to revisit, of all the hotels in the Miami area...THAT hotel, where Scott OD'd on Seconal.  

And what floor?  THE NINTH FLOOR.   I don't know how he was able to do it.
John was so busy, but, insisted to see us both.  Life was about to really go sour for myself. I've been an albatross on Ern's neck, dead, for years now.

I am so sorry, but these are my two loves, from first draft, to last.

http://www.poet rycritical.net/read/51157/

There's another, of a lover, who died so very young.
I can't bear to find the item now.

The cited poem-item, is, as said, first draft.  I never went back to fix it in any way.  It's...static now, probably for the best.

Love is not about sex.  Not really, but only at first, usually.
And remember: I was once seventeen, nineteen, thirty eight...
and was a sex-hungry male machine.  But not anymore.
I am not dead, not even any HIV here.  Therefore, must speak out,
Seems to be my personality disorder, to say too much; have always been up front,
but no "advocate" of promiscuity, at all. Promiscuity in males, in particular,
leads to an early finish...I recall Jean Pierre now....but not now.  It still hurts to remember them.
 — R_Reid_Welch