Probably, I’m not doing this right
when superwomen of spirit nuclear calibre
beautiful, alone write to a leftover, such as me
of consanguine secret candle burnings
and gangsta chicken lives, made unicorn
and such camaraderie, and cheer
on this departure day, yours — mine
and own life bereavement
in love – is just such, such a hailing
of something . . . something something
found, that probably many a man
has maged the muck of.
Pin the butterfly nebula
she struggles no more
an unopened glassine envelope
this bubbly universe, for Aletta
and greatest of all our gods, cannot
have her, for perfect party décor
anymore, unconcealed she is
evermore, the immaculate
letter, opened.
There is no manual, for my stardust
wiping away time spent that jettisons
a whole life through, no, no
but shrine builders
and precious object keepers
such as you, Lynne and Michelle, yes
remain here with me, thank you
rustproofing own life grief so that
waterlectric makes not
of me, a black hole and good grief
somewhere outside of time
a neutron star does, not die thus
still holding, there is nothing
nothing at all, as empathic as
the friends that somehow, someway
reach out through the twice ending
of a world.
Today, is your departure day!
And there were two emails.
Both, kind chorus, to every fathomable
symposium song,
in what is but,
becoming, minor tidal drift apart.
Warren Jeremy Rourke is not, ‘Borderline Personality Disorder’ as he previously thought, having discovered Carl Jung’s writings on being an ‘Empath’ – and he can herewith, forevermore,, therefore, – vouch for a ‘deconstructivist’ persepctive in the age of BRICS, where there is more allotment to move around and gain psychic acknowledegment . . . Of course, this does not answer for his being busy with fifteen novels, five short stories, one hundred and thirteen poems, and nine creative non-fictions, all at the same time, but he is currently seeking help for his undiagnosed, ‘graphomania’.