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On Passing My First Full Night in Her Company

Rapport is like one of Nature's foods,
growing to maturity only
after wading through
the labored Sea Of Time.
But tonight was
a magic garden
in which our rapport grew more rapidly
than the rules,
dictated by the nature of Rapport,
itself,
allow.
We broke the rules
of knowing and learning,
our minds becoming as one,
like bodies in the midst of love.

Christ!
The confusion nested
in my mind now
is a frightening family
of worries and ecstasies.
My questions revolve around circles of answers,
but stop at none.
Is haunting hope a mere fantasy,
a joke frowned upon,
again,
by misty reality?
Is defeat
a masochistic tale told
by the ailing absence
of strong self-confidence?
Besides,
why are wild worries allowed when what tonight was
signifies only a single night?
Never before did we magnetize
one another's separate company.
And,
again,
the garden and the growth haunt my thoughts.
The single night
is a thousand nights we will happily share.
The single night is a beginning.

And that explains self-confidence's absence,
for,
as no confidence is Hope's killer,
false confidence is,
too often,
Sorrow's mother.
And,
crashing downward to dejection causes me
to wonder why Now's house contains me
and observes the art I am practicing.

Insanely,
I write,
for only far safer would I be
if mystical pencils
erased you from me until,
again,
we can freely share our minds in company.
But,
as all those tasks which would serve better
accomplished than allowed the freedom of existence,
what my mind knows best and finds easy to warn me,
my person knows not and finds impossible to work.
Again,
insanely I write
and now I realize my true state-insanity.

Insanity must be my sickness,
the maddening loss of my senses
must be the only explanation
for insisting upon
the pursuit of this voyage on paper.
The reason is clear,
it causes no ignorance and raises no questions,
a longed for heavenly diversion from my own
maddening mannerisms.
That my head is a strange magnet
and that you are the strong and sturdy steel
thought that refuses to exit
serves to be the reason this is,
yet,
incomplete.

You are the thought,
but god only knows,
the thought is not you and,
again,
mad confusion mocks my stability.
There,
rightly,
should be no question,
“Do you refuse to exit?”
The only inquiry to wear
the righteous clothes of true,
proper Appropriateness is,
“Will you ever enter again?”

Thus,
this despised confusion
invites worry and,
worry,
pessimism,
and,
pessimism,
a sadness which is pre-mature,
for my poison
is the mortal inability
to televise the future times to
the anxious audience that I've become.

And,
still,
I'm awake,
only to write
more meaningless lines lured to live
on these sheets by another,
and far more,
beautiful food.
Could it be that one time
is sufficient nutrition
for building strength
to help the growth
of a new planted seed,
now,
consumed before ripening,
causing incurable disease;
now,
for Fortune's friends,
called Love?
Am I,
as during far too many
presence presented in the past,
still unaware
of the genuine meaning of love?
Is this feeling
the mere infatuation
of a child's yet immature mind?
Is my manhood
a gift
of whose precious possession
I shall forever be deprived?
This occasion,
in all of its visits to my confused life,
forces Dante's “Inferno”
to seem an incomplete thought,
still in the stagnant stages of creation.
Its incompletion
is caused by that great poet's passing,
long before he could hear of this poet,
the most horribly punished
of all Hell's victims.
My confusion is a punishment,
seemingly too painful for the paper thin minds
of the sane.
Yet,
I'm unaware of
what wrong I've done
to cause this cruel catastrophe.

My desire can no longer be nourished
by my ability.
Soon will be the sad and sorry end
of another early morning's pleasure.
Though Confusion reigns supreme
over the land
within my mind,
Hope is a phantom which haunts me.
But it is
the sorry and fearful dejection
of Pessimism
that my shaking hands,
holding the horrible tool
of this creation,
last scratched upon these lines.
And it is,
though reluctantly,
the same dejection
that sees the last word.

COPYRIGHT 2005 by Michael Bonanno LOC Reg. #TXu934-647

Reproduction of “On Passing
My First Full Night in Her
Company” or any part
therein without the express written permission
of Michael Bonanno is
prohibited unless the
reproduction meets The
Copyright Act “fair use”
doctrine, (title 17, U. S. Code)..

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