Poetry by Bob McNeil

 

Our parts of which we speak 

 

I enjoy the way your verbs 

    taste, stroke and titillate  

    my hut of flesh and its resident soul.  

 

I endure the way your adjectives

    desire to describe the details of beauty.

    Adjectives are paintings of dawn:

    they strike sulphur, 

    but they do not emblazon my vision with brilliance.

 

I revere the nouns that name 

    the person, place and thing that you are.

    Every appellation I use provides

    another reference to the benevolence of you.

 

I hate the pronouns assigned to design ourselves,

    for enwrapping yourself in pink 

    won’t disguise the cries of your mannish side

    and my anima is pregnant with a passion to reproduce.                                                                                                 

                                                                                                        

I appreciate the conjunction that you have grown to be. 

    You are the “And” that facilitates my spirit’s state 

     By using the adhesion of compassion.

 

I adore you for the prepositions that grant these facts:  

    I am on a bed of beatitude with you.

    We do what we want for joy’s geysers,

    experiencing satisfaction after the flow.

 

I titter at the interjections

    we use as illustrations of our jubilation.

    The exclamations are sillier  

    than children chortling on a carousel.  

 

 I assert adverbially, 

    both you and I have become 

    rather pledged to the notion  

    of cherishing an emotion 

    without using its word.
    Soundlessly appreciating that thoughtful space,                                                                                                   

    waiting for language to transport the topic,  

    our best sentiments on commitment are expressed.



Factual Simulation

 

I told a virtual friend 

that virtual communication 

was irrefutably alienating me. 

The virtual friend 

sent me a virtual hug. 

Virtually, 

its value was a television 

through a blackout.

 

I told another virtual friend 

that virtual communication 

was irrefutably alienating me. 

This virtual friend 

sent me a virtual kiss 

Virtually, 

its value was a spare tire 

with a hole and no air. 

 

I told yet another virtual friend 

that virtual communication 

was irrefutably alienating me. 

That virtual friend 

sent me a virtual gift. 

Virtually, 

its value was tin obstructing 

a vending machine. 

 

Virtually, 

hundreds of virtual friends 

remained online 

to text their supply 

of factual simulations. 

 

Literally,

my concern logged off

before they did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

              ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bob McNeil is a writer, spoken word artist and illustrator of some modest renown.  Influenced by the Dadaists and Beat Movement, he attempts to address the needs of our human mosaic.