November Poem by fon tuma

We go to where Autumn leaves left my single spirit panting
and finally November is here. Is it then sixth yet? Usually
my brother's bithday is time to progress, somehow the
stars favour me during that time when thighs loosen
and sexual senses are alive. What date is it, what day
shines so bright and true; what numerals name this
perfection of expressionate trees what time makes these
bees buzz and sing so profound?
My lovely Sphinx waits at home, the delight of old age
omniscient in wisdom while I tread the roads like Heracles
chasing a task only returning to riddle ridiculous whens.
She teaches my unconciousness in the ways of 'the learn and
keep learning'.
I miss you my love of agony who with the advanced eye of
a true teacher witnessed all the fallible assumptions of
talented youth and did not try to make the man leap-frog
into the holds and embrace of final knowledge but let the
skin suffer with well-deserved hardship; carelessly prompted
without a sense of having been student but with slow advice:
'Advance, advance and make the Elements your teachers and
guide'. Did I understand and want to learn patience? Never!
I was the pain behind the curtain, the reserve of red behind
the muscle. Cows were consumed and the red beef ground
between sleepless teeth; between machinery capped with
enamel whites, ground and sent to the abyss of my African
Harem.