Sunday, July 13, 2014

in the summer rye...

“…the way life used to be…”

you found your way
past jesus and lizard tree
saguaro puncture wound hook-a-thon
old desert trading path
a river of souls as water
there where thermals
play tricks here too

the heat speaks funny
in melted faces and places
you thought you could keep
all your things attached
to other things

there is a faint rot
of forgotten divine
a bloom-sweet hollow
emotional nostalgia
when you want
to remember
feeling something
besides pain

eventually, this too shall pass
as torn skin toughens
broken bones mend
with compression
ice often stems bleeding out
when you flow with letting go

you session comforts enough 
to throw away the keys
turn-caging hinges
doorway promising
and window kissing
binging on lotto rituals
in your guarded Olympia
all puckered up in prayer
narcissist tight as a drum
waiting for the crickets
to find you once had
a few things to say other than
where did my humanity go…


Thursday, July 10, 2014

eating into your buzz...

il canto della cicala dice la verità

a high priest
of boreal summer
stings the near noon air
sawing electrical sounds
into frictional melodies
and rhythm

gatherers rejoice
hoppers voice
and we humans
go unnoticed
thunder stepping
lightning blind hurries
toward the high wire act
of the Sun
in July

and between us
there are many seasons
turned worlds beyond
any lens memory carries
to see what a soul
in its myriad forms
might want to know


between harvest and seed...

Tani Bunchō,  Ishiyama temple's histories (part 7 of 7), 1805, hanging scroll, colors on silk

how gold rushes us into naming things…

  we dreamt of our impurities washing over us/ panning for the immutable pieces of ourselves that could not be denied how are you available to the Sun when the Moon has your charms all to yourself/ I sleep walk during daylight, painting eyes upon my eyelids/ all the while dreaming of her waxing Summer rouge and the crescent curl blade of her holding me tight to the wane/ I made glasses/ wore them along the avenues and boulevards, seeking out the sandwich boarded non-parabolicities going about a flat planar life…

 have we always been embedding ourselves onto three dimensions/ hooking tenacious claw driven perch holds at points where reality branches out and becomes a more subjective than objective lens/ the effective mass rate of expectancy for life surety is an assured dependency on the faith we have in one’s self/ this is the prime law/ the only law/ the law of spirit gaining matter/ there are no records, stone tablets or caves painted otherwise/ this is the advance metrics of a soul/ seen as a smile telling the eyes receiving the light of instantaneous regard, you care to bend the mirror so that body and soul both can wear what fits a moment right/ this life or the next/ each parcel of time is an infinity parsed into modified conductive measures and quantum wells/ the valence-band dispersion curves means there is a point of singularity in each of us that gathers our wants and needs/ our desire for striving a perfection and the anomalies we bleed…


Monday, June 23, 2014

when did you forget how to play...?

photo by Christopher Payne ©
from his work
Asylum: Inside the Closed World of State Mental Hospitals

gummy label mad

we were vegans who wanted to open a charcuterie

tremor, tremor mercy stick sharp snap switch the eyes swallow more shit than pens full of gluttony

I want it, you want it
take it steal it feel it
can we reel it in
fishing want with subscriptions and passes
to the menses and massacres
to mundane ribbon-ing and mesmerizing not knowing
one day to the next seasonal trees stolen
view writing about as if any of us left
on own accordance

sentinels of once ago
the forests recite
by imperceptible song
hum sa so hum
we smile when Summer rings
particle and waved
her desire ripens seeds
what once was and wombs
ways of terracing
accidental farming, gathering
and other turnkeys

we stole the rivers

I go looking for the half a reason I am here
I left it somewhere when daring a door be opened
where could it be breezeway maybe
in the cavernous room at the end of the hall
where they deposit the empty boxes full of why
and sent mail never meant for you to read

inside a white elephant
we find rest comfortably lumped
under the rug in the middle
of the waiting room
the front parlor lungs
a lingam structural breath
and our fertile balance looks on
in the window fixtures,
locks and fine steel mesh
that are at times 
woven into the glass

sanitarium serenity
a façade for the huddled masses
asses planted decaying chemically slower
industrially revolutionized life
has hidden waste streams

for over a hundred years now
the mechanized go-go dancers
have stolen your attention
by mentioning ambulatory articulation
reality is indexed and filed away
only a footnote in a Chicago style manuscript
a history professor might have wanted you to remember

you mine for diamonds
while wishing on the rain
dismembered from pertinence
you bowsprit for wisdom
take scars for education
swallow the white noise washing
over the peaceful parts
the mind goes first
when we die inside out
our heart, soon to follow
but the soul
the glorious porthole
to each of our other infinite sides
lingers through ghostly flow
wants to know why any of you
would ever stop looking for more
of those things that fill you
with life, love and longing


Friday, June 13, 2014

the pimped-player connection...

for andrea true

(we stole ourselves,
to see her show
an unknown vagina,
we wanted lady liberty)

      we were considered riddle thin weaves, vines and weeds/ what had we to need besides the breathless parts of losing one's humanity/ our searching for other cages for articulate bones to haunt all at once/ hear ye hear ye what have we forgotten/ this land of milk and honey has turned all rotten/ and while we may have some old fashioned ideology to hide behind/ the rest of the world is caught in our shallows by bind/ we came upon hand hewn timber wrapped with leather, metal and decree/ this is what we can see, gated pearl admissions and a price chart laminate/ short skirt cocktail server noticing the cucumber down stuffed appendage we wore just in case...

     the story goes humble pie beginnings and all the back door sinning one can muster while keeping the tithe plate full of lethargy vanquished in mechanized bluster and intoxicating haze/ opiates and the masses/ the sermon weather never changes it has always been chaos and symphony/ cries of more flesh for fantasy spat leaped out/ scattering bats from the belfry/ more souls to writhe more church bells ringing more shimmy shimmer membrane kelp sea sway low swing chariot ride...

so yes love give us
more more more
we do so like it...


Wednesday, June 11, 2014

the breaking fast is worth it...

Alexandre Jacques Chantron  'charmeuse' circa 1907

i was thirsty for her Jericho this year
(there were vinifera, vials and drums)

in goddess centrifugal worship
the vineyards were where
we knelt felt fiber dealt
stone sieve to sewn

coal to life-bone
diamond-ing one hand
in timed surprise
a finger pressing
attention to your lips
quiet bloom
of persona, anima, shadow
wondering whether here is… 

ever you or me with a worn weathered look
wanting to see conscious beginnings
what seeks an end
what compacts ritual sun
to rise or set
what folds into
the moon blessing wet
does tidal pull not let us forget
we are artifice
the part of us
in humane orbit
gravity, gardens
and sound

you remember, eve
the pine garland smells
the petal sap sticky thorn
broad leaf stamen stains
you said i surrendered
to base alkaloid brain
whenever i tricked myself into
thickly throes thinned and applied

i wanted you
poster sinner
what iron wrought
forge naught reason but desire
fire aught never be bought
though sought parts of you and me
have always fought to story
archetype and destiny
names inside glory disguised
patterned ebbs, sand and sea
flows and clocks and what you taught me
to look for in the skies minding over us

a taut laudanum sanctuary
for the self is a foggy island
on an inland sea
echo, siren
and night
waiting for light
to break us
you and me

we however
are coupled to ambulatory articulation  
we are always combing beaches
reaches rooting our parts for hair and facilitation
what we may have discarded when we were faithless enough
for divine intervention and coarse instrumentation
how we always liked burning the landscapes
how we always have cellular remorse
how we always embrace a peruse of a place
we always hope our core soul can grow into
when we begin to love being sold
for the first time

at the corner
of Horus and Dionysus
i preach
giving away
what i bottle
vintner memory
you in red
ripe and sumptuous
calling the junes


cutting into vision for languages...

photo by EJR ©

the Hudson as theater in the round wrecks of the edmund fitzgerald

cupping and crawling
conquests and surrenders
we are rooted cores
soul within fingers
we are what teaches us

right now
we are in an inland sea mythology
we are forested memory and just
hand-billed to do what we do
life being passed around
pretzels up and down
a bar-top

these are drinking towns
swapping stories
what once was
another pour, wait
i have a cage story to tell
if you ring that bell
affixed to the corner
wearing hung glasses
racked as hair over there

we are the chorus
Horus and Dionysus
we bless the theater
we are regulars
we huddle and murmur
we know how drunk
you need be
rung inside something
until words
gesticulate meant
a bent dizzy
regularity repeated
by washing in the quiet
buildings of storms

we are the serenade
the hypnosis
the symphony and
the oscillations
we are silent velvets attached
to the bottoms of standing still
so as not to scratch by dancing
the floors covered in scattered
sand and sawmill shavings

we played shuffleboard
bump and hug
waiting for last call

the alley door opened
and it was raining
the wind cutting into 4 am
timing a timelessness
the rest of us
can play catch
as catch can with

we bowled
valley thunder rolled
we wobbled
drawn well light
we wondered
lightning as care
we wandered
giving in to thirst
we were
slaying every hunger
to be someone’s discovery

summer is here now
blessing Moon filling
her sirens and fleshed towns
this deep old tongued valley
a ripe shale clay slid
viscous bouquet we did
linger here
where her scent was
vicious and simple

i maple
impale barren skies
wanting, is my domain
needing is my bane

remember, we are part
and parcel spoken rituals
silent record keeping
hushed whispered paraded whorled
we are the woods and siding
the stone walls where
there were trees once

we became what the fields gave us
as we tilled season after season
with the only reason we grind on
was to find being dug into
the skin, bone and sinew
of main characterizations
our demons and angels
fleshed with awe again
why we started this story
by crying to end
the night as tide
and tit to rain


Wednesday, June 4, 2014

palm birthing eyes to open you...

Ruth Bernhard (1905- 2006)
             Hansel and Gretel didn’t believe in one god either

     We had started out as a merry band of disassociated personalities, with our various cultural attachments we had deified to protect our souls, after the invisible wars became too apparent to ignore as individuals. Where we were headed was wind driven hunched ripe for sure though each of us still held, like Diogenes at noon, a little light to shine when fear brigaded itself in charge of our eyes. The world became a much different place when innocence left us in a race to save itself. Perhaps the animal kingdoms knew best how to wrest the mantle of love from material witnessing. Testimonial entertainment was a hot iron branding voyage to the cold water plunging of what perspective can be when we choose not to see any part of us alive in a world more willing to die comfortably than to live with struggle.

     Yes, we had started out a merry band, arguing over which divine love was centered just so we could all make out a true north soul. No maps are ever truly needed. Even the hints of direction they give, are never heeded when seeded with what muzzled discontent can sow. Here, the forests, mountains and lakes, wait for the laughter of a child, who is born wild and ready to lay claim to what thrones sit upon the bones of progress and fairy tale reclamation.


Thursday, May 29, 2014

burning down the houses we thought holy...

photo by EJR ©

dreaming in grainy polaroids and samaras in a shoebox

this is why we take pictures

indeed we bleed ourselves often attached to the deciduous cycles/ we plotted secret maps on Winters’ nights between bone armed sentinel reaches and a black gauzed night seeping into a dome yellow sodium sorrow of anticrime street-lighting/  a city might sleep, with one eye open, high on Ambien, walking the sundry to fancy anonymous sexual escapades/ certain purities and slag(s), imprinting wills and won’t(s) upon the empty pages and subtle pageantries of instinct, information, hunches, survivals, thrives and what we load inside our bones to share with each other without ever having to say a word

this is why we personalize our experiences

hooking ourselves to wagons and trains feeds the quiet embers of our collective soul’s belly mechanical(s)/ working the long hands midnight to dawn while, the stuck to a clock crowd, remains the same chorus of a song/ never acknowledging, we are always seeking of the new warm womb/ while we are often at our highest, crawling underneath surrender/ why we swing for low bound chariots, bough canopy poems and changeling views/ between our seed lust hunger and the trees


Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Antigone and the sharp sticks...

photo by EJR ©

being afforded by oceans is loving you/ paper hearts and poem

though I am sure if I hadn’t said nor wrote about unlocking boxes plow to seed/ speeds and the loam/ we would still be bound to the ritual tourniquets of deciduous seasons/ their upside umbrella-ing of the rain/ cup after cup, a thirst that knows no boundary or calendar, pretty pictures of not

we’re told we’re their ghost stories inheriting our very own long bow soul gesture indications by articulate bone, skin and flesh/ wings are auxiliary features though and cost extra/ most of us abstain from the payment by pitching camp near the comforts of lemming cliffs fully stocked for falling with our recreations and re-creations/ how much pleasure turns us all saint to sinner

a crackle or two from our fire intermingles with the salt air abyss, the fog is velvet ropes and curtains pulled back and forth by appropriate approximations of scene/ a tide choral background music pilfers our attention beneath a near new moon shrouded little yellow star/ our exhales are trawl net caught by observant trees lapping the gas exchange/ sentinel swell-spilling formations into timeless movements/ digging by the roots and clemency for our dramas and comedies/ we hear directions in the reach of clouds flooding our lowest points we can balance life by as the barrel size we’re fitted with doesn’t come with holes for our eyes


Tuesday, May 27, 2014

squared circle matted...

Sunny Morning On The Hudson River, Thomas Cole (1827)

dogwood coffee poem

right now
I was certain
of one thing
I’d rather be fucking you

I’m horny/ longing like clouds at the tops of mountains/ wanting to know the poems of bend and bottom/ the river-tongue thriving and hawk-barker-ed tribal hiving under-bellying of words and images scratched into the shale, clays, tides and rains/ I was prepared, as best I knew how, to fight myself tooth and gales today/ because deep May is all about how the fertile ringing blindly drives desire

roiled and brooding/ the sky was sea foam splashed/ half uttered Austrian lace/ trembled in a pretty asymmetry/ etching chaos and precipices near the roar of a storm coming/ even the ground clung humidity was wearing brand new imbalance/ eyelet-ting round knife sounds I’ve always pinched time with/ here in this old valley/ gathering pieces of me between the sewn fabric and membranes, I lash my love to the insides of my soul/ caging lost intentions I’ve found forged and scattered to where poems wanted to go

dogwood petals
are strewn about desperate
in curling lipped browns
begging for more blooms

June is calling
the heat is rising/
steam is bending light
above the asphalt/
and all the earnest vines
and leaves are filling in


Saturday, May 24, 2014

Pan loves the orange groves too...

Grand Marnier, Slightly Less Mysterious, Kirshenbaum Bond & Partners, 1995

prostituting desire by dream sequence to find your prime number (a flash-fictional piece of me)

 I found you looking through my things. You pretended as if I had not caught your theft of my privacy. I promptly disrobed waiting for you to notice my faux moaning the names of your girlfriends, you had once said might have wanted me temporarily. At this point, being a disposable sex object is something I would not object to. Panhandling is grating on my nerves and there is just so much eye contact with empty minds I can withstand. So, I say almost at orgasm, do you enjoy cleaning up or do like making a mess. I’m guessing you bless yourself with both sides of that fence, depending on the room size and whether the mini-bar is stocked with Grand Marnier.


Wednesday, May 21, 2014

I bite and dig in, between sips...

photo by Edward Rinaldi ©

why art is always an abstract take on modernism

colloquial corporate canards 
are cunningly conniving 
concealing anything 
remotely impermanent 
or conciliatory to love
as infinity

there might have been innocence within us, once
anytime now was interrogated
we cloaked ourselves in assumption 
beneath malleable faces of tyrannical and puritanical
we said otherwise

tides can chide 
between the push and pull 
of divinity and baselines
between erode and reveal 
and the turning of starlight 
into rocks then rain

say do we always heed instincts 
when weathered by circumstances repeated
are we guilty as charged, like the silent say
labeled pariah to pestilence
needless, except to fence in

we repeat hymnals 
in a reflected misanthropic champion daily cycles
of grind, grain and explanation, that it is all progress
that we were here once ago and again
wondering how things got to be spinning so fast 
we couldn’t feel what form came next 

so we cut slits in the paper 
and covered our boxes to pinhole 
the view of each part of our humanity 
eclipsed by powerful suns disguised 
as the soul bearers coming 
with more horses, hordes
and bone cages
they can make sing 
the songs of sixpence tropics, 
commercial rums and ryes