Thursday, August 21, 2014

decorum of decadent end...

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec 'Crouching Woman with Red Hair' 1897



When two poets crashed the party

when we first spoke
we looked at each other
as if we had just stolen
something neither of us
knew the other was carrying

we heard noises
rolling cacophonous laughter
and what seemed like
goings on with libations
we had heard them through
the paper thin walls
the cheap hot and sticky
leaky ice buckets we kept
knocking over on the way
to the bathroom through
condensates and quiet places
that could not make us
comfortable without
a landscape of sin and skin


we realized then
we were souls
and always would be
spirit beyond the sate
we met online
coyly engaged until
we braved a face to face
we fucked without a word
for hours

I wondered
did she wonder
were we noisy enough
to turn others on
those lovers we had never chanced
those that had caught our glances
those who might have ventured to guess
just how much abandon
we kept inside us

inside the party
there were crackers
Piper Heidsieck 67
velvet robes
and silk ropes
the sofas looked like bedposts
and no one seemed to notice
we had slipped in
from where the smokers adjourned
and returned from their fancy lighters,
ash and inhalation rituals

she looked at me and said
the place was decorated
as if they were listening
waiting for us to finish
weighing their place
in the stains 
we would leave
on each other
they must have known
beyond this evening
each of our poems
wouldn't need our names

EJR ©

Sunday, August 10, 2014

a month of Sunday poems...



dining on conventions and pocket knives

mentions of a beauty queen
that liked it rough once
no one knew she wore
the crown, somehow
we all pick up the pieces
of what beaten bones
Hunter S. Thompson stole into
the death of the American dream
smells like gasoline and unabashed go

we still dream
here in America
but it ain't
the same rasp
against soft skin
asking for a salve
that it once was

those of us here
bleed freely
paying price-bandages
designed as death’s clothing
weary, might we be
we allow mouths
to feel our edges
sledge-hammering velvets
rampart wildebeests and
blind lemming drives
to oceans waiting

thirsty as we are
salt will not save us per se
but it will keep tomatoes
in a jar all winter long

a soul is buoyancy
essence preserved
shell, albumen
and yolk
a light lunch
a little radicchio and endive
a little green onion curry
stirred into the eggs and
please toast the muffin lightly
the tomatoes I’ve stewed gently
with some Riesling and roasted garlic
chiffonade of lemon basil
as a finish and presentation
somewhere a betty boop-esque cigarette maiden
is offering me iniquity, I smile and tell her
I prefer the naughty girl blow job routine…

EJR ©

Saturday, August 9, 2014

for Summer reposed...

 
'The Echo' by Julia Margaret Cameron 1868
at the flea market I thought about how they still stoned women for adultery
(flipping through the channels)

     I wanted to get there early, before the crowds breathed and seethed/ see the vendors setting up shops, tents awnings, tarps and rugs/ wares spread out to attract the eye/ pots of simmering savory and crackle fired sizzles punctuating the air/ the smells of come and get some percolating in playful wafts across the large field designated for such events next to the municipal park and athletic field complex...

     in America comforts on the weekend absolve must direct connection to the calamity that humanity has become outside the machinery/ propaganda, left right in between buy this become clean or without senses enough to call numb the raising of slum to divinity/ everywhere, even in this very town the whole world is a portal down a snow globe attraction/ waiting hands on me to shake and find the fuzzy bits and window treatments of my manuscript, falling exactly where it needs to be...

     we like to kill more and more slowly in America than just about anywhere else you can find on a map or journey, though we don’t always own up to our wielding the whip/ putting ritual on cycled steroids so even death rows know in this free land how the weekend grows on us/ how we parasite on material shine/ how thieving into a less than fulfilling love is the fence part of our distancing ways/ the splayed and paid out installments/ the interest on the loans we took from our captor-creators...

Hypatia
was stoned
and I don't care who
or how many she slept with
we held her to be an insurrection
for wanting to see the dangers
of world that uses subjective faith
as its only form
of passionate intelligence


EJR ©

Thursday, August 7, 2014

precipice lurking...

illustration by Edmund Dulac from Hans Christian Anderson's 'The Little Mermaid'

Cinderslut

she said
it seems to me dear
religion is candy glass
a slipper that ain't really meant
to be worn as much
as wearing you down fast
to a pointed no return cycle

a no view-mastering of what life
is to you spiral down spiral drown
breathing in infinity blue,
sunlight and water too
dreaming of ascendancies and descents
daughters between clouds  and rain bent
to a here where you lose me again
gaining the door as prize in exit
every poem says hold on to a together

look, she says
we've made another paper boat
with a candle for a smokestack
what we lack is a keel, rudder and sail masts
so let’s twirl our fingers round the surfaces
cull a storm with wind and waves
brave ourselves ashore somewhere
smitten, bitten, eaten and strange
back to that garden where
we were once naive and unchanged

EJR ©

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

be bop was rap way back when...

photo by Karl Johnson ©



white flag news cycle amusements

last week we had
atop the Brooklyn bridge
a fear mongering narcolepsy

these days we always
seem most alive
at some eternal
eleventh hour
of our survival

we hail almighty good will
wall building of the dollar
and the incremental-ism
of what love cannot do
when we’re watching
the doors and windows
to feel how division,
divinity and devilry
got inside us


EJR ©

incursione in emozione classica...

‘Venere di Urbino’ Titian c1538




tourniquet capriccio


I fell into your beauty
as if it were a sorrow
a fine china broken
I enjoyed the seed
the doorstep threshing
a future past
entrance examinations

today you said
was always a matter
of my eyes spending time 
with spied intentions
caught or otherwise
surrendered to tides
and skies

you said
I was soul-black
pooling night’s escape
onto canvases
thin menisci and
teleportation devices
that I wanted to create
a keyed brush stroking
flash-bang-grenade effect
to disappear and reappear
inside desire

but you saw
I could only afford
to fade frenzy away
rusting in abandoned parts
I had never thought
to ask if you liked
before I discarded
any possibility
or symbiotic telemetry
of what we wanted to be

so you said poach me
a still as you can life 
a silt slippery meaning
beyond any expression
you found clever
and paint something
with a scent of me
inside your bleeding
here is where
we will begin
where love
stops receding


EJR ©

Sunday, July 13, 2014

in the summer rye...


reflections
“…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…

EJR ©

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



EJR ©

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…

EJR ©

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

EJR ©