January 17, 2017

scapegoating with psilocybin and a merry murder of tipped uteri ...



photographer unknown 

I kept on dreaming 
moss on her southern end 
'tween where the boughs 
bent lentils sent sea shells 
to smooth their teeth in time 
ebb sand and direction flow 
crows know to go anywhere 
on March 3 in the northern hemisphere 
a milliard eyes upon them as prognosticators 

sow seeded Maternalia 
hail regales to Mother(s) 
great and small
lover nurse warrior and tutor 
what suits Her here 
is my substrate surrender 
and the near never ending supply 
of hope held high 
in a cynical adult 
inner child's eyes 

for the third temple 
cannot be built 
without blood sacrifice 

and in this driven by 
parsed infinities world, 
we have imprisoned 

every womb 
we pray to 
we bow to 

wind to fog 
lantern to vague recollection 
we want the power 
to come from an outside agency 
even though 
we seek to find 
it in ourselves 
when we think no one 
is looking 
someone (ourselves) 
is ALWAYS LOOKING 

the third temple 
cannot be built 
without blood sacrifice 

what if you only had 
half the book 
of knowledge 
but were convinced 
you could wing 
and prayer it 
the rest of the way 

you are going to need 
the strongest of us 
you are going to need 
the brightest of us 
you are going to need 
the most committed of us 
you are going to need 

women 

there can be no cherubim 
with human and lion half faces 
in places between palms 
there can be no blade to the throat 
of our own thirst we command 
into the outstretched trembling throat 
]of a work animal we put in our place 

what race of beings 
looms without regard 
for entertaining 
any thoughts outside 
selfish intent  
watchers not 
for they kept in check 
what could be used 
as nefarious magic 
perhaps there is that 
in the hinterlands 
what the Sun dares 
not to trace itself against 
fingering the dark where 
there are others who befit 
the formless roles of shadows ...

and though shadows know 
they cannot carry the loot 
without hands and feet 
this is where we come in 
slaves and working animals 
upright laborers for the portal transfer fees 
from this inter-dimensional "banking" cabal ...

wake up AMerica it's a white noise world 
and sometimes the best angels make you feel icky 
and have dirty faces and take you to places 
you might not otherwise want to go to 

yes I find myself drumming 
outside another Jericho again 
though this time 
I feed soup to all 
and give drink too 
for I cannot find in myself 
not to give to my enemies as well 
as those that dare Love me 

Life an area 
to be carpeted by Love 
what does a rug 
know to cover  ...

it doesn't 
it only knows 
how to fly ...


EJR ©

(I hope always, to be) Guilty of being human

children killed in the Ghouta chemical attack
photographer unknown



(where is the Love playing
on the jukebox voice-over
by Morgan Freeman)





































We're charged 
with a conservancy of Life 
by ways of Love  
if We rebuke this in Ourselves 
then the plastics have won 
the soul breaks down ... 

Yes, caring and care 
the eyes surrender 
to the nose 
as We move past 
piety, petty and politics 
 
because being human 
means even if You 
think You have right ... 
You never fucking 
use Your God 
or Mine for that matter 
to kill children 
be they Yours  
or Your enemies 

because every enemy 
is painted as one need 
atop another bleeding 
something paid 
stated that way 
to not seem so 
being human, charged 
with a conservancy of Life 
by way of Love 

EJR ©

January 14, 2017

mouthing my need for Mother Venus ...




going over the details always details the little plucked strings 
they sing they sting nettles metals seeded to sky we are crying 
the pigment slowly from out bodies turning everything into cancers 
we need to die in large culls the hulls of the infinity's divine carriage 
running right over the unquantifable number of souls left behind 
duped by processes of progress progressives aggressives in angry get backs 
conservatives perverse reverse-ists constrictionalists really both seedy bitches 
with itches for the riches and nothing more the real crumb whores of voodoo economic times 

interlude from psy ops dj the transmission is mostly garbled but I have a decoder ring ... 

 curtain-ing stain like ribbons of razors explaining 
why the air seems flooded with blood, hey who are we ...
 the chorus shouts ...we don't know yet ... 
looming snickeries offstage say good ... 
we shudder make them sound like palpatine ... 
serpentine ways to get high and we accept these trespasses 
and moral morasses as payment to keep hold of our souls
 for at least a little bit longer ... another cup of joe ... 
I remember Holland was this place that made me aware 
I was human and divine ... wax and tracks never look back 
sometimes when the whole kaboodle army is waiting 
weighting you down government mule loaded with sponges 
you are crossing the rivers so the masters feet can be washed 
on the other sides of things you wave at in your paraded memories 
and jar-jogging ritual trumpet and bass drum cedes ... 
meanwhile strung lament for the enemy bent on our demise 
is like hey don't take away my favorite way of dying 
while nobody minds the candy store 
and the curved glass of old deli 
and general store ware displays 
cabinets of dry goods 
and ice boxed things 
like chocolates 
in the summertime 
remembering pure being 
is how a child sees and 
never feeling so good 
when adulthood 
is misunderstood 
as not needing 
the beautiful bleeding 
of feasible reason 
when the wonder 
and joy of things 
are needing you 
remembering pure being 

<fade out lights from black violet range 
to ground swept pierce poked fingers 
against the ever present and hungry dark>


 (haarp the herald charlie rangels sing) ... 

the left cries evita 
the right cries god and country 
and the middle, well 
they're fit to fiddles 
and spent like penny candy 
and gasoline when endless Summer 
comes to be a needed ally near when it seems the ends of things ... 


Women and dark energy/dark matter emergence 
will lead the nurturing fight to super seed Love's scent
 over the sentient selfish beings 
cabal callous cow bell-ed 
with sold sanctuaries 
of ingrained philosophies of greed ... 

and those that are pillaging the light 
will have to reveal themselves 
if they have any intentions 
of leaving this plane/planet 
with their stolen loot ... 

at that point the invocations 
of spiritual war will crystallize
 and we shall have opportunity 
to hit the reset beset with lamentations 
I need to be Loved unconditionally 
and when so embraced 
there is only a You 
I've dreamed of 
there waiting again 
in my heart ... 

EJR ©

January 11, 2017

Antigone says beaches, tides .......................................................... best hide the unseen but felt to be .................................................. the sharpest of things we covet and carry .....................................


art by Ettore Aldo Del Vigo ©



outside the wind a-howl
an auger-ed desperate 
tourniquet to sorrows 

maybe all the morrows 
will be rich raked rucked marrows 
like we once all used to be 

Oedipus who came to see  
how we too could turn out 
embers and sticks stuck in each eye 

human souls needing bones to lie 
every ghost born within the rain 
outside, inside wind a-howl again ...

EJR ©

January 9, 2017

midnight to reason (a northern hemisphere poem)

photo by Don Levy
at Poetry and Prose reading
at the Art Center in Troy NY
1/8/2017


it is Winter season 
and death is everywhere above the fray 
Earth in stilled skin parched with ice plays 
womb flights to tiny needs, baby teeth we lose 
when reason comes for us to be adults ...

the heart will say to us 
never bargain a cow for the goose 
that gold is immutable 
because it matches your soul 
and don't grow holes 
in the fabric of your expression 
as much as plant 
ideas, those beans 
and apple seeds 
you piece yourself together with ...

I prefer scarlet runners 
and like to watch how 
these nascent tenacious things 
can grow like I do when I am kind  
with Love and joy and what 
has me running back to wild ...

all the 
while 
I look 
at myself 
on any 
of these long nights  
reflected in candlelight 
at a window 
perhaps 
I see a child 
inside me 
smiling back 
a tree ...


EJR ©

January 7, 2017

heaven sent like a tinfoil hat ...



I wear thorns horns that 
pierce and poke worn words 
and illicit emotions I rid myself of ...

last night vomiting on the sidewalk 
in front of my apartment building 
I became some bad bubble 
comic conversation with the witching hour 
the pizza wasn't bad so much as being cold with lonely 
on a Saturday night when the west wind climbs in 
through old panes toothing the night 
with the husks and shells of need ...

yes I bleed walking 
talking taking a leading role 
of tomfoolery sunshine in a pocket ...

the locks are set  
and I didn't forget my scarf 
to warm my neck with surrender 
in case I happen upon 
Maiden, Mother and Crone
in the reeds again 
where they pan tides 
whispering there's magic 
in the rain Edward 
take time to sow your scent 
when you fall 

EJR ©

January 6, 2017

on the night the green island bridge collapsed




 

I remember it was the seventies  
middle of the week church time 
night time services with new recruits 
eager fresh faced officers 
there at the salvation army in troy ny 

I went outside to look at the near empty warehouses 
across the street and pondered throwing rocks 
into the large old dusty windows 
of course I didn't but that didn't stop me from thinking 
about doing it and imagining the pang joys 
of broken glass 
spilling scattered shattered 
old slow tide shards 
over abandoned wide plank 
industrial flooring ...

I imagine 
every soul, feet 
what soles 
did We possess when 
wielding till and tongue 
with graceful arches into Earth 
what songs did We sing 
while eating, what swords 
did We protect 
our fleeting infinite kingdoms 
of articulation with ...

were they hand   
worn smooth wood 
Damascus steel matched 
to the symphony magnetic strings of the Sun ?

in the new world 
We too are 
armless for Gaza 
even my shadow knows 
We ache for Love 
everywhere on Earth 
We thirst ritual blood wombs 
We know our movements 
innately, within them  
the parading of our 
bones inside seasons 
eons, ghosts, wind and rain 

old bridges collapse 
all the time, I guess  
surrendering to age 
and reason 
bleeding rust 
like We do 

EJR ©

January 4, 2017

equo mortuo domino domus odore florum


The Temptation of St. Anthony, Dali, 1946


She said would say things with Her eyes incalculable fables 
spilling a delta boil o'er paper covered table 
late afternoon Sun and the heady rye sways
 in the exhales of the trees ... we were listening to jazz, 
old jazz, Edward, She would say ... 
is movie soundtrack geometry ... 
looping perl knit tie ribbon and spit the bubble 
from the pots we filled with soup last Winter ... 
We look out to the sea wrapped in the embrace of scent, salt
 the pale slag ochre of Summer sunlight leaning ... 
Do you think the trees know poems or tones, I ask, 
She laughs and says Edward ... 
trees are poems and complete ones at that
 in fact they reach the sky, crawling wombs 
listen to the tomes of the cliff cedars throughout 
this great river-ed unquantifiable world of ours 
of sometimes when 


there is no shame 
there are many blames 
there's only gamers  
played by the tamers 
on Elysian fed electromagnetic fields 
pitched pined predicted 
we score or not 
interdependent infinite mutual sublimation 
nation upon nation, empires 
social democracies and between(s) ...

meanwhile during commercial break 
I feed myself, myself 
ugly toes first 
damn I got man feet 
and retreat to get something sweet 
to sauce them with ...

the scene stirs repeatedly 
algorithm licking sticking points 
and molly in the water 
helps cull your daughters 
from their relationship with Eve 
and then more importantly, Lilith 
but that is Rumpel's st ory 
and we leave it to his telling 
as it is a joyful romp through the hubris 
of over protective parenting 
of an inner child 
running far from 
being behind us 
more straw please 
heard throughout 
the night as womb 
birds of time 
wait for bones 
outside

(more from morning write) 

sticking out is sorely dumb numbed 
use psy-ops nonsensical ciphers 
for calculate(s) are bots with voracious appetites 
for circumvention of soulful intention 
did I mention door number 2 was always grand 
and the stands we take 
are why we drive 
with silly things 
on the dashboard

will you be my hula girl 
I'll drive all night 
in the right ways 
chaos comforts you 
uncomfortably raw 
but willing to be waded 
and to wade 
mist and yoga poses 
supposes hoses for horses 
and when we reach a destination 
immediate rebuking of said place 
being motionless would abdicate stasis 
and the journey just laughs 
seeds every dream with 
are you enjoying the ride ...
well ... are you ?

EJR  ©

January 2, 2017

to "curl", a quadrille








curl-ing stones by community in the North 
we gathered in old barns with strong spirits 
and ice laid down, straw lining each end 
we would laugh, chortle to ourselves 
and Winter near as we could tell 
always smelled of bourbon 
and oak on fire 



EJR  ©

before books become dangerous (again)




The Course of Empire Destruction
Thomas Cole, 1836


we live in a time 
when most forget 
how to read 
losing a feeling 
of needing control 
or needing to drive 
in order to pretend 
you don't know 
that life is enjoying the ride 
leaving little theatrical(s) 
in the warm odd places 
inside of you that 
the light doesn't often seek

and it smells like beans and bacon 
(a couple of soup starter jars from last year, opened into this po(e)t) 

the fauns knew too ancient mammals 
swam from the seas up swollen rivers 
when Winter time, moaning something 
about Jonah, Sigmund and monsters 


 She knew 
to watch for joy(s) 
She grew mushrooms 
on found downed birch logs 
shiitake mostly 
went to NYC to barter with 
a Korean sage 
had a spore bank 
liked the the Appalachian ginseng 
this went on for seasons 
though eventually even wild crafted goods 
became little gold rushes 
people go mad with want 

Winter storms make me want to cook bubble & spit shit 
sixteens ton poem bars jars with mason or snap fit lids 
savory eats 2 candied sweets 
beats are not symptoms 
they are mostly ring tones now 
bones on the outside of cows 
head bobbing kingdoms 
well well well 
three holes ground 
what can tell 
me tolls found 
to be high 
tithe not tides 
so while I am enjoying the loose slangy cling 
of modernity
 it is all organic chaos masquerading as free will sometimes 
because lets face it we dance anyways sing to ourselves anyways 
because let's face it we cannot sometimes relate or calculate 
those places we see ourselves in the dark 
when Winter blows 
and nothing grows 
but ideas ...


#poemfragmentplayingwithrhyme 
#notaconstructionistpoet 
#noduhstoner 
#shitmanthatsgood 
#gotanymore 
#everyisbetterwithearlyseventiesjamesbrownplaying 



EJR  ©

January 1, 2017

inside a hero womb movie vignette-ification e motion machine : aka " ... put another nickel in ..."




it started when She remarked 
about how alive I looked 
trying to hurt reason 
while being yoked 
in the fiery embrace 
of where and when She is She ...

all the places 
that the words chase Us
into where We are wear 
and core palette souls 
painting the departed 
to get started with ... 

this is, She said 
what We get when  
there is music 
between Us 
to create by ... 

We journey hackneyed seed  
hocked knees We bleed, sky tree 
roots and sea 
mountain conifers climb clouds 
into rain and when languages began ... 

We were said to put words into rivers 
tiny singers, slivers in the seams   
We became couriers and knives 
the grasses, underbrush 
and broad leaves 
We all write poems 
in how We unfurl 
into warm memories 
with their arcs 
across Our lives ...

She looked at Me 
pressed Her finger 
to my lips 
and said, shh 
look how pretty 
things would be 
if We all lived  
for the ride ...

EJR  ©

Satyr seen sartorial


Fauno Barberini or Drunken Satyr at the Glyptothek in Munich, Germany.



I sat airing daring 
my onions and sardines 
chasing coffee with tonic with lemon 
at this little cafe in early afternoon Sun 
it was a kind of pilfered daylight leaning place 
cobblestones and patina marble, old bones 
old cities display when working the divine rights 
calendrical solemnities, clocks bending pleasing 
forwards and backwards with each life eased in ...

I stare at their approach 
their sweet elixir 
candy cotton spin mixer 
flicks of their hair 
and the personal 
safety of my dragon soul 
is in danger, dagger sharp 
to a soft heart ...

stupor loop heard herd dream here 
I swear I ate enough bread 
and licked the salt off Her skin 
before the wine kicked in ...

I am dressed 
or rather 
on fire 
paraded  
shade is an angled geometric crawl 
I reach into their passing scent 
Doppler kelp giggle spills  
from a conversation 
I am open to this fantasy here where the poem ends : 


there are two maidens laughing 
looking at my horns 
saying to themselves 
just maybe we can see 
and we do so agree 
how it may be snowing 
at the beach in your eyes ...

 EJR  ©

December 29, 2016

and how the writing secretes from me ...



Joel-Peter Witkin, "Vienna Eye Phantom, 1990" ©


decide-ly anti climactic at times unfurling willow branching 
I hear Her soft cries laced paper dolls twined to trees set deep in the woods 
where only the elementals will find them sprites and other bright fae play 
with regards for humanity and its ability to or not to understand its place 
given the precepts perceptual implicit(s) 
are we insisting we commence with dissolving 
bullshit like ownership of things 
like the air and the rain and the oceans and the land 
and the molten metals and other precious ores waiting to be 
no we can't just lance the pussy 
carbuncle Rumpelstiltskin 
we must parlay the miller and his daughters for water 
and the very thought of gold that holds our souls 
captive to animalia 
wild is free and we often see this when imprisoned 
by a society of laws or our own obstinence 
and ordinal numeration 
of what is sacred to thee 

hear my cries 
I am off to find 
those children 
of Antigone 
and Prometheus 
made with the slip silver lightning
of when midnight 
steals in 
and becomes the conduit 
light needs to bleed 
dark fertile menses 
to the mention-able 
seed magic 
we pocket 
in myth 
and fairy-tales 
childhoods 
to neighborhoods 
in the wilderness 
we choose as adults 
to roam as free souls in ...

 EJR ©