July 24, 2017

La futura poesia di Eden


the ceremony begins

tapping staves 
clicking 
deepening 
taut animal skin sounds
palms down we were left 
to our quiet devise-mints  
we were sounds 
we were what nature 
refused to make 
a shining example of ...

we were found festering afoot 
branded by the trees 
with passing fleet remarks 
root cause ago slicken-ed spitball sent 
these wounds stuck with you, 
hardwood horse collar 
germ and project tile subtle 
until eventually they became 
part of the body simple 
you don't realize a design's perfection often until 
death begins to haunt generation 
after generation of thoughts 
like children bled 
away into quiet adulthood 
pied piper-ed 
we are wanting 
to embrace right now 
cow sacred to plant derived 
hive minded grace 
are we the virus the hybridized 
do we realize 
in time 
to emit 
we must sit 
with ourselves 
as part of something 
greater than our most fantastic alone 

the briar patch 
was 3D printed 
from recycled computer parts 
pools of mercury 
formed these pretty 
to look at stay far away from lakes 
we imagined forests 
we imagined farms 
we imagined rivers 
we imagined oceans 
we imagined animals 
we imagined weather 
and seasons and reasons 
why, why stays with 
a seeking soul 
red pill rabbit hole 
we owe explanations 
the self 
the poem 
a good heart 
and its home 

EJR ©

after our car broke down

 'The Nights Of The Cicadas'
alex andreyev ©


we spent the shards for immediacy, those regards 
then the nonchalance(s), ensconcements, inducements 
and slew of rents our heads were consumed with keeping 
the parts of us needed to be deemed sane, though 
what we did to live was laid out besides our insides  
side of the street, beat bones fleshy rhythms and exhales 
wheel spins, we lead, follow, experience through circumstance 
as need for reason dies and infant joy does indeed dance ...

we found these cicada ghost shells 
all along the alley 
as we walked home 
south of canal street 
with a rain 
just beginning 
to make 
our steps 
a little more 
aware of how 
where we are now 
wears us best 
laughing in baptisms 
and things we bleed 
to breathe with 


EJR ©

July 23, 2017

direct line divinity: a chat with self & not to say it would be eroding (when a soul is ever an athlete dying young ............................................. with apologies Mr. Housman)


did I remember to lock the door 
or better yet turn the oven off 
what other petty worries can I be a saddled you today 
I am not sure but I will distance myself from joy 
and remember all the things that could go wrong 
like how long can time be stretched when racked 
with negative possibilities, oh for the love of knees 
soles, fingers and palms 
in the raw earth when Spring 
can you sing of Love and special things 
what does make your heart sing 
when no one is around to hear 
your calls to the sky 
little kid again 
kite, let fly 
the string 
gathers further 
and you smile 
with your eyes closed 
imagining the keyholes 
to heaven are 
listening too as you do, to the faint 
ripple sounds of light fabric 
against a balsam wood frame 

EJR ©

July 20, 2017

Are we newsreel one acts, ways & means or are we loving beings?

art by Alicia Caudle ©
alteredbits.com/alicia-caudle-art.php


so we carry on, and on 
we take gene pool sides 
with main course 
diving for deep ends 
we feel we are guided 
and maybe from Mars 
and we are familially ritualized 
we comfort ourselves 
as cagey cannibal souls 
of almost 
we go through rapids 
and rewards 
falling school 
to flying highs 
we are calendars 
and cynical 
we recycle joys 
we surmise much 
we take to pleasing 
these days, 
ourselves and others 
we each presume 
of the rest 
life to life 
inhale to exhale 
we bone rattle throes 
we regale often 
as much as needed, really 
because who doesn't want 
to live forever 
a character 
roaming free 
in a play 
where the audience 
feeds the circus 
and the water 
is always wine 
backstage 

EJR ©

July 19, 2017

we knew these scent paths well ...



Deuteronomy 32 : 1-2

" Give ear, O heavens, and I will speak,
and let the earth hear the words of my mouth.
May my teaching drop as the rain,
my speech distill as the dew,
like gentle rain upon the tender grass,
and like showers upon the herb. "



what a learned heart says : 
I do remember when we met 
hadn't thought about fate just yet 
but whenever I look back to feel 
the mind gives way and the soul doth kneel
I am not wise I am regurgitative 
I am spies like us with built-in 
modifications, including gyroscopic A.I. tiles 
oh look ... there lies the templed Hypatia, a patio again ...

you could see the smoke from miles away 
ugly fingers, breaching bent hooking beneath(s) 
the sky, lashed with book ashes and posie lament 
we looked at it with squinted regard 
and said our recessionals ... 

we said to ourselves 
we would have to remember 
by not remembering 
feeling this exit 
wound as deliverance 
from any personal evil 
coming to know 
thy own self 
the divine you, will do  
we believe when you let 
joy inside too 
these I believe(s)  
are all, cardinal 
bright burning red 
against bare budding bush 
when Spring, 
truths ...

we slew a thousand dragons, another thousand grew 
nothing like tsunamis in plain sight 
we fight why on the inside 
we're mostly the same 
instincts and desires 
to have and to hold 
to seed and let go 
the kingdoms 
of heaven 
the self lights 
we've within ...

we heard whistling, graveyards in full forfeiture proceedings 
they called to the passersby windows 
echo moaning alpha beta gamma delta epsilon (s) ... and on and on 
on and on we went erykah badu-ing our way through daily shifting sands 
algorithm-streets, there were beats we fell into, skinned living time era-ed birds and rain 
the longest kinds of knives, the brightly colored lies 
we can get caught wearing our souls with ... bones comply 
and what we have left 
at the ends of most poems 
are little bits of hope that 
our world doesn't pass 
itself goodbye 
language as eyes 
born ever wanting 
to be a nose 
bitten with 
a true religion ... 

EJR ©

July 17, 2017

his story, her story



I have heard you can lie a thousand times to God and not cry 
I wish sometimes I had those kinds of eyes, ones not easy to pry 
but therein lay the rub, human beings and their dub kingdoms with 
co-opted adopted principles to pauses, causes all filling tombs, sieves 

what have you got to give, Life and Love and the occasional rib 
do you dare yourself past myriad blowjob fantasies to gain a dib 
well the spawn rain explains much but only in loner, longer views 
we've need to bleed whilst in the drapery bones our souls do use 

(choral cattle chattel chatter 
splatter body fluid flew to it
stasis osmosis and a news cycle 
of constancy's redundancy and
charming chameleon futures)

we stand beneath 
frenzied fronds fray
reaching for the sky 
so we may 
catch the dates 
as they fall 
haphazardly 
free, oddly wobbled 
and sometimes 
seeming even purposed 
with wind at night 

EJR ©

July 16, 2017

exhausted, we turned, looked silently, a poem between us spoke :

found on a Colorado adoption organization's webpage
lookwhatthecatbroughtin.org
photographer unattributed



we told ourselves there will be 
no bee sting therapy for awhile 
our arms and legs bore 
the marks and masks that grasp
painted pain's pleasurable rasp 
like burial mounds of red swollen why 
old cells are reborn and come to die 
for the cause, the clause Life insists 
on being enacted 
breath by breath 
ease of amble 
thoughts ajar 
as cages rattle 
when souls 
are squeezed in 
to these spaces 
where electrons went 
and we go whew to tra-la-la-ing while
here Schrödinger Schrödinger plays 
the eons, wind and carve 
eyes gaining wisdom 
nose, familiarity 


EJR ©

July 5, 2017

what we ravaged of ourselves in the reeds ...


time and again we bent 
lent what is to what could be 
all our if only if only if onlys 
the sirens and harpies 
bore children 
of the trolls 
they roll called halls 
filled with stained notebooks and doodles 
most were composition black 
we lacked perspective 
and we were young so we leaned 
guiding light inside to out 
and turned then, a smile shouts 
who are you when eating your own soul to survive 

the stolen pieces of myself: 
a shell game fanaticism 
of a driven, by lost purpose, mind 
who is a product of what gives 
a slave to the sieves 
and funnel wombs 
event horizon-ed 
deviant intent 
the mutation 
of course, is 
always why 

I write 
I rite 
here from there 
where I used to be 
future and luxury 
of knowing 
not to know 

EJR ©

July 4, 2017

And to label someone as miscreant based on predicate massaged generational corporate culture ... misses the point on divisive social contextualism ...

Hieronymus-Bosch, 'A-Violent-Forcing-Of-The-Frog'



mass hysteria 
mass hypnosis 
mass times velocity 
mass controls 
we amass roles 
titles and rites ...

rights we deign 
we are empty 
we are set 
with algorithms 
kings and queens ...

happened 
upon now 
the mod look 
is back in ...

kingdom of heaven 
underworld salvation 
motherland 
father time 
the milkweed is bending 
and beginning to flower 
it reminds one 
sweet nascent summer 
pollen heavy redolent 
drapery clock works 
an if but then rodents 
needing us we needing them ...

the garbage problem 
of our naked ape species 
never went away 
and now its art 
to bane to art again 
ad nauseam 

rose pose rose 
thorns and horns 
the sumac 
is blushing 
womb petting traffic 
we laugh sick 
word is 
insurance is expensive 
so we get ready 
for the Rumpelstiltskin clauses and all that makes us wonder 
awfully in awe still and or are our gills not working yet/ the water 
that rained from space you placed an additional sequencing 
into the bell jars and away we went 
looky-looking seeking 
rabbit holes 
and destiny 
on the corner ...

it was 
way past midnight 
right about when 
Humpty Dumpty was 
peaking, falling 
we were flying we said 
because then our stories made 
the bruises seem important enough to remember 
why it is we came this way 
another end 
in poem ...


EJR ©

June 20, 2017

When writing a Joe Hollander poem ...



give me the artifice and the daydreams : 
what I am when poem 
what in me bleeds 
mostly at night 
when the dew 
takes inventory 
of every story 
telling or told ...    

(this is a vague recollection of observation 
a filling in with fuzzy truth though I feel it to 
be an elucidation for us 
to fall into 
at least a well 
and sometimes 
good enough to drown 
joy and sorrows 
between these 
parentheses 
for example 
culling and cunning 
share the same tailor)
-
-
two 10mg V's, one trumpet joint 
and four margaritas later 
I'm stealing crystal ashtrays 
from the dark Beverwyck 
green glass and brass 
stuffing 'em in a long coat 
then clanging-ly stumbling up Lark 
towards the Q ... 

oh and to snapshot 
the proof of ransom's need 
the sweet corn 
is approaching knee high length 
that's what the tomato divas said 
to end the poem with anyways 
Fourth of July 
references 
Julius Caesar 
colloquialisms 
and all that jazz ...

EJR ©

June 14, 2017

lycanthropy and the Moon dancing phone booths of the Autumns of our lives .............. ( main tining my direct line divine )



do we ever understand place until we are gone from it 
in every absence that envelopes us, we are glow worms 
for the past drives the future, passing the present often 
for instance today I am off to work where 
I'll spend ten hours feet to the grounding of a daily it, moving 
my will to body in tiny grand command ratios 
basked tasked to tasked rasped and salved 
destinies on my mind, I am whispering link rhythms 
p-awning pieces of my wonder 
tying the found door saloon missives 
of my (dis)order in order to record Love, Life laughing 

(for the loss of Ann)

pains are processes 
birth canals do start the death rattles 
we complete the nude wholly spirit with music
we remember our breaths in, a then when 
we enter what here we recognize 
as they cloth wrap our bodies 
to burn back 
to ash and 
stardust 
and we leave 
this place 
too, it seems we are all 
purring Schrödinger's cats, Death 
wading waiting weighting 
measures of approximation
and proclamation 
fixing the places 
rain gets in 
when we are 
only souls, coming 
and going 

(can a tale be a yet to be, sometimes even told, before you see)

and yes how I have always enjoyed 
her tale of hierophantic hermeticism : 

<the cost variances of each life's melting season swam 
while we bathed in salts to get to the bleeding sooner 
as crayons need the hive mind teeming 
so colors run to and from black and white>

she says Boreal creatures 
exquisitely paint 
smiles as happened upon(s) 
the In utero blessings 
in hindsight grow 
to even know 
we fatten our repose 
as the Sun waves high 
and especially when, July 
and August (be)come 
wry spies 
of where 
Autumn lies

yellowing bits, bitten and bridled too 
the edge walkers have wings 
the ends of their broad leaves 
tip and curl, they are sugar and iron 
and they sing, they are
beginning a pilgrimage 
so that even the pines 
will know to bid adieu 
to those days 
of heat and seethe 
bugs, beetles and belief 
time when mealy bits of flies 
land in daily breads and soups 
all that whirs with life 
and waiters don't seem to catch 
or venture to know 
Goldie Hawn was in 
Peter Sellers bowl 
there to remind 
his character 
and we too that 
before the frost gets ya 
and time eats gourds again 
a warm willow Hestia 
sweeps the corners for friends 
so we can remember 
all the why(s) 
we came to Love 
and carry ourselves 
palms up to the sky 
with clutched memories 
of those who've gone on 
another Life departed 
down low or up high ...


EJR ©

June 7, 2017

following harmonics : the glass tidal lore in old windows wanting to be waterfalls and pieces of poems ............................................... the children of Humpty Dumpty and short haired Rapunzel



I listened intently to what I thought was my heart 
found I should've eaten that song breathing in 
the looping architecture of madness, when I could 

she jangles keys 
please and knees 
into the lift 
of what being 
embodies 
when so driven 
to live for love 
you work 
four-letter gums 
you wield what works 
and coffee has always 
had the after midnight shift 

I once had 
all my marbles 
they've spun 
and guttered 
along ways 
to the here 
this poem-let 
seems to get stuck in, too

now I imagine rabbit holes and mirror garb 
the windows open and some neck swaying 
lean into me music playing 
I want more 
'tis all distractions 
meanwhile label-less anti-party wall adornments 
miraculously appear 
though each set of eyes 
sees a different pattern 
was told that the idea of order 
would wear off 
eventually 

faceless cabals divvy up 
commoditized material Earth 
to build their golden steps replete 
w/ soma-esque opioids: religions, 
all the way to the heavens 
from which they came...
and 
do not forsake 
aggrandizement of truth 
from the fringes 
for in these hinterlands, 
the mothers 
of every barker-ed enticement, 
consume you emotionally 

some poison for questionable 
benefit of all clauses 
supposedly hard-wired 
suckle us comfortably 
so slow so as not to notice 
death or at least 
the caged paralysis 

information overload 
wet-nurse shard 
drives naked hunter more 
what we never comprehend 
starves us, fed this way ...

eventually old map maker soul 
rolls bones, stoning corners 
each time death nears 
I fold paper too 
wanting 
to find 
some 
thing 


helped myself 
seek roots again 
gently removing tomato plants 
from little plastic housing 
digging soil 
clearing gnarl 
and rocks 
made the holes 
where the Sun goes

full of eggs 
over turned loam 
larval almost(s) 
Sun angles in 
noon tine-d moving 
boil slowly 
early birth sequencing 
ends of pitched forks

we never seemed to raise our voices again 
after that night, our songs, caught like kites 
in a mad sudden wind, trailing off 
whistles and howls

She wore a slippery crown 
was shapeless between forms 
there were many voices 
clamoring to be bowsprit 
what I get here, herding heard 
is stained by Love near what 
of me forever wears 

we went about 
the daily grind 
slip noose shouldering the load 
how would we drag the sky 
to the well tonight 
we thought 
thirsty w/ more 

when you watch death 
eye cornering us, misty ramparts 
the boneless declarations of soul 
are seen as scent holding us to memory and a life


she kisses things 
with her eyes 
limbs behind blinks 
between the observations 
were fingers where 
she held wombs 
she went about 
trees and grasses 
when in Summer 

so we gathered provisions 
along the snaked dust 
we did what we could 
eyes peeled, wary to trust 
as chances came, decisions

are all thoughts variations 
of original want of love 
do we observe asymmetric(s) 
as numbers in arrays 
2 form pattern choices 
velvet embraces made 
places eyes went 
following nose 

I choose to find nothing 
I dumb down ever seeking eyes 
cede the world to my nose to smell indifference 
its white picket fenced lies 

I heard being alive is Love 
but what of death I thought 
is there awareness after, where 
the conscious mind 
has brought me along 
for the ride 
being on the go 
glove and shovel ready 


EJR ©

May 26, 2017

every landscape, full of cannibal temples




(magic eye the whole ten penny alley way, give out black light fuzzy recipe cards ...)

they said they kept the severed heads 
for when they go kiting the underworlds 
they kneaded what felt sacred 
what would keep them safe from harm 
marking each day, counting 
the passing irregular seasons 
after dark matter plumes stole time away ... 

what the unseen 
a planet changing 
reality for them 
became 
new temples 
being born 
visitors slowly  
angler fish wondered 
awed and attracted 
to the magnetic resonances  
of their worship 

this is
what had sustained them 
consecrated with why 
they said they needed flesh 
and taken by guerrilla guile  
it was so written 
so they could remember 
quickened & nourished 
feeding pulse song and surprise 
eyes long ago sent 
pining for the nose 
knowing what they had 
looked like before 
their humanity died ...

EJR ©

May 9, 2017

wer a one, stone-tabled outside the rain ...

 'Alas, I Cannot Swim' (2012)
by Jehan Choo ©

a thrift store biscuit dive : 
I mean can playing what ifs on the edge 
bring on an apocalypse, someone's, I'm sure 
but not mine, not yet, 
I have need where 
my heart lives 
bellow liver and goats
all putrid remains 
of chances not taken 
are buried 
in the basement 
what I hid 
is jar lid me(s), 
what I remember 
the popping sound 
and smells, open windowed  
warm Autumn 
canning late peppers 
and tomatoes 
playing what ifs 
on the edge 
tide skipping 
flipping off 
the grackles 
and pipers 
on a wire 


it is almost 
another full Moon 
and May is buttering 
bread past time, the  
what ifs are what is 
said as  true 
and we have to 
try and feed 
the masses again 


I'll make something 
zucchini, tomato, onion and pepper 
water early and globes of garlic 
the Sun pilfer neared absolution  
and whole religions 
rise die and rise again 
because of it, each 
a little more special 
in their own eyes 
don' t you think  
besides, we've been throwing 
the young and the elderly 
into the deep end 
for awhile now 
and yes as with the end 
of most poems 
reflecting a future 
with and without me 
a icy cold nehi, 
would be great 
right now ...


EJR ©