April 30, 2016

Beltane is always adorned with this year ..................................................................................#NaPoWriMo2016

El Sol y la Vida
Frida Kahlo 1947

diarrhea alone will begin 
to kill more and more  
as future water 
becomes as dirty 
as money 
and synonymous 
with gold ...

deep in the slow doom 
we dance in election year gear
with a world watching us learn 
we were never meant 
to be as smart 
as we think we are ...

we need 
calendars without time 
jimi hendrix sirens 
squealing bends and bones 
righteous ones 
back from the grave 
from raining angels 
to the tiniest devil 
root toes of trees 
trumpets and violins 
jumping jacks and violets 
trump is violence, rod is ham 
they both want your clams 
and no ma'am 
you don't really 
have to give away
the taco but we don't mind 
if you do, though we need 
the ovaries
and the breast milk 
in an aside column 
this poem centers back to
clueless and voraciously reading 

The Fountain of Neptune, Bologna

finding classics 
are timeless fits 
pictures, moving too fast 
will steal words these days 
from the right to left 
audio visual semantically 
romancing the shallow pooled
emotions most easily tended
to, fanned and flamed

finding your own voice doesn't mean sounding like someone 
you've read per se or heard in your life or caught an exhibit of 
as entertainment somehow in this picture capture grabbing 
attention world of spanned shorter and shorter orbital memory 
units paper money was really cloth money and was did away 
with decades ago old timers camped under the overpasses 
tend to laugh into the dark especially, saying remember when 
and when alone and you hear yourself thinking in what ifs and 
I wish(es) then listen because your voice is near precipice sound 
and can now be found falling into fire and abyss as you call out :

the poems can sound 
as if a nursery rhyme were singing 
your wholly secret 
roller derby fantasy one more time 
those girls have strong legs 
and these days you need 
all the s trength you can muster 
just to keep carrying on 
in only three dimensions 
running with these kites 
of nostalgia during storms 
without wanting warnings 
or moorings even 
you seem 
to always end up  
saying every place 
is a place for you 
when there's no place
like it home


April 29, 2016

he wore a white hat .......................................................................#NaPoWriMo2016

'Pushcart Coffee', 1947 by Fred Palumbo ©

pray leaned 
on his pulpit 
put lip bitten tulips 
in his rolling church 
of coin from pocket services 

he was an imagist 
a pushcart peddler 
a tobacconist w/pears apples 
spit roasted toasted 
brushed w/butter almonds 

his cries 
quickly gathered 
over cast iron 
oven hangs 
a hawk-belch 
and axle looking out 
for the pilled tip looting 
of leaned prey ...

of purchase were parade 
tucked cobbler smiles 
with fleeting forever(s) 
they'd sing 
the songbook 
of each other's 
and vacations 
at mill meet 
and eat 

on this street 
his street 
his sermon 
was harked 
and heard 
from here on  
back to work 
and home 
clutching pieces 
of heaven 

they'd file past 
and out of view 
with just 
enough desire 
to remember 
how they came 
this way 
and to come 
some time again
when they had 
more coins 
to give
to each 
of their 
little Rome(s)  
fountains and youth 

EJR © 

soul so-journey id and intelligence ..............................................................#NaPoWriMo2016

we had set about over a milk 
and honey once landscape 
in our 1980's era car  

the bottles on our walls 
were beer cans 
and we were spent too 
covered in mantras that said : 
what if the largest con 
in the world has been 
the advent of monotheism 

can their precepts even 
be in our cause formative 
limbic system(s), odd 
how this life strives 
universal struggles 
and surrenders 
to evolve into desperate 
thought, a pure conscious energy 
without need of form(s) ...

are we meant to suffer 
in order to beg the mercies 
life-guarded by conservationists 
on austere diets tied to sticks 
stones and war machines 
liturgy knees, palms and pleas 

do the guano lords 
with their, as we 
have been conditioned 
to see, leathery wings 
forked tongues and tails
protect themselves 
against heaven's radiation 
by dwelling deep below 
to avail themselves 
molecular slip dipped in Sun
is this how we  
un-slave ourselves 
going blind nose 
as moles might 

what of service(s) 
cock and bull shit schleppers
do we pay them 
to clean the streets 
of ever growing social lepers 
and by this I mean 
those not pliable enough 
to ascend quite yet 
or deemed worthy enough 
or having accumulated 
the right stamps 
of approval and hence
put to working 
the death to come 
much more quickly 
all the while hustling 
little pockets of gold, glory 
stories with questions 
like more coffee or tea? 

I want a drink of water ... in your sometimes 
I want to mouth your rain ... hoping 
the taste of you is another life or two ...
would you be my pilot 
my passenger or partner 
in crime 

did I say time was a bastard too 
or that the last herd here 
would be led to slaughter 
no you said a fool understands 
the gold standard parades 
what does bastard mean 
that you have no purpose here 
save the indentured lean 
and is that why you go flying 
out of open windows when dreaming
taking chances with scrappy bits 
of bone, flesh and soul
throwing yourself 
to the wind 
with hope enough 
to cut your skin 
to spill life 
onto an empty canvas
I repeat cycle(s) 
as most of us do 
wittingly and 

       interior monologue I spied 
the whole hog in the butcher case 
grew up poor wide eyes 
with gluttony in its place 
we ate jowls, sweet cheeks 
now a hipster delicacy 
and out of my price range 

          I lean towards vegetarianism 
because it makes my aging 
body feel better but 
I still eat pussy the same way 
after beer or champagne, 
slowly at first with the intention 
of getting her reciting to incite me aside 
her private prayer to poem book ...

  this part of poem starts by asking the reader questions :

            have you known at all, 
of the interference mavens 
circling round the planet 
in their satellites 
of trenches 
in whisper 
                 can you hear them 
assign us names electrical curtains 
mythological names spirit names 
summon names free will 
and what fills in 
the cracks  
of innocence 
leaving with 
sinister laughter(s) 

in the background 
you'll often hear 
things said like : 

            look at them 
walking upright 
feel as if they are beasts 
while thinking like a god
poor poor mankind 
goes to school 
a water melon 
comes back a rind 

and there can be no telling 
what capable is to them 
though at the very little least 
we do spare them the rod 
opting instead for saddle 
bit, bridle and reins...

  what if justice is just desserts 
maybe(s) in hazy recollections 
what you pore over your life in 
piles of good deeds and bad ones 
inland salt seas 
to hills and mountains 
of material we shed 
along the way like snakes do
lungs and hearts demand clothes too 

              but what if I never believed 
 in any great me 
what does saving mean 
and though I do 
what desire does
to time 
it still makes me 
feel old when 
my nostalgia
how it says why 
choosing a demise  
is what my core need 
often needs completing 
another journey 
Earth to sky 

er steal stellar 
cellar wine 
and gloaming crept 

will we have arrived 
trailing in goodbyes with words 
being written on paper lanterns 

will we return 
as ashes or friends 
burning remnant songs 
of days gone by 
casting slip noose-d nets 
binding sound to language 
many hats and homes

my will to be 
liked but unseemly
derives me to drive 
myself further 
inside myself 
shield and shells 
spiel and hells 
wondering at and through 
a world of indifference 
do I hunger 
for every smile
or continue to try 
and love from here 
where I prefer 
Beltane's breezes 
with no light

I have been doing 
half animal half spirit 
medical taped wrists 
wearing blood and divinity 
taking entrance and exit 
in wonder murmurs 
and in-audibles 
I am a rushed hurried 
need to be going some place
I am an ambulance of want(s)
speeding past 
holographic versions 
of me 
I am a long night 
of knives and fight
sirens ablaze 
the flight chasing someday 
where the dark 
watches me disappear  
again miles ahead 
of where and who 
Dawn and I 
had already been 


April 28, 2016

there's a new series on cable television called, ' she wears me pretty petted, swept tided on off jetty like Schrödinger's cat hair ' ..................................................................................#NaPoWriMo2016

illustration by Edmund Dulac, from 'The Snow Queen'

In episode one 
as emotions grew 
need for organ 
replacements did too
scene by scene 
you were seen hawking 
sympathy for the devil 
by way of telethon  
televised live in human
under belly explorations 
or rebuking
 every living moment 
you were and are 
to be found 
burning with 
 and for 

we wore each other's scent 
once were awake 
and we went out 
to greet drum/skin/tappers 
as they tipple paraded down 
narrow street cobblestones ... 

my fantasy is slippery, you say 
as dew begins to tag along 
with a chill 
after midnight brings 
late April's pan eddied shadows 
before harbor light 
or dawn comes round 
to teach us how to read again ... 

what can we press as felt 
for fiber fed into a cotton 
candy type spinner machine 
then hand mechanically turned 
to more of a life together 
more of what instantaneous 
means gratifyingly close 
to the heart and lungs 
we pin chests 
hoping to claim 
any scent left 
for secrets inside cedar 
the best kept 
wept afterglow 
we can sew 
into the dark ...

folding one's self 
into this material 
one becomes 
lamb's ear soft 
and a ready to wear nostalgia
something without need 
to be cut and shaped 
or milled and marrow-ed 
into lamp shades ... 

pretty darlings and three little piggies ...

martinis and lounge music anyone ... 

care to dare yourself 
a little time capsule back seat 
backyard bomb shelter 
we can watch 
our old selves 
chase the empty pieces 
trailing behind us 
as we fill 
and fall 
with mischief 
and pride, perhaps 
in an early 60's chic 
with minimalist lines ...

you play lonely housewife 
I play traveling salesman 
by the end of the vignette 
I am running out to get 
you a new coffee table before 
your husband comes home ... 

and after commercial segue 
we fade in 
from white noise 
to foothills 
of the Tyrolean Alps 
in thick pine and hemlock 
covered forests draped 
at the feet 
of jagged peaks ... 

they are : 
daring us to ascend 
the castles of sand 
and blended sky 
maps we made 
when the blue fae 
had become 
our friends 
way back 
in season one ...

EJR © 

remember sometimes and unfortunately for the more hopeful of the two, a couple can and do put all their eggs in one holey basket .................................................................................................................#NaPoWriMo2016

photo by JJ Harrison ©

" ... And if by chance 
there is still a here 
to be stilled against 
in the time we wake up 
from our nationalism nightmare, 
will there be piles of bodies 
and uniformed citizenry 
burning them to keep warm 
while turning their ashes 
into the histories 
of fertilizer 
    and feed fill ... "

I was a squirrel once 
roadkill too 
will you remember 
anything about us 
or is this what you do  
counting sheep 
to lion fed ...

shock show direction 
weight in slow motion 
slippery slope apathy 
a demise launching  
surprising staunch 
sky believers into 
a falling mythology 
of hymns, spells 
written in 
our own 
private Bibles

we made life here
strung moments 
painted them 
rife handy gods 
and leggy wombs 
they served ... 

since though 
I've learned 
to keep my lips 
in shades of pilfer ...

what I do is lie in shape 
of the arrow that suits me 
in order to fly 
not giving a fuck 
getting out of dodge 
before any real 
bitterness takes hold 
of my ability to see past 
my even if caught 
ever so fleetingly 
ego tripping self ...

once were all hive-d 
together can/could/now/
connives, rain to see immersion 
techniques fail to take 
and since the
there has only been me 
big ass whoop-ing myself 
quietly between breakdown 
and parlance-d insanity 
survive it some time 
I dare thee ...

because I am certain 
of my readiness to fall ...

now ...

could you
shield me from 
near what construes 
a truth 
or what you 
declare reality 
to you might be ...

and is that 
a somewhere 
in bound to me 
from your phalanx 
of journals, incense, 
collected tears earrings and stones 
your whistled quiet calculations 
of every spill of joy 
versus the logic 
and lament 
of Pandora-n regret ...

is it on your scratch paper too
I've already figured you 
to work redemption maybe(s) 
into someday again stilettos 
from a box of number 2 pencils ...

... what a mess 
it is we can 
in this kind 
of wake 
some of us 
bear more 
fault of pain 
explaining foolish 
nature as inclination 
to give in 
to a mad smile
because we're convinced 
we all know  
in this day and age 
with miles of road 
and no where to go
it is so much easier 
to place blame 
on others for being 
and loveless ...

                  who wants to eat crow 
for decades before 
       you think that 
"you stole my life away" 
scab goes away ...

... because I am sure 
I am not 
the only one 
who hungers 
for reason 
to believe 
in a blood 
to beak magic 
past these days ...

EJR © 

April 27, 2016

at the shore ..............................................................#NaPoWriMo2016

The Gulf coast of Florida ...

your whisper stays with me 
my heart beats 
into hurricanes for eyes 
your little poems strewn 
like ill fitted clothes 
all you ever did want 
was to run naked 
back and forth 
from wombs 
and into where 
all the rain 
goes to dream 
of sunny days 


the poetry of pane quindi questo : ...........................................................................#NaPoWriMo2016

image found on Pinterest photographer unattributed

(riffing in head to toe 
lingering ritual peruses
underbelly nether regions 
are spilling eye full after 
eye full of the way 
you wear my poems)
let me say it is
nice to meet you and
your mother may eyes 
i'd like to mete you and
i'm jester and
will you come 
will you feed me 

 to thrash 
flesh then flash 
fish wishes from eye lashes 
and with scratches you leave behind 
separating wheat from chaff 
what bread in hearth doth rise 
 am I
and kneading 
the grind 

we pull mad and eagerly 
at the warm and toasty 
clutch covet broken pieces 
of this moment consuming us 

we're still steaming melt sheen 
butter spilling onto 
the rustic kitchen floor
with its wide planks 
scattered beneath us 

a diffused light 
of summer afternoon 
lives on the other side 
of the sheer curtained life 

we could get back 
if we wanted 
to be in form 
as opposed 
to being eaten 
with words 
and each other