once a year, I put her in a poem...

I believe it's Lana Turner in the 1940's, photographer unknown

falling through the Earth to the center of the universe and finding out, it's made of Lana Turner and your imagination of color in a black and white photograph

born in the 1960’s

I fought in the new wave wars

wanting everything to be different

against the grain

but really

who was I kidding

I was and always will be

an old fashioned

whore for comfort

an expert at apathy

a master of classic denial

an artillery gunner

a stunner runner

a clever sever of body warts

I pray to the ramparts

that I may become part bombast

part popular culture

part fitted in

to pre-fabrication

and form

of following

horded knowledge

not remembered

you know how

trends seek

the shine

the lowest

common denominator

what's yours and mine

to see what we can find

everything disguised

as individual decision

kelp sway politics

tattered cloth skin

swimming each sea

with group think

dulling precision

hoping the incisions

slow the salt

trace of life

enough to find

your calendar markings home

I keep writing the same poem

a torque wanted breast heavy brain therapy

I throw myself in the glands

inside the wired push up

under the taut soft fabric sweater

there are things

once you get next to

that never look worse

for the wear

you swear by release

by disregarding

your intake regulation

you will be gentle before squeezing

hoping your nails are trimmed

and tidy as you dig in

glory seeping into

story after story

myths, maypoles and tadpoles

the cattail ponds

with gathered geese looking on

in blind chorus echoes

Rumpelstiltskin, they whisper

Jack and the Beanstalk

the reign of gold

is still in vogue

let's go find that peddler

of beans

we may not

have the cows

but we know

where the milk is

EJR ©

coloring the grey matters...

beautiful rendered building, I presume, is not in America, artist unknown

catching amnesia dreams in the rain

I stood as if in a depot

shuffling feet and leans

there was a train outside

its scent was reaching in

it was a warm rafted

May afternoon

the old river valley trees

were fully leaved

this string section bleed

was clouds to knees

was music made into

rustles and whistles

there were occasional

spray finger charms

sharp clothed wind

stretching membranes

curling in the purse

exhale of what draws in

each memory

coming back again

EJR ©

maternal line skating futures in hans brinker passages...

FDR Memorial, Washington D.C.

the raining constrictive virtues at the social services building

I am felt in the unseen

part of my self-discussion therapy

a bus stop turnstile uterus

clicking counting system

I am overheard, in line

whispering about the woman

in front of me

how many kids do you have ma'am

can you have more ma’am

you know

every sperm is sacred ma'am

I pretend to look

like what John Cleese would do

the base pyramid system

heavy loading sarcasm

for the top to hold up

here, life is scattered

in the river wide wheat fields

in rolling hilled distances

here, life is what you can carry

you scour up intent

in the bowels and beauty

of an old city

you base hope in the salvaging

of each slow train wreck

of each pirate ship humanity

scuttled for comfort

in any of those moments

you were one away

from boarding to paradise

you ma’am can be construed

as a soft sandy bay

palm trees and saw grasses

fanning the wind

in washboard rhythms

an educational opportunity

spread throughout

this drop ceiling white light forest

windowed apathy disguised

as vacation literature

and free food

here ma’am, every morning is

our glossy thick matted design

scratch-off lottery chance

incapable of paying out

what our worth in ovum

and every day sunshine is

like that poster about malnutrition

we look for light, waiting for angels

in the form of answers and

helpful suggestions

but here, ma’am

it is always raining something

so I suggest you paint the underbelly

of your umbrella a bright yellow

EJR ©

little green parasols...

Yves Tanguy, photomaton, boulevard des Italiens, Paris, 1928.

calendar booth Moon

she shuns

mercury's rise

for days

she wants balance

and silver plated tidal bays

the tapestry sonar of bats

she loves getting into caves

casing maple blossom shine

in the springtime

she jars what she finds

each year there’s

a little more dust

and dusk

than the last

one passed

she is the orbit

and the pane

and the view

you mastered

when lending

all the faces

of who you

want to be

banking on the stars

and their dead light society

to come back here

year after year

where you try

to remember

all the names

you crawl into

the dark with

EJR ©

alterations, hand sewn...

‘self portrait legal paper’  EJR ©

hexagonal

stop means go

go means yes

yes means no

no means try

try means please

please means lie

lie means smile

hexagonal

amber yellow

wanted poster

plain clothed tailgate-r

gunner runner

idiot in hooves

pine bluffed

mauled with desire

for direction

my written modernity has become

compartmentalized mythologies

built-in malls

palled onto meridians

I shop my recidivism

every future a farm yoked humanity

along highways, cities and

what time strafes between them

arterially wanting left wading

berms and levees

finding the nipple bars

ramp felt underground resins

power thirsting in passive

and generationally punitive

3D modeled printing

of ecstasies

in weapon plastic ovaries

shadow bibles and fairy tales

are all I have left and

they are very good

at ribbon-ing languages

into cutter paper pen jargon

life boiled down into clever vignettes

faux élan scripted destinies disguised

as repeatable histories, flash carded

into legerdemain animation

slip streamed like it never happened

hyper magnetized clean swiped erased

pigment bone rendered

I remember

hung up on

flat world divinities

the poem

was hexagonal

like me

affixed

the side of the road

a wall tattered

corner falling

Humpty Dumpty

calling, playing

gravity’s song again

EJR ©

straitjacket tuxedo...

rail birds gather during the meet at the Spa 1919
(from the Saratoga Springs Historical Museum, George S. Bolster collection)

we tip the buyer sheet on Union Ave.

we shear the seller

to clean their skin

we line the cellar with casks

little empires of essence

in the distill of body parts

a trigger finger paralysis

is only a lately

a slowed down time

and even if time is

altogether a construct

time is not there, it is always here

slippery as mercury spilled

on a kitchen floor

you eat dreams

at windows

for chance

when thermometers

are broken, scattering

cat. 2 fever response mechanisms

in prosthetic hums

thesis after thesis

you research reason

and pop cultural identity

in low viral loads

the explanation

humanity seeks

is a grind of law

and logic applied

with variant floor

and ceiling devices

along the rails

the scents of May

for instance, are

early ebbing Summer

the tides in sucker

and linen suited hats

saying we got that

we tip the buyer sheet

we peddle pick after pick

we are tout tomorrow

we are what trumpets

your 30 pieces of silver

into imagination

flourishing inside

the call of magic escape

amid the siren landscapes

between defiance and pride

between betting it all

and letting it ride

the bells

for saint somebody

are ringing

it is now

post time

EJR ©

...and they're off...

massed head Saturday in May

sometimes

the other side

of the tracks

is where

the morning

will wander

milk filtering

bright greens

in angle angels

of Sun

over the slate roofs

across the street

I get lost in thoughts

of wide shallow seas

long kelp algebra

long penances

bow palm prayer

bow palm prayer

I swear to god

I won't ever do it again

and pick apart a part of myself

that can be hidden

with what I wear

these sumptuous

early May mornings

in the eastern mountains

of North America

take hold of you

like no others do

each return scent

of insects and the spaces

in between them

are wanting you

and your soul's material

for pocket ballast

I may always be

a window shopper

a pill popper

a pot smoking grenadier

riffing for light patterns

inside joyful accidents

cups of cheer shared

emotion bared unexpectedly

perhaps in mailed box surprises

that drop a person to one knee

saying stop time

will you marry me

to this moment

call me part memory

and part collective consciousness

tell nostalgia to stay away

the bingo halls are harking

for light bulb popping sounds

barking chance after chance

fixing science to the ground

rooting in the clay

dry crack packaging

and seams, sewn where

the deft ghost ships

slip behind flying buttresses

so you only see

a floating head

a talking me

today is

a magic

numbered day

a four leg day

a day of smelling newspaper

with a thirst

for the promise

Summer brings

I hear the wind

talking between

lilt and lift

saying to me

take sail

journey to here, poet

you are a jaunted man

you are a junkie

for sensory perception

as you flip the jib

to remember faces

and forget the names

you’ll get clear passage

in poems

a lighthouse

speaks with

in order

to lower

the odds

against you

EJR ©

will the lilacs be late this year...

wish vicious tangled

I tear myself apart

I rub the genie bottle

I argue

be a narrator guide

for your own soul, Edward

everyone will understand you

you'll remember songs

you never learned before

say the word, love

out loud like poets do

at the knife edge

of rivers

howl like Spring

take to seeding the air

with scented expressions

like horny poets do

like jack in the boxes

names are irrelevant

everyone will get the picture

be the poem

inside the nadir-apex journey

riding coal to diamonds

every story has to be told

whether in the stain of glass

or verbs affixed to nouns

and the past

you told me to kneel

and I thought I was praying

you told me to starve hunger

when I really wanted to eat

to tremble my focus

to stretch slowly

to move with grace

to be mindful

of place

and attachment

to permanence

to not expect

a masterpiece

overnight

though as we know

sometimes stars

release their dead

spectacularly

EJR ©