April 26, 2017

who was it ................. the push carts and peddlers pondered AKA war became commonplace mechanics adopted as origin language ................................. NaPoWriMo2017 #27

illustration by Josh Kirby ©


if a cacophonous hippopotamus 
found its way into your story 
would you have time 
for plausible deniability 
truth it seems, 
has never made it back 
in style or otherwise applied 
in these longing for old times 
in these new ages 
we are constantly visiting 
for answers, for destinations 
for poems wear, 
showing where we 
forgot how to ride ...

we have no reason to incline 
they said with bewilderment 
we're wanting to be Life in a poem 
moving about, antennae short waving it 
through thick and thin 
we find surprise variants rampant 
these days when joy wants a home 
to be a comforted view 
of what the soul and spirit 
knew to do to the body 
when it rebelled 
a bone cage 
breathy accordion  
hand organ 
again  

we goat skinned wine 
we held vigil parties 
late hour-ed eviscerates 
all we had once celebrated 
we denigrated with ideas  
of beauty we could put in reverse 
with an Annine Everson piñata 

we were at another 
precipice moment 
in our tenacious cling 
of stewardship to Earth 
when we noticed 
crone magic wombs 
were tending things unseen 
in a slow apocalypse symphony 

who among you can dismay 
so readily the perils children face 
today placemat pall bearing 
the wearing of our indulgences 
still we deny leaving a mess 
oh the blessings addressing 
what we owe in roe chains 
of command, lands of milk 
and honey don't come cheap 
you know, so we hand over 
our gold coins, cows 
scarlet letters  
and runner beans 
there are no giant vines 
here in this poem 
only treasuring 
the egg layers 
pursued by slayers 
of community trust 
and the collective mind 
you see, the scents 
behind the curtains 
are wizardly types plying 
politics, barters, trades and wares 
marionette-ing push carts 
and peddlers 
every sunrise 
trying to stave off 
the stain 
of dying time 
because at the end of this poem 
Lady Macbeth is left 
wandering the hallways 


EJR ©

spending days with cassandra .......................................................... waking from comas with commas, karma and calm ........................................................................ NaPoWriMo2017 #26



here the poem says mothball everything, tell no one  
america, scared of ka, is going to nest, next line blessed 
while the rest of god here, is an illusion 
comfort by sleeping however, is not ... 

so I believe I'm called a lunatic to keep reason from being my friend ...

words need bleeding, me in the weeds by the roadside, watching 
bent quiet crept, waiting bouquet traveling at leisurely rates of speed 
I spy weathered signs, yesteryear(s), clear views of nature getting through 
to where I once was ago, the flower petals are clock dial hands, 
turns of the sky not having control over 
any of my eye movements, scent wants me lost 
in ramparts of color dollop womb-if-ication 
I think spring and summer thunderstorms ...

it must be a new moon, my eggs are breaking
 and my balls are stuck in a vice world at large of humpty forever 
some follow a king, some the horses, 
still others listen, pay the fare and play 
it is if we wanted to see the ship 
and captain go down wearing hole Life 
as a black tie affair ... 

nicean 325 pagan politics disguised 
ravenous cats, christendom ... 
damn mother of constantine stole the library of alexandria ... 
after fact-ers proctor examinations of gullibility 
they are half book rulers, schmooze-lers, 
they use novelty vomit to feign concern ... 
they wham you into liking cable television, internet 
and low quality digital feeds for music ... 
poem says fuck'em, give me kettle drumming 
and crossbow salvation-ists, deadheading 
zombie flower peddlers, anytime 

the dream of when 
nine foot tall marionettes 
they were thick piano wired 
to the tree, we used pulleys 
and ox yoke chestnut collars 
we gave hollers for dollars 
through megaphones 
into microphones 
they write poems 
we are contacted, contracted 
to relay them as penance for not believing in magic 
a time or two when we hadn't known 
what to do simple grace was to stare 
mirror mirror nearer the face 
bowsprit and buttress 
we gave the harpies 
and gargoyles a chance 
to harmonize 'and to our surprise 
they reprise-d human foibles perfectly 
we called around a fire story time, 
all the glories 
of days we had 
at go and stay 
in the mountains, camp ...

we spread ourselves aurally thin 
and fit into speakers 
we had positioned above 
and behind the audience 
licorice lovers always lagged behind 
they like the changelings 
and morality zoetrope-s 
some of us kept stones 
in our pockets 
dark skipping 
what dreams 
we remember ourselves 
precipice-d desire 
mental illness 
as causative deformation 'reverse engineering 
special circumstances that fence the killing of the soul 
articulate limbs 
broken shells, skin 
names I call myself 
when about to fall asleep 
dreaming again 
of endless mouths 
to feed into why 
we move coffins 
lid to slid 'off the cuff 
with remarkable lies 
we hold as holy, pearl diving 
a midnight we hold dear 
calling us home 
I bind thee, poem says 
to your freedom, to your madness 
to your quiet discernment 
and I am personal logic, 
an illness of cures too, it seems ...

EJR ©

April 25, 2017

western Illinois, flatter than Kansas ................................. NaPoWriMo2017 #25





tying the scabs, custard crustaceans stain my boils 
river clung folks know the cycles 
of seasons and reason to merge them 
would you like to mete my feather 
the pleasure is all mine spine articulate oceans 
fin mining binary systems of stapled eyes 
Dylan coal bright eaten into sky spied desolation 
fields farmed and dark hungry roams 
stretching mile after mile in rural streetlamp-less AMerica 
Dawn is a hungry east when Beltane dances late April, lyrical scars 
and czars part with painted glass and horses, 
we fold in the chronologies avoiding writing them down unabridged 
we magic eye everything keeping loose stepped lucidity our best friend 
phone booth-ing the soul we ride when no one is looking 
'shadowfax, pegasus and Orion follow Iris to where Moon never 
bothers to look, womb black salt, thirsty for iron 
and the raucous joys of bowling while drinking beer ...

meanwhile the cat chews are somewhat tasty 
and I pray all the mothers guard the pups 
middle of the night 
middle of the road 
middle of the why 
middle of the poem 
here we saw to it 
that the words died 
but didn't give off a scent 
we used electricity 3V small pin adapters 
to star gaze what sights 
gave their bones to memory 
hairy=while gravity worked the nomenclature calendars 
hip phila fila-greed breeding the chance orientation 
half the maps inside you are made up  
can you believe now canyon eel 

nowhere now here where on was 
plus and minus of any equation 
juniper as Summer approaches 
reminds me of cat piss 
and I like the cello ass 
and the way past your bed time 
slip stream of words and fingers 
and the tourniquet pleasure 
of thought spigot hot high Sun 
coming to all the picnics this year 


old pock marks of past lives 
become secreted pictures 
bubbling like crude oil 
to the top of clock time 
in a leather satchel found while cleaning 
a house that kept a couple twined til death 
did one part them while madness 
in the form of a long grey goodbye 
sought the wane of the other 
the livery of their Life 
and Love pieces of eight 
soul and memory 
now, then and again 
all the things we keep 
that keep us 
an old hearth 
over taken by 
early tall rye

EJR ©

April 23, 2017

in America, are we always going to be ................ Shirley Jackson lottery obsessed ................. NaPoWriMo2017 #24

'into the woods'
by Michael Hutter ©

it seems we have always 
strung the fun guy, here 
'tis easier to tar and feather 
public laughter than it is to fight 
what inside us is inhumane 
for as I age and not so often with grace 
I pause awl ways 
working in the wonder 
every chance I get 
knowing the heart seeks 
to purify the soul, 
home and abroad 
time and 
time again ...

last night 
we melted butter, 
made brownies 
with smiley faces, 
awe we wondered 
says to always ask 
if there is more wine, because 
some of us write poems ...

see eye goat  
ewe to ewe, 
I Love 
like stealing 
what Antigone used 
to sharpen a glow 
upon  her stick

this is but one 
world wide tongue poems 
palm dirty, further and further 
to where wear wears nothing at all 
we are where the electrons ain't ...

inland farther father Neptune seas 
siege, seize mother Earth, her 
coastal cities choke, mountains turn island 
our collective minds scream 
writhe tithe barter 
need, we beg Love with and for 
bargain profit prophet tier-ing 
while demanding to be entertained ...

we are particulated masses, 
and most of our asses 
are firmly planted in the go 
and keeping going mentality trap, 


frap whap snap 

<bold campy 1960's interlude
memories of tv batman, 
flash across the poem now>


and as it often happens with asses 
we all go to a church within community 
somewhere to hide 
in the secret places 
of our minds ... 

and here poem and I pause, 
a puzzle minimal-izing 
violin music fading, 
sawing into us 
it is Sun-day morning and the coffee's right, 
noon's approaching, warm 
and we can taste, each reach 
of our small yellow star's 
light falling the way 
it is supposed to ...


EJR ©

restorative curative alternative altar native naive poetry ................................................. NaPoWriMo2017 #23

image via NASA


pleas and kneading the rise of light beyond the stars 
we were aware where wear was a ware, again 
poem and I were this diode light fixture 
we were spindled with curiosity ...

earth day weighs ways we wade, 
mists in morning, mourning hunger 
for the water skimmers and grass clingers 
there are bent knee troubadour storks, 
plumbing their babies 
womb waiting themselves, 
ovum and seed, Life as bleeding Love ...

though we ain't perceived it as such 
as amassed community  isn't much thought of 
because as Brooks from Shawshank Redemption said 
the world of nowadays went and got itself in a great big hurry ...
I suppose that is why we need 
artists tripping through themselves 
exclaiming expressing or extrapolating  
that their souls are why dolls 
with dirty faces race us to where 
we need to be wrapped 
in solitude sometimes ...

when I was younger
I would read elegant to macabre futures 

they would say, fantasize with me 
Poe and Verne would say 
can we imagine technology 
taking us to a way back when right then is
words lifting the soul from pages, 
sagely letting go with surrender ...

poem says, say something pithy here, Edward 
and I laugh, heartily from the inside 
to outside myself 
I hope I am never sick of more joy 
may I hold myself a held baby bird palmed 
against the construencies of what reality means ...

poem says, we will not become coral reefs 
blighted bleached blemished, 
we may not always be Kermit green 
but sometimes we are Peter Lorre sheen-ing it 
like gas spilling gas in the gutters while it rains ...

I remember South Troy alleys smelled of coal 
and wood fires and I remember saying to myself 
that by not saying it sometimes 
I could get caught in the algorithm 
of what these are, what poems are here, 
all the unseen pieces of me ... 

each time a poem arrives, 
some newborn holiday falls into place, 
a pile of destiny 
a once and maybe 
the message it seems, 
is to listen 
is for me ...

booking meteors 
I watch the deciduous trees begin to eat the sky, 
this night is frog quiet, draped owl song-ed, 
the silhouetted horizon is velvet belly soft, 
hung in bone fuzzy sway melodies, 
red elms, bur oaks, catalpas, black walnut, sugar maples, hickory 
and all the other obscure angiosperms here 
they pierce and poke 
driving the stanzas ...

conifers in northern climes, however 
rhythm the seasons 
they spend summer days in shade 
a warm quiet background score 
while all the leafy instruments play ...

lying back watching with magic eyes 
I am looking for the ancients 
to scratch fleeting bits of color 
into the inky black above me ...

I start to get cold, 
I start thinking about 
getting ready for work 
I am always ready to play 
again to work and again to say ...

because just as the poem 
serves two purposes, so do I ...

EJR ©

April 21, 2017

Può tutto essere detto come una poesia .............................. NaPoWriMo2017 #22




inside what's said,
 we are waiting words  
intended mentioned mended 
and the fences between 
water and circus
bread with dinner
small leaves when spring
all things said
like a poem


I'm outside the twentieth century looking back upon 
the age of space and race and other misguided pursuits 
of truth for science and reason alone 
Tom Robbins wrote or at least how I remembered he did 
that Descartes almost killed Pan 
seems Pan might not like 
the twenty first century much either ...
I live in a time and town
a culture of sight and sound 
that praises righteous death
when is it, Love catches its breath , here 

I dream in explorations 
carnal to carnage 
benevolent to beneficial 
bees, birds and their wonderful wings 

there is always 
going to be, a place 
we felt needed being there 
where we were wear 
for the sake of being there 

the stone passages were narrowing 
it smelled of torched stale air 
dancing, with the curious scent 
of rain lingering beneath us, 
we pressed on, our eyes widened 

some rode horses, others mules, some even walked 
and at night we camped and nourished our bodies and souls 
we watched the Lyrids pour from the Big Dipper 
glad to have Spring begin to peel Herself into the Boreals 

might and flight abide graveyard hides of elephants, 
everyone has the right moment that be coming for them 
for everyone has a portal to passage of what is and will be 
a journey to the higher selves we often catch glimpses of when dreaming 
we heard the drumming and the nautilus sky trumpeting stars 
and we tried to feel our way along the power lines, surfing electrical surges  
we said urge words out loud, no more things that killed without mercy 
for this kind of pride was not the lion kind but rather that desire 
for physical absolution, empty can and does become 
when now is filled to near burst 
with all those superimposed 
and dead Schrödinger cats 
we keep seeing when 
poison eating goes 
out of style 

CODA : an afterlude 

ratchety clatchety rickety flicking 
the ol' rust bucket ambled herky-jerkily 
with every combustion interloping 
in slow rust through the engine 
over the odd ruts of the gravel road 
we drove as much as we did, to keep moving 
we sat loosely, riding role with 
sways and leaning(s), being 'on the road' 
and every why we came to know 
little kingdoms and salvation(s) 
took root in the exhales to grow 
to Love like the ending of a poem 
sometimes, being all the time 
with me ...

EJR ©

ditty-bout-kitty .......................................................................... NaPoWriMo2017 #21a



(this is an early industrial music tuned poem, 
a dub-step predecessor marionette tale) 

my name is marilyn 
and I like paraffin 
poured over me 
I like shrink wrap 
clubbing groovy 
on ecstasy 
my name is marilyn

you're going to sell my titillation(s)
tell my stories while still bleeding me, 
eating my almost(s) and
living with a smile in your residences 
trucking me as entertainment

and with entropy, 
you'll smell deep parts of me 
musing the stink(s) 
as I am thinking 
who the hell is going to 
go get me gummi candy, catnip 
and play me some jazz records today

EJR ©

April 20, 2017

with words, eye wonder, reading .............................................. NaPoWriMo2017 #21 .................................................................. (maybe I'll stop counting or numbering them and just pop them out like alien babies)


what colors 
the black 
and white 
of each moment 
we become aware in 
we are a ware in  
we are wearing  
what we were 
willing to sacrifice wholly 
while listening 
to the fuzzy cries 
of something ...
like mullein-poems, as lions 
are always hungry 
especially those 
that like to learn 
just to forget 
in order to learn 
reading pulses  
hearts and lungs 
reaching to drink 
this from another's neck 
whether weathered 
metaphor 
or not 
for example 
is one of our eternal tomes 
and really, a must read ...

I wonder why I get depressed 
loyalty to the soul it seems 
is at an all time low 
reading for pleasure way down too 
the act of reading in and of itself is 
less grand ritual of words, grace and intention 
than it is a terse propping 
up of shallow emotionalism 
easy consumption 
versus deep tined 
voracious free thinking 
ride that train 
for awhile without being 
a hermit, I dare ya ...

today I made the mistake 
of reading the news again 
crockeries abound, everything is rife brambles 
thorns and cults of access 
weighted bloom lotteries sold 
with a soothing kind of shyster spin 
a circus barker harking 
the din light, serenading 
in what maybe(s) me and again, 
what of us in the dark 
would unfurl, under imprecise 
gas lamp, wrought iron 
crept dew 
after midnight 
calibrations ...
is ten penny alley 
meant to be 
filled with echoed 
"I wonder"s, I wonder ...

I wonder 
about this current wave of apathy 
our ritual adhesions and hierarchies 
their corresponding riptides
tsunamis and undertows 
as I play mirror mirror-ing me 
in the puddle drop circles 
of an early morning rain 
do butterflies really 
cause hurricanes ...

is a chance to be born 
always going to be there 
for the you, 
you see trying 
to circumvent the me
I wonder, why, Love 
is not as commonplace 
as one might pace 
Life eternal with, 
is that childlike awe, 
I possess 
when reading, 
always going to be there 
are books always going to take me places 
or have me feel at home 
are they always going to be 
my saving graces,  
when I am most vulnerable
will they always 
be there ...

always?

I wonder,  

I wonder 


EJR ©



-----------------------

 photo by me

April 19, 2017

braving rebirth chronology : a tawdry-tawny suckling madness ...................................................................... NaPoWriMo2017 #20





what do we want do we know maybe no 
we may be blessed 
but yes, whatever it is, 
please be just out of reach 
we preach every breach you know 
because we always want now to be it, so ...

what I feel the Earth is doing is rebuking our authority 
we either feel it or perish or at least punch holes in our soul 
so all the observable cats 
and spaces the electrons went 
in our snow globes, disappear  
the soul as unstoppable seems an idea 
like the Martian atmosphere 
there then not 
there then not 
there then not ...

JEdgarHoover P Resident 
forever shady huck 
stirred from other side 
Welsh fae in cahoots with old roots 
hagstones knead any demons afoot, 
especially those that be hearth hangers 
the kind of soot covering the Sun 
if ye let them, mischief makers 
they like to hear what we think when 
sack cloth is thrown over daylight 
they find us entertaining, despite ourselves ... 

vignette wavered accordion measures 
aka how pieces of me wander off

ghost jaw harp choralists talk drumming 
desert sand quartering wind, 
thoughts of thirsty willows 
bogs too, with cattails 
and wood ducks 
in an ever Spring 
turning towards Summer 
they sing cicada 
in cycle uterus here, 
an always dreamed of place 
or otherwise thought paradise too ...

the taste of witch 
is where 
rivers run skin 
treed to bleeding 
till and sword o'er 
covering the hollowed halls 
hallowed bones once ago,  we are 
facets, branches, herbs, clays and metals, 
the kettle rain again, we are gear clocking eons 
and I have only begun to listen ... 
to myself and to all the coins 
in the fountains, voices calling mountains ... 

the Goddess laces pace-breaths with why we clutch at things 
desperate to feel something real, outside our own desires ... 

scene cuts to my phone booth 
tooth brushing up on ancient copper mines 
here, where I call myself stilled, catching my breath 
always pursuing the poem, in what's left 
of the brave new world ... 


EJR ©