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 
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 
Julius Caesar 
and all that jazz ...


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 
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 ...


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 
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 

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...
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 
to find 

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 


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 
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 ...


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 ...


May 7, 2017

we went colored mad together: a poem slow infused memory ................ scent and me

it takes us to nations 
elation(s) for raced places 
time emits us 
spit bit bridle certainties 
so well, now, how's ya hearse choice choke horse life after-all 
not very fancy, are we, no pants see, down on your luck 
no one has to be real 
rocking the bellies, 
the what belies, 
being lies 

ooh, the poem goes oo-oo-oo 
here, there are 
bobbing head chattel rhythms 
you cannot escape from ...
legacy structures 
robber baron 
outlaw mentalities 
we are expressive 
in our tenacities 
here, we have minds full 
of passed on know how 
cow-sugars, fox 
and goat sacks 
here, we know 
what is needed 
where the water goes ...

the rivers here 
get muddy quickly 
slower angling silt sliding  
warm booty mouthing  
the Mississippi delta
eventually meeting 
salt of the seas 

segue, sanguine please pleasing 
the squeezing bargains, harp-y-ing 
into intracellular, let me tell you later(s) 
the piece 


accidentally cap locking 

the micro poem 
throwing it back 
when it rains 

with an occasional close 
honed onto 
fading the skips 
times when 
you are falling 
driving eggs 
legs, skies 
knowing the wind 
is in the eons 
some kind 
of ghost calendar 
joyful moments 
carving stone 
parts of us, to atone 
for why(s), 
the prices pain paid 
is Love  
in this Life 

things we do 
to remember 
need not 
be won or 
carried with us 
they are everywhere 
and anywhere 
the wind went 

last stanza 
soft kicker 
sod housing 
the ants at work 
I, a hopper at heart 
still trying to learn 
how ...


May 5, 2017

the news is snewed shit festivalia, fecal aid for everything .................. it binds you to your unbound inhumane poems

image found on internet
photographer unattributed 

GOP = Greed Over People 
Democrats = Do everything misguided or cry republicans are totally sinister 

Independents = what the fuck are they anymore, 
though this poem recognizes the grandfather from Vermont as a possible exception 
but illusory means of proclamation have been known to fill my fridge before 
stoner food man, watching sparkly things go round and round in the microwave man 
man why didn't you fight more about California ...

Fringe parties = been sown as bad seeds so long most are conditioned at automation 
to write them off as ludicrous or dangerous and a folly to follow ...

labor feeds fixes and bloodens the gears 
poor bones have always died quickly 
and with necessity 
at the beck and call 
of towers tall 

so those wanting to know 
at this point 
in the poem, 
please defer research 
to the time skipping 
ability of a nautilus shell 
of a woodland snail for instance 

I mean, if you are 
really that impatient 
go to last stanza now ...

affordable care 
we act as if we care 
America, as an institution DOES NOT CARE about YOU, period. 
people are manipulated and easily so, me too 
I watched Baywatch on TV and might the movie too 
a mad dash to get the cash and coconut 
the trading post is close and  
what BB laden hoses supposes 
like socks filled with soap 
to clean memory 
from Life and Love 
as embodiment(s)
of ideas 
to murder 

we are usually lacing fear with implied threat here 
we have labeled this terror, a tactic 
what politics and religion 
has given us ...

thus we bare ourselves 
when alone to ask if  
we can care to afford me 
acting like you care accordingly 

we have reached that critical mass 
of wholly I don't give a fuck 
when the Earth as a commodity 
won't last another few decades before 
damaging changes have taken hold 

community after community 
will be sold chattel and spectacle styled 
to know security 
will be to know the cage 

outside there is palpable 
desolation, rows after rows 
of what we sow and had sown 
slow siphon-ing what colored our world 
this future variant 
is never letting go 
of our forgetting 
of the when(s) 

we recorded everything 
had library upon library to prove 
what a big bunch of dumb asses we are and were 

chances are and beyond the sea playing on heavy rotation 
on the automated radio shows still ghost going 
transmitters powered by solar panels

the future seems more greasy than dusty 
but I could just be looking at the interrupted streams of rain 
the eons take going calendar and bones 
every time a soul cries for articulation 

the churches, temples, mosques 
and other sacred gathering pools 
of ka and ba, list the entry ways 
to the beyonds, heaven 
for a layman or poor reader
people in line remark 
that this looks like post 9-11 'merica 
only the floor is more slippery 
and the tones more seeping 

there isn't music playing 
but the sounds seem to say 
to each of us what we want 
and need to hear ourselves with 
better than beats, best headphones ever 
I said to myself now or never 
get with the rhythm levers  
and let knowing thyself how  
be part of a poem, part of a people 
this could be my prayer to tell 
my whirling dance to spell  
I am, is and came to be 
without rotunda, or steeple 
and grand voiced wisdom 
we don't smell to see 
what is weather belled 
we all just want to hear 
that tone 
that rides off 
into the sunset 
blissful in decay 
each day, a future 
we dared remember 
to color further in sorrow 
for what once was ...

we once believed 
we were created 
not realizing creative 
was the game 
to be, we 
the same gods 
the same manufacturers 
the same cities, 
and quarries
we are alien hybrids damn it 
now get over it 
and get on with 
more and more Loving 
and being aware of it 
every moment you can 
peace out 
poems shout 
too and can 
if you write 
and speak 
those words 
of yours ...


May 3, 2017

in tonal varieties, bearing down upon thee-isms

take me in, take me home the poem speaks doubles 
spoken token broken bits of me I seek 
comma to karma, a chameleon revealing alien 
secretion-all-relationships between encoding 
we part ways and the bones are the days 
we decorated as countenances 
I hear one of Huldra's Nymphs play 
this same song, a maestro in the rain 
bleeding skin, tissue paper carnations 
falling off her like dyed barely dried 
sales pitches for the eyes 
discounted like Easter egg coloring kits 
I bought the night before Beltane ... 

the stanza here 
is dedicated to the city style minds of America, Rome, and Babylon: 
Persopolis, Tenochtitlan , Timbuktu and Nineveh 
never recovered from the losses 
of indicator species 
frogs and bees man 
frogs and fucking bees 
tiny robots to pollinate 
metal in the air to dare the clouds 
and perhaps shape the future 
long enough to escape 
with enough of us and stuff 
to start this all over again 
we are a gullible species, aren't we

"somewhere in outer space 
where God has prepared a place 
for those that trust Him and Obey" 
* ( a part of a sunday school song from my childhood)

this is the music playing 
when amplified progress desires 
soft tissue ambassadors 
to the soul 
survival/will want bones to be Senate 
sex organs and brain 
to share the mouthpiece/leadership role 
they'd also like to do this thing truncated-ly 

twang is slang sound 
midnight escaping into the daylight 
must be late December or June 
somewhere again 

I ask myself how does everyone fit inside my mind 
do the voices take turns switching the switches 
and dreaming of riches to shower 
those I've un-comforted along my ways 
not so fast past TV night you see 
nothing changes blames witches 
because the churning of culture 
only seems to 
want Lilith 
kicked out 
for demanding 
what was rightfully Hers 

I swear the allegiance codes change every day 
and to drive these roads at night 
well let's just say, irksome is a pleasant gadfly 
not I as I ran into an old woman with a window 
for a stomach 
and the future 
on the very ends 
of her pursed lips 
why do I think of candy 
when impending doom approaches 
play games with the words to change the mood 
doom odom modo mood or something like that 
dramatic segue into closing credits 
scenes of barber chairs and milky white linens 
ruffling in a sunny wind 
while pinned to the line 
by maidens in long dresses 
a long shot is tracking 
the audience grasps 
we, principles and puppeteers 
behind the curtains 
rift the drifting 
of story 
into a smiling dark 
poem has grown to know 
when the endings begin 
where wombs carry to term 
the weight of our sins


April 30, 2017

there are no damning parts of us ...................................................... NaPoWriMo2017 #30

we made it through, poem and eye 
nose knew those then begging 
were somehow wishing 
the picture was less image 
and more scent 
as memory 
remembers best 
while looking within 
thunder and convulsions of an old cat seizing with 
an 'I remember to remember' 
everything has a smell 
you want to carry with you 
for safeguarding against 
or posterity's sake 
or at least self relevance, 

dusty ramparts lamp arts somewhere in outer space 
the elite have built a place with access to plebes 
and other classifications, only by lottery dream card, 
subscriptions to an afterlife 
dependencies on outside 
structured good behaviors 
systemic interlude-al 
recital tired rites 
rolling rights 
we ask you 
to read them 
speak them rhythm-ed 
to us beyond 
small sample sized 
identity kits 
you complete 
the shallow grafting 
of our bones 
under spotlight
and vetting processes 

what is good behavior, the cardinal sings, 
starkly on fire against the swath exploding green 
of a cold wet Spring morning 
in moments like these, future 
is a thought paused 
while observing the weather 
with a cigarette 

I question more than less of me, 
what I see, what I dare feel as myself, shelf leaning 
are poems, mine or yours, ours or noted collections 
mason jars patina-ed to yesteryear as we like them to be 

who was, is irrelevant, who is just is 
and the rest of the time poem is eye wanting 
to be a nose, wanting to be 
wanting to be wanting wanting to see 
sight is something worth being blind for 

I desire to be a lantern 
held more for spite 
so someone might 
see that I too 
have my eyes closed, here 

I hear calm voiced sweet sorrows fill backgrounds 
warm pies rise on sill, waiting still like most things 
for their number to be called 

words are coded to ancient texts 
we drive the myriads with sects 
and different dictionaries 
of the ritual clings 

we are always that cardinal 
clung to the sway bend 
of a pine, heavy 
with last night's rain 
southerlies desperate 
to race over 
the miles and miles 
the tilled earth of my rural sojourn 

I am waded desolation(s) 
deprivations too 
rung with power 
and surrender 
for any what 
that can be known 
when a poem ends 
goodbye-ing a satisfying 
NaPoWriMo ...