August 26, 2015

oh gypsy, will you dance your theater for me...

'Der begehrliche Faun', 1867
 by Mihály Zichy 


oh gypsy, will you dance your theater for me

it was a dream 
she wore certainty 
inside a chaos 
that drew me in...

her irises 
were ornate 

midnight approached 
I saw her there, I said
I need you to take me
to a land of escape 
preferably some vaudevillian 
back alley portal 
in gas lamp flicker 
wear your eyes  

a lined smoky come closer
with hypnotic dulcet shine 
spread'em o'er the cobblestones 
the corner wrought iron quiet housed 
glistening, stabbed in fuzzy fingered 
neon role plays and enticements, chance offstage
in a dark doorway waiting...


to sit with the air breathing forms...

to sit with the air breathing forms...

portal shoe shiny
mushrooms eat trees 
time eats bones 
I search stars 
craned neck sway 
bobbing slight neigh 
and yeah to sounds...

I am wound steeped 
deep wobble cyclical 
a nature-d gravity maturing 
in fast cellular telomere breakdown...

wisdom is 
cosmological blink therapy 
faith in one's self 
and I've left it 
for the looters 
on the streets 
in the cities 
far away from 
where I want to be 

there, in the urban decay 
is organized roman legions 
and harpies who don't believe

it is in the woodlands 
in the foreground 
away in the distance 
that I come to live
can I be abounding 
and unbound 
at the same time
ranting rise 
and wax 
from lost 
to found 
near each shelter 
the scent captures
in gathering my deaths
with countless leaves 
ready to fall 

I've come 
to collect a few 
to burn on occasion 
in the Winter fires...

EJR ©  

clear across pastoral realms...

photo by Edward Rinaldi ©

clear across pastoral realms...

mostly every poem is some form of why 
beneath meaning
membrane corpus dark 
unseen inside 
a treeline 
in my distance 
sensing tactile 
to instinct
how mad I am 
in my incarnate 
asymmetrical geometry 

lust for the quiet 
poem is a parking lot 
mostly at night

their is 
an ever present desire 
to please 
to be watchful and wise
coming to each
point laced eon
we near end 
and far end 
our ancient to
modern civilized 
human today...

mostly poem wants as I
roped tornado-ed life
strafes against smooth 
weave straw at first 
then the bargain 
gold and fabric rumpled 
across a bed 
at odd times 
in odd light 
not made often enough
for most to see...

we draw our orbits 
through cycles 
rains to seas 
seasons, reasons 
and patterns 
we pretend to be...

why this is important 
poems says matters not
our's, is in that finding 
humankind a path 
of genuine maybe 
as right as rain...

I never really see
love sometimes
twist-tilt the grid
purposing its imbalance 
equatorial and sartorial 
in unfinished hems and seams...
dressing us what it feels we'll 
accept as how come 
we divine questions 
as to why we are
tethered with 
trying to perfect 
honest cell birth 
as an expression 
of why we might be here, 
on the Earth
in some constancy
of Icarus almost 
stopping melting
words swiftly insisting 
a fleeting permanent 
our wants to be(s) 
sounds skin makes 
bearing a soul 
sweetly chained 
to a cage of bones...

I am 
life-grotto seeking past
my mountainous ignorance...

finding poem 
already knows 
each way 
I die slowly 
while playing 
Hansel and Gretel parts 
again and again
crow eating crumbs
poem numbs 
itself with 
in the conversations
I leave behind...

poem mostly 
feeds here 
as I am
hungry too
in the shadow 
of the path 
the Sun


August 21, 2015

I mend wounds in the broken asphalt...

image from a 1977 performance of 'Blaubart'
choreographed by Pina Bausch

I mend wounds in the broken asphalt 

in the walls 
I am listening 
for the crickets
trumpets and cadavers 
after dark
what matters is lathering 
my attention with heartlessness
this way no body 
I inherit
can outrun the words
tomes and loam(s)
guarding the gates
all I have to do 
is the Antigone 
with a sharp stick
my nose will see me through

each poem has intention
did I mention, modernity
imprisons the mind...?
so mostly
I play patterns 
as jail break songs 
singing and dancing 
to myself 
that shadows 
do belong here 
so very near 
where light fades 


August 20, 2015

admonition versus premonition...

French postcard labelled JA SERIE 589.
'Eve being tempted to eat the forbidden fruit.'
by Jean Agélou circa 1910's

admonition versus premonition 

(have a sense of silly and pleasure handy
this incarnation is too short and often doesn't 
have the scent of roses,  for Eve was never weak 
she was merely second to Lilith)

there is no one thing
that can bring 
the destructive tenacity 
and desperate means 
of dressing up love as I can 
when I want many times over 
the temporal splendors of you...

sate and fate went walking 
hand in hand and said sate to fate 
lets fuck beneath the bandstand 
I'll grandstand with pretense 
and you my darling will unmask 
all my clocks with potions...

you can pretend to ask 
if rain always wants back 
to the ocean or the clouded sky 
and every time 
you or I are hearing 
the snare and timpani drums 
we can toy with this notion 
that devotion is supposed 
to outlast the moment we're in...


August 17, 2015

I hear a-knocking...

photo by Daniel Mennerich ©

I hear a-knocking

we have entered a season of reckoning 
during which many will perish...
and though I am loathe to say...
each and every day there is 
a growing insatiable disconnect vine, 
much like bittersweet...
wrapping itself around the fences 
we choose to be neighborly with...
choking the slats between 
the gardens on every side...

there are no winners 
should this Winter come to stay
and only those who dare hope inside 
the deepest parts of their light divine 
shall see Spring again with humanity's eyes...

love is in fact as intact 
as skeletons found 
in silt bottom bogs 
begging for skin 
and articulation...

the soul knows to wait
for there are 
cycles upon cycles 
of choice and observe 
some fates we pray 
never to see 
in the dawn 
of a new day 

the strain of a cradle 
with humans doing not 
what they please 
but easing into slavery 
causes my soul to rot 

my bones are nearly 
all that is left of me
ghost and ache 
bereft of feeling 
to take with thee 
a scent or trace nose 
remembrance of me

and yet, somehow
I do love you 
despite all of this 
so perhaps 
fading away 
is meant
to be my bliss


August 14, 2015


photo by Sonja Quintero ©


each morning I wake up 
hoping the apocalypse has come 
and gone and I am one of those 
left behind with my palms full 
of fading erotic dreams 
and pockets full of selfish wishes 

I keep watching the night sky 
to make sure there are no heroes left 
in this world for me to believe in 
no more golden moments 
that could triumph over darkness 
I make sure before each amble 
to only know upon my waking soul 
there is only another day waiting 
to be embraced or slipped past 

I am what slowly burns 
rebel to revolting to molting to ash
if you ask they might say 

he deserved nothing 
he deserved everything 
he might have stood a chance
love seemed just underneath 
the glassy look in his eyes 
where ghosts came fast 
and stayed through the night 
inheriting his morning poem


August 13, 2015

lost festival goer in a nursery school Sunday aka a kite song

'Vuelo Magico O Zamfonia', Remedios Varo, circa 1960 ©

lost festival goer in a nursery school Sunday aka a kite song

"...jesus will come again 
and though we don't know when 
the countdown's gettin' 
closer everyday..." (lyrics from a children's bible song called 'countdown')


I am high on molly and folly
stumbling about the edges 
of my backyard...

who goes there, I bellow 
with a serene cackle 
turned playful baritone laughter...

I follow these sounds 
not sure if anyone or thing 
I can fear or love
is really there as I only saw 
the glowing eyes of a few raccoons 
foraging the berry bushes 
fading in a yellow leafed 
late Summer wane...

meteors overhead 
kept me craned sky-ward 
the poems, well, 
someone else 
can write them 
when I'm dead...

for I have already 
strung the sky 
with a certainty of music
as far as my eyes could see...

here, have my nose...


August 12, 2015

does it matter that I like to mix my metaphors heavy-handedly...

Dorothea Tanning, 'The Guest Room' (1950-1952) ©

does it matter that I like to mix my metaphors heavy-handedly 

this poem is abstractly about:
sex in a church 
without the pretenses 
that dreams undermined 
with booze usually work

and whether you're into 
helping souls weather 
the new or old world 
from which they 
had come from, you are
temporarily stuck here 
a stanza in the beginning...


to me 
in fear 
and snidely high ...
life is a veneer  
a piece-meal city 
a town, village or small camp
churning social factory and style
flatware and table manners  
for all ages...


(robots are going to make food 
eventually from humans, so we might as well 
be both battery and seed)

(overlapping overheard 
poem walking my mind's eyes 
driving home)

don't be colored 
old, young, sick 
or poor in America 
the new Jerusalem 
is hungry 
for your defiance 

under imperial eyes
Christendom has come 
from the rafters 
to steal the rain 
and poison the wells

don't tell us 
we are a racist nation...
we know this implicitly 
with or without lane changes 
we pull ourselves over 
and along with
morphing hope into signs, 
we've painted confinements 
into our read lines 
and monthly payments 
passing buck and blame, 
imaginary or not 
we play the games... 
crumbs and stones 
go find yourself in 
forests and homes 
hone your survival 
within the grand chaos 
of progress as life 
as musical chairs

your name is insignificant 
your power rests 
in how much pain 
you drink your humanity with


(automobilia pimp and cunt, wait...are the red lights here, 
a district or song) 

pinching grace 
can be an art 

we transit 
sky calling 
to palms down dirty 
sacred houses 
and hallowed grounds 
we transit 
fruiting our labor 
more and more 
for those who guard 
oligarchical hierarchy 
stored two dimensions 
the bent shuns 
and little bits 
of light let in

open door entrances 
coupled to subtle exits 

hear ye we 
invite thee
to all great halls 
to forge and forgive 
all your sin 
no matter 
intent, content 
or size therein
most prayers are made 
to serve yourself 
a coffin-ized 
we just plan 
to take advantage 
of your need 
and situation

sing with me 
the riddle of the sphinx 
as a scent of nefertiti 

cradle to little bed 
then trundle king cottage 
and spoon fed again 

<fade to black 
darkened room 
open window 
your eyes adjusted 
thin curtain billowing>

sing with me
                           you whisper 
sing with me
                           I am 

leaving most things 
open to interpretation 
guide your own measures 
control or surrender 
life as a willful purpose 
is a no-brainer, a never-ender 


August 8, 2015

mirror, mirror, am I humpty-dumpty...?

image by EJR ©

mirror, mirror, am I humpty-dumpty...?

I ask myself in the mists before declaration... 

what are doing hiding your sad testimony 
behind clever ribaldry and purification rites
inter-ring-ly smitten lusty with words for limbs 
do you tongue the quiet fenlands wishing sea or rain
do you downtrodden-ly make like a broken man play
purposing ill reputed bitten with fits of escapism
and tactile sensational crawling into(s) and towards 
do you ever want to be contented, comforted and happy...

or is it just going to be 
a series of back alley wombs 
fertile scores 
any one more 
of something 
that makes you feel 
put together again...


August 6, 2015

Mediterranean(ly) dreaming...

Thomas Cole, 'Prometheus Bound'

Mediterranean(ly) dreaming (inspired by a Ted Hughes poem)

the grapes are stressed
the wine will be sweet 
with careful pruning

all life begins 
as a poem
of will and desire 
undercarriage crawling 
beneath the boughs...



a deep Summer processional 
in the confessions of Antigone
as told from Prometheus' perspective...

he of a lovely liver on a crag 
he could drink away the night 
he said, as long as he stayed 
impaled and preyed to the light 



"...remember every death, 
even that of a star, 
will leave a ghost mostly, 
an echo that will reach, 
a finger vine fleeting sense 
of permanence, 
remember rapacious hunger 
fills passing shells and bones 
with the hard parts of memory 
pain and pleasure 
serving eons in the rain..."

" will repeatedly seek limbs 
to partially glimpse your eternities, 
each of your observations 
is a moving theater 
of light and the void, 
very comfortable 
offstage, waiting 
direction and intention 
in the dark..."



we are a clawed 
and curved beak ready 
willing for you 
again to accept 
center stage 
and the Dawn...


August 5, 2015

I hear a here I am poem..

photo by Albert Arthur Allen, circa 1920's

I hear a here I am poem

alive I am 
another morning 
in the river city 
of uncle sam 

alive I am 
hustling edges 
filling my soul 
a fertilized rage 
into dovetailed rejoice 
love comes a-knocking, 
sometimes without me 
even ever knowing I am 
almost always there waiting...

the empty space ghost poem litany, leaves behind a glow 
like coal born too early to be a diamond, so it just burns 
until a beg of ash for sky...

lady liberty has her guns and nuns on the run with high 
heels on...

I seek the goddess
I might have Tuscan inclinations 
I wouldn't mind having you too

in my every move from tourniquet messianic tending of the 
window sill plants to the leaps of my faithless ideas 
gathered for more bread...where for art thou paternal 
guidance Caesar...which face of which mother have you to 
send us today...for we need shoulders and bosoms to lean 
and suckle never needs us as much as we need 
it...happiness doesn't grow on is the tree...cycle 
through destiny just to be..right there where she is 
now...some have pithy prose, descriptive tones and bones 
to dress and shed in skins and colors...the eyes are a 
figure-head because they long ago ceded power to the 
nose to remember all that we did and will this body, 
with or without you...I once traveled to see U2 in Europe, 
'Joshua Tree' tour...Bologna and Rotterdam were my 
favorite ignorant I was back then...a tad bit 
more innocent too...though young and still handsome with 
eyes of blue and a high sex drive...I could sure gloss over 
my jagged edges so everything could be a scene...rain, 
snow, wind and seasons, tilt-bright shiny lies hide where 
the knife gets in...more made pieces remembered, 
dismembered...bone cage harmonizing the barely held onto 
semblances of what reality may do drunk at the 
wheel...hitch-hiking the trains and stations of the poem, a 
page at a time with an open end return ticket from 
paradise lost, found and otherwise remarked upon, 
fleeting or not, stone carved wind invisible tongue gathers 
of the bombast of modernity, the poem remembers, 
sometimes more than the sum of you...


July 31, 2015

I watch the spiders...

photo by EJR ©

I watch the spiders 

they are near 
the spinach and onions 
they weave from the edges 
of the planting boxes...

tunnelers, sates 
and orbital web spinners
snare and repeat, 
quick as a flash, 
fly hungry turns 
fast into dinner 
wrapped for later...

there is a fated 
and capitulate beauty 
strung above them 
a dapple gloaming light holds
the certainty of sorrow...

the maple leaf's thirst 
nearing August 
in upstate New York...

in places where rivers 
and mountains meet 
and not just above 
the Tappan Zee
this sorrow leans 
with us
into the Sun, foretells 
of sweet cyclical bleed 
luring our eyes 
with pretty burn marks 
as scent imperceptibly disappears 
into a 'morrow desert Winter...

algorithms calculate 
need, seed 
and season
I am just here 
to observe 
on occasion...


July 28, 2015

the gymnopilus junonius suite ...

photo by Tony Wills ©

   the gymnopilus junonius suite 

there I was 

strolling through gardens 
trees, ponds, berries, 
ornamentals, high hedges, 
gnomes and statues 
that seemed to glow...
Carrara white moonlight bowed 
string playing after burn memory 
the way they kept their gaze, said to me
listen poet, melody is but one path here, strewn 
about, so go find your own seedy bloomed almost(s)...
harbor notes 
there were 
broken soapstone 
pedestal pieces 
curling like fingers
guiding me to a bench 
where I watched Artemis bathe 
next to a babble and little fall 
of a stream, time-slow tonguing 
an old mountain wanting 
to ride rivers to the sea...
here I am 
sitting back 
listening with
my nose in the air 
eyes closed
kissing the rain...

I am a basket 
of need in reeds 
wading through 
what empties me
low to high tided-ly
the insides 
and outsides 
of things