March 7, 2017

like me ( a howling Remus and Romulus darling )

hen toothed with regale 
shell broken skin 
any moment slagged 
in the bubbles 
and spits 
of observation ... 

we were mostly Antigone kept 
while Prometheus slept 
Morpheus and the fae 
would say ...

the wonder 
and awe 
our never sum 
our wind 
rain and err 
when there 
lather chaos 
fragrant entrances 
exits with feasts ... 

<birdhouse theater story, continuum calling bees>

my daughter is a mad weaver 
I spied her vocabulary list 
and sped into it like a poor kid 
with a pocket full of change 
heading to the candy store ...

the twenty words are woven 
into this vignette from here : 

( to you the reader I hope it doesn't matter 
that I didn't list them as much as splatter 
them from here on out, it was to prove to her 
we could find a way inside the words 
so that we could felt the light 
with how shadows embrace 
every underpinning 
of our souls 
or knot )

commencement gradual 
imperceptible rise 
tide surfing spawn mechanical(s)
wading through organic portal geometry 
asymmetry is pure ardor 
chaos vine-d at first, thirsty bones demanding attention 
with fervency we staged reprieves, make believes 
made marionettes in trees 
told every nose to hold a crown 
while we watch eyes become kites, 
each a different color 
wafted wanting 
wear became sate  
wind in carve satiated, ate ... a nap waiting to happen 
with marks left behind 
as a way to say 
what thoughts came 
through today

I hijacked that single printed 
sheet assignment of words 
and said I dare you to hand this in ... 

she didn't of course but just the same 
spry sly and wily I am her father 
and partly held to blame 
for her at least 
thinking about it 
for a bit 

(which of course is me as water is to ducks)

In the beginning of every story 
there seems a sentence 
in which the writer induces you 
by tone as a sensory perceptive 
tuning in of words 
you might imagine wanting to say ... 
as if the writer were 
some linguistic angler fish 
with a dream state fob of feel 
wielded to reel you in, 
to begin being content : 
bones, flesh and skin of a soul 
what will and its binary partner Love 
seek to sing while aglow with life.

With quiet fortitude, I leaned into the wind on the journey home. 
Sledge loaded precariously, hounds at the ready howling, I command, we commence. 
The night was many knives, we were thirsty thieves, a team for destination. 
We could have waited the night, that would have been prudent, 
but would have missed the northern lights. 
Winter has many countenances, a new Moon sky a-swept 
pierce lit stars and Borealis, being among the best. 
Luckily, my dogs were mostly rescues 
and very amiable to the task at hand. 
So any endeavor became joyful bonding. 
Some were emaciated, nursed by pack and me to gallop strength. 
My house was their house, a true abode for human and loyal beast. 
When knowing the trek was to home, they sped against distance, 
a torrent of legs and open mouths. 
The reaching of said destination with its reward 
of kennel and play was an elixir. 
They taught me how to be benevolent to myself, 
how to feel myself still a part of nature. 
When one is injured, we might all stay together in convalescence. 
And I quite suspect, they all see apparitions, their friends passed perhaps. 
A pack, they sense, is always there, aware wearing 
past present and future in the thin 
membrane-d warm kennel 
living-glow-of-bones-Charnel house


March 4, 2017

PS I agree with Ms Manners gift registries are rude ................. that and I think there's LSD in my coffee over and out from the hinterlands

we bramble-d through cathedral wombs 

it must be Spring 
mothers are reading Judy Bloom 
sniffing their armpits again 

gadfly or botfly 
you choose how to be 
bothered by life 
from tiny eggs 

an elucidated non declarative
aka brain spilling like mercury 
with curious globular unity and
adhesion(s) on the linoleum floor 

whereas it is now ... 
this morning I spied 
a superpower my daughter 
seemingly had been born with, 
a chameleon sticky tongue she hones 
as I am watching her Nona's lazy eye fall 
from its socket, my daughter is watery spry 
with sprocket-ish viscous expression ... 
she flicks at it, her tongue sticks to it ... 
and the eye ends back up in her Nona's 
socket from clear across the room ...


when she whispers what why where and when .................................. ( I don't fucking care, about the how, you dig? )

vanquish fish wish root calendar 
pie window cool warming daylight 
dusk and dawn have you 
pear belly sacred geometry 

saw the hearse loaded up tonight 
thirty years or so from now, it's me 
if I or We may be so lucky 
what Death asks : 
is it worse for humans 
to lose Love 
in order 
to gain Love 
or to never to have felt 
those tides that undue a soul 
core lock and bone 
tourniquet life caged symphonies  
three panels in comic underwear ...

my name is Edward 
and I don't care 
if you remember me or not 
because I can't shake my scent 
and I really don't know much 
about anything in particular 
though I do have an opinion 
same as you most likely 
here at the end of the poem ... 


February 26, 2017

within raw symphonic soul cycles

photo by Edward Rinaldi 

there are many here among us 
of course we are, bubble and spit bits 
sixteen tons, bars and iron rich shits 
cauldron and marsh reeds tidal swayed 
you all sense basket and womb gyroscopic eye 
scent says nothing, knows you are where here lives 
spawn and belonging rain river and sea 

what kind or 
defined music 
do you see 
yourself within 

do you remember 
wonder, awe and whimsy 
is where melody 
seeds itself 
patter pitter 
and slow seasons 
like canyons 
and the way 
we catch 
the Sun 
and free 
from time 
wearing us 
image and archetype 
and though ripe 
with myself and poem 
most moments 
observably yours 
the reader 
I must admit 
I do like aliens 
surreal allegory 
image algorithms 
prince valiant haircuts 
and bowling shirts ...

February 25, 2017

the maples are bleeding ........................................................................ (a warm February poem mined from the air near where southern Canada looks after its sometimes wayward neighbors to the south)

photo by Adam Collinge ©

In the southern Boreal forests 
often Spring nears 
when ravens pluck grey hairs 
to stir into boiling cauldrons 

I ache and arch 
beg my talent and prowl 
all fours to upright-ed ruddy skin 
rubbing myself raw with pine sap 
on this poem's a-begging in ...

chance blooms 
for it is 
swoon season 
and every turn is 
malady, remedy 

who we are 
pear tree perhap(s) 
gnarled bark, storied leaves 
and what bite and sliver-slows 
old growth in trees 
are we dusty stuffed animals 
do we color and whisper into our lives 
moppet, poppet plunge blade 
to cheeks stained 
with an up turned cup 
as chickens might  
in childhood forest homes 
Baba Yaga prayers in shoe box 
with our tales told, 
each one full of wonder and awe ...

are we birch skin marionettes 
old tires tired eyes, are we places 
or merely faces where memory 
gave in to rememberin' 
a soul is a timeless poem 

the flash point 
I was puzzled by teeming thronged modernity
never sure whether weather was hydrophilic 
or hydrophobic, stomach sacred 
lining lingam blood stables cleaned 
sable saddled fable tabled feast worthy 
this is our fine tine pointed tinfoil hat parade 
and if ye provide shade words, I provide duct tape 
so be kind or be shutting up for the business of destruction 
needs no amplification from any of us, these days ...

sometimes when the poem ends 
I hear You whispering 
howls and growls 
warm mud sounds 
this is how most 
Spring(s) begin 
into merry 
from wary eyes 
where wear wears 
once were 
and thirst is a bird 
nested, new and begin ...


February 23, 2017

archon archaic croning ..................................................................... (or how cronyism has come to love bombs too)

art by Andrea Dezs√∂ ©

fantasy island hopping mountain popping 
hotch skopping leans, 
leaving scars and other 
sacred marks upon a soul ...

do you have what it takes to rake the fluffy 
bad seed infinity seasoned white noise 
belly button catchers rye high heavy metal infused 
control row-row-roe-bot-ic life style ...

all the while you want you need you bleed 
for more shit to cover any it inside you 
meant to fly perhaps or swim 
the night ... 

lake front dessert s'more fire and the ash flowers posed 
E=MC(squared) dared threshold variant culture 
bastard accidental planned mythology over-ride 
deride snidely whip-lashing the pine forests belly skimmer  
deciduous sen-tried Winter realms seeping the boil 
cauldron spit bubble viscous stew and poultice means 
by witch Rumpelstiltskin and the Miller's daughter use 
to weave daylight back from dreams ... 

more straw and coffee please ...

< the Anunnaki are sure to return 
now that we have with purpose or knot 
portal prey prayer flowered every today
say hey what cabals have designs 
on what host minds 
to mine fine pointed 
reclamation resourced rinds 
pickling the deign 
gives reign with 
half booked story 
that is by necessity gory 
in its revelations 
starves the soul 
feeds it bones 
as young as possible 
for human beings 
the immutable truth 
of spaceship Earth seems 
a wisdom that is as 
much a rebuke of vision 
as it is a rejoice  >

 yes, have you heard my pleas ... 
for more straw, more coffee p-l-e-a-s-e...


February 22, 2017

the five states of being (s)matter(ing) me .............................................. (poem says don't forget about us)

I am potato with eye-limbs, tuber nightshade
and poems are my whim-aggregate masses 
we are bones, cage cycles and soul music ...

my intentions are often bent shuns, 
poem becomes me 
demented lunacy 
can be sad 
but social like a movie quote 
or sweet and strong aperitif ...

we are often just off 
the mark, drift-y enough 
to appear haphazardly 
in musical happenstance ... 

I am/we are poem, 
accretion-al illusion 
the average, almost 
of my/our 
last five forays, 
mind you ... 

we are 
hive aware 
or knotted to mad 
Fibonacci sequencing 
while wile is 
a past life be 
a damning tree 
a sometimes, Winter seeks ...

I  like nautilus shells 
and poems says me 
is a verb conscious state 
and is always going to be 
a well of hell's certainty 
adorned in a hand 
to basket mythology ... 

we take to gifting upon calling 
an invite, linen lined woven wood 
jam and bread with an assortment of teas ...

and lest we forget, poem 
heaven is in a reader's eyes 
especially when 
word doors open 
the nose 
and windows 
saying otherwise ...

and lips 
and tongue 
well, they bowsprit 
the silence 
that eats need 
and want 
for language 
that describes 
having something to do 
besides enjoying how 
You and I tie 
the ends of things 
into beginnings 
or maybe we just like 
being, in the rain ...


February 21, 2017

another episode of dead man walking :

Lazarus was an underwear salesman 
who never understood the moves away from silk 
the year was 2026 and the serial pandemics 
began to wane, we'd eventually explain 
to ourselves this was crowd sourced culling(s) 
ways we used to combat discomfort with truth ...

today I wore boxers outside of my pants 
and went to the bodega to buy a pack of cigarettes 
yes indeed, my money bought the same death 
as the day before, inhale exhale prevail regale 
the weed frenzy divinations parsed into absurdity 
the word is me, see the nose knows eyes want 
to understand how memory is created 
all I smell is the flesh falling calling to arm 
all the hope I have for remembering 
to carry dimes in my pocket 
for emergency phone calls 
and to always wear clean underwear 
inside or outside pants dared 
mothers will say 
you never know '
when need should arise 
to go to a hospital 
for care and bared 
they see you, carrying around 
the stinks, dead self sounds ...


February 20, 2017

taking ovation : buttress, bowsprit and blade

the poem is the voice 
it is the instrumentation 
the notes, floats 
of propelled forefront-ed 
nascent binding(s) ...

humanity is 
two dimensional stage craft 
poems gives ambiguous line-less 
character to color outside 
to inside of us 

have you candy in your pocket 
Yes you do, She smiles, knowing it's true 
pied stitcher might witch Her 
and away this vignette-ification goes 
grows pretense, patterns stains 
though towed company lines 
state clearly, there is  
a directed intelligence 
a spirit vessel 
a stored, storied us ...

the audience needs 
no board or three panels be 
they are what  
the eyes want 
nose knows 
they grow fond 
discovery sweets
tonic journey 
bitter poems 
to the fine 
stilled parts, distilled hearts 

thus ...

<most poems need a three faces of Eve>

<Lilith bloods a piece of silk, says retrieve>

the past is pop 
when first lens-ing 
its stored flavor 
it fizzes, whizzes by 
reaches high gas spry 
but as all things will do 
eventually, the kite burns 
and that captured moment 
falls flat, ash and dried posies ...

my funny valentine plies plays plumes 
feathery chaos hero questing leaden marrow for bones 
those pauper rich soul holes where the rain got in 
and I hear the jazz half notes, rote(s), jumping points 
from leap pier fog, you dream in fingers, I dream in dreams 
what magic, like fungal under-lords, 
carpet slow advances then retreats ...

we've grown, groaned against beat fantasies 
our oh so human intermittent kneed needs kneaded 
particulate sand-grain seed selves 
we've crowned shelves, cobbler-ed 
most somewhere(s) & between(s), what 
the wind makes, & each take of time, when 
toe holding the letting go(s), why 
riding infinity means 
as many hello(s) 
as goodbyes 
wise is 
this way 
you dig 

warm bread 
and sometimes ...


February 16, 2017

................................... are we wear where we are ...............................

spread us nude north america 
are we thin whiskey 
are we corn copper still 
are we hidden filled 
limestone caverns beneath 
chaos grove-d old trees 
the neighborhoods and quarters drawn 
heed to please here here 
hear hear herd heard dear deer 
the wolves and lions prowl hunger 
we wear pride, what desire skins 
bones to soul captive will freed 
and ride 'there goes fire in the air 
daring the dead light of stars to realize 
our parents are from out there ...

fish or fowl 
humanity needs 
to be the children 
of Antigone 

every culture 
recorded, remembered 
or stolen from then erased 
has a tale told 
of the prophecy of greed 
it is an algae mechanism 
it is, it does thirsts\y rain 
it is in crawls, intention spawn 
with an estuary entropy 
with mention of urgency 
it emerges sea to river 
and splurges 
as sacred 
the ways 
to a dominant 
breathing while 
consuming now ...

in each instant instance 
of chosen comfortable cages 
the sage survival 
we happen to choose 
is not happening to care 
or be aware other than 'being worn 
and weary of that as well ...

this predation elation-al channels 
tomb to church varietals 
seasons and terroir 'one presumes 
we are, aren't we born with blood 
on our lips, doesn't this 'constitute 
passion and play 
doesn't this lurch 
almost unseen certainly 
and not felt enough 
to repeat which way 
found you, salvation ... 

(at this point in the story 
the open road greets us 
in choir tones, found 
spear headed Jocasta, 
a good grand maternal 
bark and apple fine 
and by the way 
I like to save things 
in jars)

sew life to life 
is a recollection plate 
immutable spirit surfing 
most of us mesmerized 
sofa chattel gyrate 
we want easy cheesy 
sweet and greasy 
we know 
electronic warfare is 
interference gangland morphology 
we became, we become 
we be numb to those thirteens 
those squads of sharp invisible leads 
tide basin babies  thrown out bathing reeds 
the laundry and the middles of roads 
always seem dirty, deeds to be cleaned
Lady Macbeth places we lose sight of : 

are they what 
we are to know 
sown seed shoot 
petal flower reach 
each fleeting scent 
we jar 
of ourselves 
heavens knot hells ...

are we gill and anxieties 
are we keyed codons 
are we teeming tepid 
slow friction warming hordes 
boiled roiled squeezed weeds 
are we in some lord and or lady
instinctual hoe down 
are we separated realities  
player piano remarks 
are we larks and other 
songs night sings to plead 
its case of why eggs have shells 
and we have hens' teeth 
when late Winter 
starts to turn toward Spring 
are we its seethes 
and seeps, are we, are we ...


February 13, 2017

grandine alla madre grande, fica e ventre

'Given' by Lisa Yuskavage ©

Each day my hands clasp 
a prayer to Her wholly trinity 
where I wear what I swear my allegiance to 
each morning I become aware 
I am seared with this insistence 
an amplification, a supplication and mollification of ego 
mason jars of jellied laughter await 
those breaking of fasts with tea and toast 
most Life is vacations 
and not seeing such slays the wise 
which is why being on the road 
is for those that enjoy the ride 
journey-ists are artists 
willing bones and soul past 
future aggregate material sacred 
we scar and are scared 
when we are dared 
past comfort 
She says with a smile 
this is the language 
we all ought strive to know 
it sounds like a bare armed tree song 
with the wind rushing in 
from the partly rolled down window
I scan back and forth 
across the road 
painted lanes and sides 
I remark in squint hark to myself 
even in bright daylight 
electric lines crackle with anticipation 
they feed the dissonance 
dampen resonance dancing ...

the radio suddenly comes on 
hiss and static then factory sized machine angels in choir 

"There is no sanctuary and discord 
has been around since soon after the printing press 
when we began teaching others to teach 
how not to teach the masses the glory 
and power of cellular infinity aka 
why do we have telomere breakdown ..."

I shudder 
think of how 
and how long 
my cells 
have been 
by intention

in the hush pattered moments 
when alone in ponder 
the traipsed intertwined laces 
of conscious will, will place us 
where We want to be ... 

my little collection :
(an obtuse clever play on name or definition) 
how many poems 
are carved 
onto your soul

scabs in the rain 
finding pieces 
fit me eaten 
a nose, says brain 
eyes,  jealous, says soul 
cry imaginative memory 
invocation & wine

automatic surreptitiously serendipitous 
the thrust of Life is fall fly do what soul must 
send regards, it's snowing again, February 
and the road is quietly beautiful 
and dangerous 
as entertainment
that is so fucking weird 
a gloaming light no wade motel 
kind of living part of a 
microwave background 

witching hour forays 
egg laying weaver 
Her house is in the trees 
calendrical leaves and needles 
knee palms belly crawling calliopes 
whistle sounds muffled in the frozen night 
wolves howling why we dig marrow 

I Love Her too is hand written 
corner embraces, destinations may be 
tourist truck stop paper place mats 
with all fifty states and roadside attractions 

She has me 
in wobble smile tarantella 
I am wet clay in Her hands 
my poems, pulse bleeding 
tongues, rivers and rain 
I'd explain more 
but you get the idea 
how being 
held and holding 
what cup is pouring 
and what cup is storing what needs 
find limb and articulation ...

I am on a lazy susan 
in the middle of the floor, We have 
drawn a circle 1-13 indicated 
salt, shaved rust and costumed rubies adorned 
She sends me spinning 2 what O'clock we R now 
mystery to wild card to clutched bed sheet roses 
poses We made roles in the patterned chaos 
bloodstains down Our forearms 
like inland deltas 
feeding the grass lands 
after the desert of Winter 
cedes to Mother may eye 
Spring again ...

We find ourselves 
spun, picking wild flowers 
and divinations 
from the litter we picked up 
along the ways  
into what tales 
the children 
of the Miller's daughter 
and Rumpelstiltskin, tell us 
excitedly as we pulled over 
a when and then 
turned towards morning 
here and now, a cow 
and those magic beans 
gold for straw again 
and all the things 
We hold court for 
inside Ostara, shell, 
yolk and surprise inside 
the waiting births  
each and every sunrise