January 27, 2015

transported by wine and rum...

"Friendship of Don Quixote" by Octavio Ocampo ©

transported by wine and rum

so yes, I am drunk writing this
does it ever matter for my poems
most of my humanity is rife with cartoonish 
cartographical resurrection cynicisms 
and can be counted on for fulcrum metaphorical 
two dimensional duty in a variety of plot-lines 
including the calendars inside
each of the parades of fools I fall into

maps, I decided
as Cervantes had said 
(this obviously is a device lie) 
are a Don Quixote insurrection 
they steal nothing 
and placid angle 
my time 

your character exhales 
became legion 
tales told they are 
where we were when 
we eyed kingdoms 
as womb thirsty returns

you revise 
devise matinee serials 
sought after quills 
image shills
bank on loyalty 
to innocence lost 
and a willingness
to pay to remember

here is where 
my human ripe lives
each of my bent fragile desires 
somewhere beneath simmer
wading bubbles, spits 
and seasons 

bit bridled iron is a long con 
progress and modernity 
pretend to use satire 
as a way of understanding 
place and quantifiable causes 
why lust is compelling 
enough to sometimes not want 
to see the rest of the world

so now 
I sit weary 
and worn 
past midnight 
there are 
cold gales outside 
and it is still 
trying to snow 
weather was 
always more faith 
than science 
I believed

just as my soul 
wears the hat 
that brought me here 
spyglass-ing hems 
and horizons for words
treasure seeker white noise 
between high tides and lows 
sweet chariots and shadows 

as for the barrels 
we keep things in 
they know 
stories store
who we are
here to there 
and where 
we want 
to begin


January 22, 2015

making love remember the tonics and sins...

advertisement from 1880

making love remember the tonics and sins

just down the street 
was where she hid 
in place 
all the flavors  
and traumas 
of her childhood

she wanted me 
to help her bury these 
old apothecary bottles 
behind the lattice wood and 
newspaper insulation 

the sub-wall was exposed
would I help her put up 
a new dry wall then 
spackle, tape and paint 
the bottles behind it 

would I make it look like 
no one could notice 
how full under the skin
she was of what she emptied 
into that dusty glass
cork and wax sealed
her potions and elixirs
what had fixed her 
forever stealing into pain 
to pause it 
to place handles upon it
to still it 
to kill it 
or at least know 
where it finally hid
the slow burn 
of her living tomb

the old saltbox house 
was a farmhands 
from long ago 
it was where 
she grew up 
and remained 

she went to great lengths 
not to show what had been 
inside this house and her
near enough ago 
for her to long 
for it to be gone from view 


January 21, 2015

robert burns wrote poems about witches...

"Tam O'Shanter and the Witches"
an illustration to the poem of Robert Burns,
by John Faed 1892

robert burns wrote poems about witches...

of nannies dancing
and the paying 
handsomely to
which winsome wench 
is said to
leave your soul 
the stone hints
your humanity 
uses to traverse 
the night safely 
through its thrilling 
near danger and
abandonment, lust
is a tidal purity 
much like time 
rhythm and chance
and has many forms
longing for home again

your enchanted see
she dances roil 
courts toil and trouble 
love's easy laughter
rubble to
bubbling spit 
and yes. you forget 
she courts every desire 
of a here ever after

what shadow do you 
cast iron lid slid sit
upon the pot of you 
this life is currently 
swimming without 
a set stroke atop
a fire slow clock turning
what builds morning
light breathless stilled 
to your exhales crawling
from a dark 
and cold place 

he wrote
nannies womb 
was limbs and
songs ready 
to burn your life 
through what it
could awaken 
and be taken 
apart and put
back together with 

and your soul keeps 
digging how her groove 
wears you


a masquerade ball is coming soon...

1868 illustration of Alfred Beach's concept for pneumatic subway, artist unknown

a masquerade ball is coming soon

do I break take 
or steal my soul 
by piece silver and china 
from feast table...

I say fuck it 
pluck it unseen 
beneath smile legerdemain 
a slight pause then sprain 
strain myself revealing 
the stain of what I want 
to be seen versus felt, tasted 
or smelled as real

is there meaning inside of words 
that the herds have not heard 
humanity brims with progress 
slams glam and slap-sticks mankind 
knees for please cycles 
sycophant and hierophant 
off in the wings 

we or you the public 
must be intoxicated 
slated for renewal 
and contractual employee-ship 
which means to say 
please get paid 
doing something 
that pleases
you or someone else
dream state solid state technology
is how you sleep with nothing being everything 

lest you already rest your whole hole 
fragile glass tubes are saved now 
for pneumatic transport 
body delivery and message systems
today's souls are waiting 
to be filled with white noise 
with what matters of others 
that only resides alive inside them 
when acknowledged as real
yet hidden from view...

the horses are drawn and carriage-d/ 
and it is still snowing when out we set 
past midnight with lamps a-blaze/
January can be cruel though not 
in an unexpected way 
I was ready for Brigid's tits 
to be my mouthful
of reconstituted soul

yes, I bristle at the wearing
of too many layers of clothes 
warming myself with thoughts 
late May and asses in play 
though soon as most days  
near noon caffeine on wane 
I clean up from soot and fantasy 
wander in any direction I can 
for any drink of any undefinable 
that begs me to remain
seat, to be seeded 
and seedy
needy sometimes too

hope is an old clause 
in our exhale patterns 
our rule of laws 
some of us take vitamins 
and keep physically fit 
while others are satisfied 
with subscription lotteries 
to spirit futures 
and adjudication by divine halls 

some others still play 
the alleyways and underbellies 
for keepsakes and noses 
I paint my eyelids 
horses of a different colors 
I find when sleeping 
the eyes can lie
and be lied too 
much more sincerely 
than any other sense 
of who or why 
I am 
here with another poem 
to burn my hands 
a wet clay warm with


January 18, 2015

she said she found a way inside the outside...

photo by Hans Bellmer ©

she said she found a way inside the outside

there was nary a night not seeded 
where we weren't spent as needed 
bleeding for our roadside attractive 

she almost dared me to declare
that I wanted to enslave 
her little mechanical things...

idolatries are toiletries and poetry 
every motion whirs gigs clanks 
grease the sun she says 
with blood and ritualized soul 
in groves of trees please yourself 
be hallowed named 
vibrant womb fantasies 
changeling radio playing 
slow earthy jazz and...

I know she wants to fuck again 
it was this meniscus ripe in her eyes 
they are saying, painting the poem 
just ain't gonna pay heed to tides today 
the ferry ride is a journey tow slow start to go 
what we want, they say, is destination free
an electric faceless release 
an orgasm where all my pieces can smell 
your infinity ever grasping to feel me too...


January 17, 2015

yes, I love my drunken humanity...

'A Bacchanal'
by Jan Brueghel the Elder and Hendrick van Balen I,
ca. 1608 - 1616, Speed Art Museum

yes, I love my drunken humanity

the countenances of my material desire
(the more folly chronicles)

every soul has bills to pay 
unless you're a willing 
participant of divination 
by electromagnetic or 
chemical means

my memory wants me past due 
somewhere on a collection plate circuit

I decree 
an end to beginnings 
so I eat connective tissue 
between holes 
where my soul gets in

no longer than rambling on 
without purpose through cycles 
and my cycling of lives 
through the windows 

I need tape for the pieces
picking locks and broken cages  
I know we now scout 
real estate outside 
the goldilocks zone 
of our little yellow star 

where the ever afters 
are lickable snippets and vignettes 
chance upon chance 
archetypes and primordials 
dance festival rituals 
sewn beneath 
whatever modernity 
seems to be 
want or need

am I among all the we 
the people of Earth 
am I a torn cut and tattered birth
am I part of meandered myriad
thrown to wolf for lion 
am I just a painted lamb 
a matter fed necessity 
in old told tales
am I tumble chili roaster spinning
choosing random for my manipulation roles
can I be construed as piper paid dearly 
not nearly wanting to be the last one left home here


January 16, 2015

Mardi Gras with fascinations...

'Pan and Syrinx' 1722-1724,
Jean François de Troy

Mardi Gras with fascinations
(Jean François de Troy painted with corpulence too)

each breath 
we take
is a memory
something that 
became fatter
as Winter 
sharpened its light 
and rolled in 

time has become
a more precise emotion 
as I have 
more of its days 
counted upon me 

death is not 
so distant anymore 
it is now at least 
a closer familiar 

my innate self 
is the calendar 
that begs 

please release 
a spirit me 
hold my soul 
with infinities 

woo my body 
with my brain 
and nose 
as I close 
my eyes

my life, civilized
is as most 
tend to be here
sines and cosines 
symphonic pledges
René Descartes
march hares 

so when this 
idea of mortality 
begins to go 
off inside
each cell 
I smile

I know 
I have 
never minded 
keeping close 
what desire brings 
threshing what 
I and we were meant for

I whore 
and store 
what works 
to lose any sense 
I have 
that binds 
or finds where 
and how I want 
to be seen
by a world 
as temporary 
and fleeting
as the permanent me


January 14, 2015

the daughter of a wizard knew to say...

the daughter of a wizard knew to say...

she was wind 
she was reminding me 
no matter how much 
I want to feel 
infinite, holographic, 
alive, aware 
or woven into
some universally
joyful madness 
I still have to 
imagine everyone 
belly laughs with 
a personal sacred
somewhere real nearby

even if they never say so 
to themselves 
kidding or otherwise 
that this is where 
their core 
the soul 
that has 
their name
for awhile 

this is where 
a consciousness steals 
all the parts 
that bones, skin 
flesh, blood 
and free will 
wouldn't know 
to put inside

time is all 
the unseen knives 
each cut emits its 
own signal carve 
a felt or fiber reach 
of thought 

are useless 
when eyes 
to this scent 


January 7, 2015

undone by the veil...

Pierre Bonnaud, 'Salomé', 1900

January, I am up late, rubbing oils, on my belly for the Moon

her silk silver slippers 
slow step slide 
dance and ride 
o'er the midnight floor 
of an ice house 

leafless sentinels 
and pines standby 
as she calendar limbs
sharp angled hungers 
and long goodbyes

two small windows 
up high eyeing time
spy inside as outside 
says let her in 
ghosts and legs
haints and eggs 
the wombs of Winter
are delicate places
to hide behind her
harsh velvet desolation 
a strength that beckons 
indefinably familiar

and here am I desperately
sleepless and tippled red
imagining each last exhale is 
another dark fantasy releasing
another surrender of my head
another wish to see and feel
she's dancing again
a Salomé for what is 
every life after death for me


January 5, 2015

I wonder...

'La Meute' by Gaston Bussière, 1905

I wonder...

(does a body 
always war 
with the soul)

(part 1)

am I endless wander 
wind-sure deliberate knives 
wading my conscious 
as if looking for inheritances 

am I formless exalts
ecstasy minded 
divvying up worlds 
thoughts takes one to...

am I parts, shards and Lothario 
designed for Brynhildr woods

(is my humanity 
a series of mechanisms, 
interlocking tosses)

gains the
spirit by losses 
there are lifetimes 
in each 
fade away 

rust is fire 
that plays me 
a record 
slow enough 
to see 

there are many 
acts of me 
pieced together 
glued intros 

broken glass mosaics is
my background symphony 
gathered sounds 
and clutched fabric 

I rather like 
where you 
lead me 

(this is somewhere my eyes want to get to 
but only my nose knows the way)

inside your trine-scent 
neck, shoulder 
and hair 
I swear in

I make up 
I utter, 
scratch, hiss 
howl and 

I sell myself 
on why 
your skin is
divine monologue
insisting easing
into devour
an aria 
in the middle 
of a chaotic din 

I stop 
take heed 
my need 
to listen 
without pause 
or reservation 
won't let me
leave this linger


(part 2)

when given 
as freely 
as a song 
to the ears
love pures 
by bliss

(mist is
suited rain 
tearing thread
to get at 
what's between 
blinks and 
sewn seams)

it is here 
inside where worn 
by counting water 
keeps time aging
inside me 

I remember 
my name 
on occasion 
carve and music 
have always been here too

(declaration self 
clothing me an Emperor 
means emptying the shelves)

René Descartes  
lives in my forefinger 
tracing shapes 
and formulae
on the dusty sills 
and sashes 

I decorate with 
lashes and latches
what I can bend 
close to batten
why I feed my eyes 
sweet and savory
nosed perusals 
past excuses
taking chances 
with mathematics
and poems
yet to be 


December 23, 2014

gadfly in the topical ointment...

Illustration by Edmund Sullivan from Thomas Carlyle’s novel ‘Sartor Resartus’ 

gadfly in the topical ointment: maps, long cons, causes and clauses

all of the Americas were originally calculated to be bled out
(resource beautiful wombs, sacrifice, hollow loom revision-istas)

(statler and waldorf are screaming "fuck ye
christmas gentle things" from a balcony)

oh ye singing trees trimmed with modernity
why are we hanging onto our knees
why do we invoke base survival instincts
why do we assuage our fears
and insecurities toward caged comfortably safe
why do we run the risk of devolving
into endless cycles
of soulful in-articulations
mechanical anamorphic means
squeezing the lights wrapped hazily
ill-fittingly stretching shadows over bones
rust and decay disguised afterbirth
and root cellars call the names
what strange fruit remains
history is hainted to memories
by way of permanence and stain

staging truth and archetype
by torture is never necessary
for elegantly expressing
our humanity

guns and people kill
accidentally or otherwise intended
consequence depends on placement
parchment, secular and clerical divide
uptown to downtown, suburbia's coming home again
working the laws on both sides

usually it is immaterial
gathered providence
black robes and white wings
skin cell pigmentation means
cover most things that give away
target acquisition scars
strangers will always be
a danger and endangered here
my hands are up
and I can't breathe
Santa can be construed as Satan
so don't shoot me please
just give me another drink
this poet's staying drunk 'til Spring


December 21, 2014

tilt lovely fires tonight...

                                 'Ruggiero Rescuing Angelica' by Gustave Doré

december's puppetry dark daylight

(toys and roasted seeds play music)

(a general din of mechanized ignorance sings)

(emphatically, by whatever means) 

angels, demons, 

punch, judy, the jovial and the banshees take to 

singing carols of ripe to seed...

"bleed me womb thirsty wanting 
you wanting this wanting 
that wanting wanting me 
wanting ever wanting..."

so sometimes 
when the solstice slides
thin edging time
I change focus to
survival dance step 
stagecraft cover ass 
and by mistaking
humility for love 
sometimes even well water 
is just rusty rain with knives 
telling dreams 
the acts to guide
the play on home


November 20, 2014

pane and brachial reach womb framing...

she reads how

the sun outside
cracked dusty glass
is ol’ November

a death angel pilgrimage
in cut lean light
a thicket bramble
bone finger wobble
oaks and maples cast
in skin 

shadow sentinels
losing articulation 
a daytime faster spin 
a Yule tide undertow 
wassailing time with sin

I lose track
of word formations
feeling my way
into the poem
what it will sound like
feel like taste like smell like
how much of it will be
how reason lost its way here, too

I fantasize
she ambles
in oral aural
angled bouquets

she’s reading me 
angels atop pines
fallen for flattery
she knows her eyes are
hypnotizing ventricle balloons
release parlor tricks
making the dog howl

verses are squeaky squishy
bending ambulettes rescuing perspective
vignette(d) images, sounding motion

the endings, she says
are always the perfume
that seeks our eternity

in all the bodies
we ever knew
awareness is always
turning wheels, seasons,
clocks, calendars, noses and eyes
seeking a soul
trying to remember
what we smelled like
deep inside the poem's
point of view


November 19, 2014

a worship of want...

illustration by Kay Nielsen ©

this forest winters inside a body's electric holy of holies 

I sought to hold her hand
it was my plan
to temple brush
and canvas show
attraction and allure
slow tracing assured

my fingers crawled
hall to altar
surrendered to alter 
I bare need
for pure desire

the fares to here
bleed seed knees
breadcrumbs, stones
and weaves

my palms and nails
finish quite dirty
and stain sainted
with my covets
and pieces
of how she 
houses my divinity