November 22, 2015

vibrating shuttle, bobbin driving

vibrating shuttle, bobbin driving 

seams sewn and re-sewn 
memory is mostly imagined 
over and over 
on that singer 
machine black 
gold painted enamel over iron 
there is a rhythm here 
a certain look back 
fabric nostalgia 
woven white noise 
loom hemming something 
in a peddle push 
big fly wheel poem...

the old river valleys 
seem unseemly when given over 
to forgetting what's beneath 
what shines 
shadow says 
I love slippery clay 
and shale 
old pines...

tripping back 
and forth 
in an old 
sewing machine

it is always 
1903, some reason 
I like that year 
it parses 
into four 
maybe it's 
coded click 
ritual wear 
wobble release 
though we know 
is rising

binary star 

Solstice snarls, 
where the jagged 
fingers are pushed up, 
pines left reaching 
for the out of sight(s)

yeah this, brown dwarf 
entropy teething 
making modernity 
backward come-uppances 
the shit greed leaves behind...

we know, crass cynicism, says 
you want to know why
la Befana took too, to the air 
sweeping dusty exhales 
to the sea as rain 
December Saturnalia, 
feats, feast, fools 
snow maybe, 
cake and fava bean 
lord of misrule
these tippled hair 
dare exhale mountains, when
combed close enough 
to where Krampus roamed
may just understand 
tide bleeding and 
a strided smiled wickedly 
Pan companion-ed collection
of what balances 
what Saint Nick 
funnels beneath us
in a chattel gluttony...

you see, the scent 
of a street side at night 
is a raw beauty daring 
us the when and the why 
we realize, there is always 
a moment of discovery, waiting 
there, then is a now too 
a noun even though 
harder to come by 
seems I have run 
out of room...

and you want 
to get another drink 
like I am leaving you to do...

reed and 
to time...

seems like racquetball now
vodka, lemonade 
maybe some crackers too
where what wonders why 
yeah, parcheesi, I liked that game...


November 21, 2015

mob and constabulary stockings

mob and constabulary stockings

(in preambles, Clement C. Moore swore 
he was a man deserving 
of velvet finery, whereas 
sundry alleys and bowels 
could not top prop, 
a proper man 
of the cloth 
deserves fate, 
it was said...

Moore having sent to fetch 
mused how wretched it is to be without...

life could just be 
a fickle smoke ring indeed, 
and he, like me
who might be, 
in a long coat 
with bit bridled 
rote rode steed 
have a pipe lit 
atop carriage 
and poem, 
frivolous thoughts 
seeds to loam
dervishly stolen into 
staccato gallop 
careening o'er
the cobblestone...)

here at an inter-loop station...
is where the stanza leaves the ellipse

broken parenthetical 
documentation, poem 
knows stop start stop 
stop start again
says nip it here 
the vignette 
don't let'em see 
you drive one-handed
poem says, listen there are
pieces of ornamental stars 
they fall to Earth 
and make mushrooms grow 
inordinately large 
poem says 
eat only 
a little bit

(his eyes widened 
and were on fire 
for a place away 
from home in
a tremble joy 
that began serving 
the painted glass 
of his soul 
poured pore 
and rain)


thieves keep company 
with those folks 
who doth linger 
in the squeeze 
of gleams, just 
before they blink
into their fantasies

they are keen to when 
folks are given over 
to being mesmerized, in 
it was as if 
they knew what was
gnawing at you, and were 
counting what moments 
you might leave, unquantified...

ill to be defined 
any rhyme or cadence 
caged dance 
cognac from Lafayette 
caught Moore 
in fanciful steps 
slow or quickly taken 
without pausing
while abandoning 
reason to be 
so merry more
than sometimes...

there are always going to be faces 
in the crowd, thieves remember
scents driven, never want 
to know names...

they are often 
seething with impatience 
especially before 
the holidays 
the bustle 
and chattel glow 
kept burning 
fire in their bellies...

the world here, November 
is a knife 
edging onward
death angel pilgrims 
theogony, knees 
palms and foreheads 
thieves mine
the long trails 
of repeat journeys 
the overlap of our lives...

like I said, the world 
here, November 
and thieves are 
seething tremble joyful 
patient unseen(s)
they are hungry ever 
as we, for meaning 
to do well, even 
when there 
might never be 
a why we might 
want to do so...

shadow thieves 
only pinch 
your prettiest places 
mostly, no one 
notices, mostly 
they're too busy 
filling spaces 
what they imagine 
need to be a-filled  
the traces of themselves 
that are going off 
racing in paces 
in laced boxes 
chocolate, liquor, wine and jars 
all kinds of pickled to jellied sublime(s) 
they are roped off inside 
sentiment with arti-factories 
attention spans driven away 
by the many moving lights
and candles, thieves work 
the underneath mobile 
handled shines

here, at the corners 
of smile and bell 
they play the quiet(s) 
and the rests 
the sounds like rain 
all the smells 
of a boiled pot 
there, behind the scenes 
thieves pilfer 
and gather 
caring to slip 
through nooses unseen...

they see you
red rose cheeks, perhaps 
on another side of glass 
drunk and enjoying the cold air
and they see you, 
sometimes forgetting 
to turn out the lights...

as if you were willing 
them an invite 
sown seen buried 
beneath busy 
tapestry Christmas 
with wish lists 
and stockings hung 
by the chimney 
with care...

dare, dare 
truth be dared...

"Livingston, I presume..." 
said bellow to flue... 
"...stars are tombstones 
I thought we all knew..."

this way, this way yes
this way quickly please


November 19, 2015

when you're cut...

(this picture is a poem)

crashing her favor

I imagine her as a lens
and her algebra
as something to be
undone by

writing is just tuning sandwiches
making sure scent and taste
cede the moment to the eyes and ears
for just long enough for a suspension
of belief to set in...

it is a drunken jello mold
with sunken laced treats placed inside,
that you somehow remembered
after the guests had already left
oh well, you laugh let's give it a try...

how good will it feel to be bad
you ask, reaching for my palms
why you are already honed
with what I have spied
when you were waltzing
while coming in...

she said this was dance
and likened it to a popover
fresh from the oven
no Gretel or Hanson
could be seen
while it was me
she would be loving


when you're  cut, "it burns" 

<here is part one, it is in possession 
of said tools of circuitry pleasures to pain, 
it is an infinite ritual nine tenths 
of life's laws you may or may not 
come to know>

I live in fantasy 
moment by moment calculations 
I wear bubble factory glossy burst fashion 
what I want to want to see most often 
is the very thing I pretend 
convinces me to open my eyes 

whatever that time 
of day or night is 
what constitutes my morning...
morning is reckoning time 
it comes for its balances to be paid 
and surely it comes 
always hungry for 
evenly yoked books...

I sometimes take to yoga 
the inhales and exhales 
help when rectifying 
all of my self(s) 
in the accounting 
pious with pens 
at mythical gates
cast wobble langley(s) serve
as decorative entry wounds...

your soul 
has been caught 
with an irradiative culling 
Morpheus says
your cell life is breakdowns 
and build ups
telomere connections 
discovered and disconnected 
what rainbows you call to 
when your soul thirsts 
for more bones to cage...

<here's the part of the poem where I am alone behind bars>

I found bottle caps and other discards 
made a chess board and rudimentary 
allowances where there were once rules...

the warring self 
is a hell I know 
both internal, infernal 
and willing to grow

<here's is a middle part,  it's part working title and parts on hold at a lay-a-way counter, where others always bought my Winter clothes, watching me beat myself> 

my preparations 
are conscious of after-trails 
I'm more sweet when bleeding, 
they wade through 
what patterns emerge 
or are seen to seem as such 
the scourges 
discouraged here 
are my urges 
of destructiveness 
and they are 
sold as is, 
charmingly so...

here, the poem says stop-
take a beat, be near where 
glass housed thrown stones 
skip one last time 
before succumbing 
to why skin diving 
the meniscus is 
the risk we take 
when seated in a
dark shadow theater 
the puppetry and pageant
attention to demands 
of control for any light remanded is...

and when bearing witness 
to the fight between 
your frivolous and enslavement...

your soul  
is hitting 
the pavement 
in litter patrol
the kettle bell rings
warden and prisoner 
being the same 
chained gang person 
you're hell bent 
on receiving 
forgiveness for...

I wear many hats, lately but I like 
to be lazy and keep my hair unkempt 
and without cover, in wild bramble reaches 
collecting oils for the grease that keeps things 
an easy glove of sheen folly particulates...

the air is an accordion lung clock 
and with its faces awed an unclean 
it keeps progress, savory and sweet, 
and what don't we eat, 
is ground and woven into 
some sort of vestige humble 
some sort of allspice
what we think of ourselves 
around the Yule time 
assailing patent injustices 
with assurances 
of our purity when wassailing...

<the last part is nostalgic with a crass patina>

my mind is wandering, wants to leave the train set and Christmas lights tells me there is no sanctuary 
or certainty beyond your current breath 
there might be more things real enough 
to die for but I haven't the time for that 
and this price suppressed coffee 
tastes of good rattles and roasts 
the so good char and sidecar 
of indica and a few nips of bourbon 
for what ails my lack of courage...

any sort of life outside 
of feeling fantastic 
is harvest reparations 
archetypal searching 
while reaping sheep
and tending gingerbread  
while giving myself 
the cartoon treatment...

and poem says, 

"now is always 
the time fantasy begins"


November 18, 2015

frijoles negros y arroz de cilantro

frijoles negros y arroz de cilantro

(he dances to himself 
listening for music 
right now Nina Simone 
is on the radio)

I am
a poet 
I hope 
to grow wit 
and older yet... 
I will cook for visitors 
but I'm shy, hard to get 
if do you want to know though 
you'll suspect it's some sort of anxiety 
in the quiet afterward(s) 
there is lacking, you muse 
some propriety of reason 
you wonder this 
and what might be 
the forms of his bliss, as...

I look off into the distance, sitting sipping 
my soul standing, it seems with the trees 
they are mostly deciduous 
you hear me say...

(the pines tend the rain 
and the maples, oaks and ash 
explain ritual by way of treason 
and loyalty, fear of flying 
and falling crash landing 
seems a pleasant enough way 
of saying he's hit his head 
on a rock 
at the bottom 
of a well)

                      third person 
                      firstly, is second 
                      in line, here 
                      soup and stone

the water waits 
will you
have wine 
tine desires 
twine yourself 
to a story 
in paused gravity
float amble spawn 
lore and lure 
so go and enjoy 
these culinary preparations, 
while I take to a drink
please mind, when you finish, 
I will be on the back deck, 
come and tell me what you think 

and by the way
there are fabric stains embedded 
inside the table cloth 
it was something bleeding 
from the imagination 
of the loom's thread greedy seeds 
there were petal wounds our chorus pursued 
the song of subdued, you mostly had become

"who are you wind when at the window crying 
what have you to give to overcome what you're eyeing,
is it more of something you cannot explain..."


morsel morality, bright packaging too...

( 1910's European postcard )

morsel morality, bright packaging too...

(it is the future, 
the dead presidents 
will be required 
to play with our balls)

it will very much be like warmed up leftover party favors 
saved stolen away into crumpled pocketed secret regard 
brushed nickel butt crack the scent of not so wiped-ly 
clean doth rising surmising it might be time to bathe 
though these poems will be cut loose as if crumbled cheese 
trying the buying lines of convenience in gas-n-sip-a-thons...

and with our nightmares we've dressed
in dreamy drag vine tying dying 
as we greet the tides rain to ripe 
mountain birth is crept clay soul 
pine rooted curried goods 
and services crawling cities, 
we walk standing bones atop bones...

the countryside loam(s)
say we are valley river tongues 
we sing old songs 
we watch the flocks
as words decay
what's written decays
what's uttered decays 
meanings decay, we decay 
even while young 
stealing eggs 
and udders 
in slow tarantella 
we tell it more 
as we begin to store 
our stories in go 
and go and go 
in exhale and inhale 
as a tale to be told 
though not being so bold 
as to do so forecast-ed ham-fist-ed-ly...


the bastard wore 
a sly smile and
ran over to where 
no one could see him
he looked like     a glow stick 
that went dark     for a reason 
saw himself,           a white deer 
and always in season...



November 17, 2015

I'm always saying, what the fuck...

I'm always saying what the fuck 

circadian rationing, am I imprisoning 
the jammed forget what memory collects
am I just an electro-magnetic dust 
bunny valence shell empty...

this is a keyhole sermon 
through mounted speaker 
wireless staked starred 
former skin and bones 
talk soul 
in dead-light 

the Moon 
is hiding 
something good
She pulls at you 
unseen sometimes 
where disregard 
is walls 
and tidy...

at the beginning of things 
with happenstance 
and desire for faraways dancing 
with bullets, balast and need 
our joys tremble to spawn balancing 
tidal rain or not, we'll bleed 
also sorrows 
certainties, certainly 
serpentine-d serendipitous-ly
senile to an almost there...

I felt I knew everything 
boiled down to this...

thoughts were games 
actions were games 
and every game was 
a ritual of falling...

I have many scars to prove this 
but I wear clothes and masks 
so mostly I 
cannot see 
or smell this

so mostly I 
cannot become 
anything other
than a behavioral
repugnancy, an easy excuse 
providing your eyes 
and nose still worked...

I have covered myself 
in protective layers
of don't go there(s)
thorn and poison, an 
under-bark Spring tree vicious 
I did make wish lists once before
been laughing at myself ever since...


fantasy land baba yaga routine...

fantasy land baba yaga routine

this place is full of why why not why yes why do we 
want to know why do we care why, do we care why okay 
let's get on with it, why the provider, why the fuel the 
burn inside shadow leather wings claws perhaps we 
have always feared the left hand path the underbelly 
sort of outcome entropy entrails pray to the Sun we've 
brought enough quarters for the mission bell and 
smiled parades of exit wounds...

I burn with a ridicule to not feel  
I use my intelligence to thirst 
knowledge as a shield, peel and eat 
shit shingled shall I ain't always to be 
made a-covering my bad...

foul is, I find out 
any particular malady 
of wearing nice clothes 
in a masked apathy 
those clothes 
I left out 
while I slept 
most likely 
drunk and stoned...

a song haunting 
with familiars or not 
is often a part of our bouquet 
our certainty smells 
our spells, our will 
what we stamp stirred 
to beckoning, quickened and pulsed
our blur press finger stone philosophy 
what we remember when 
we realize, again
the nose is king 
and the eyes are entertaining 
the fantasy, our readying of the fool...

the heart 
is our instrument 
the body our house 
rituals and melodies 
tonal, tied or otherwise 
those pieces of our soul 
found, fallen and flown 
that are mostly rhythm 
our tided tolled told 
our scents that hold
our every coming in 
low crawl 
to rain...

the pain 
Buddha said 
life would always 
be full of...