May 29, 2016

poem insists on wearing the clothes mother comet Goddess made for us to celebrate Panspermia Eve

Heiroglyphical Representation of Jupiter or Pan from Athanasius Kircher's Œdipus Ægyptiacus.

what do you mean 
I have gone off the deep end 
well sir you seem to have taken 
to king-ing yourself a courtly idiot 
and quite frankly darling 
it does suit you 
but rather than participate 
in your coronation 
and its resultant world at large 
I would rather have you slave away 
inside my domed biospheres 

the ants have been building 
these arks for millennia now 
in order to save all the botanical species 
from any extinction 
due to loss
of the magnetosphere 
when the universe's first 
black dwarf with its snow white in tow 
follows a mother comet on home 
coming back to visit her brood 
here where we are 
poem and I 
the lullabies 
we children 
sing to the ancients 

(on top of any mountain is a song the wind teaches us)

she is why poem exists 
be her young or older 
married or never with 
a single someone else 
children or not apron strung 
she is ours 
our words 
mine and poem's
our bliss 
how we follow 
kiss nectar 
one moment 
to the next 

the best laid plans
of humans can be bricks 
and mortar, though 
the houses we 
feel most at home in
are always made of cards 
and meant to be set on fire 

to get straw to be gold 
Rumpelstiltskin said to us once 
you have the right colored glass windows 
to see infinity through the lies that keep you 
grounded and adhered to tether-ball courts 
of cinema escape 

modernity's lamination 
captures life in lathed once ago(s) 
old tourist stops 
and malt shops 
in the post war 
culture America 
we are obsessed  
with meaning 
we are and were 
and always wanted 
to be these 
two kids 
spun round 
in a garden 

(the tailor struck nine)

sewn on 
we soon 
figured figures 
letters symbols 
counting numbers 
marking times 
that the light 
we wanted 
to be held by 
itself was born 
in sea caves 
like we always 
thought we were 

sometimes we just want to wither away and become the dust 
again wind and seed let fates decide where we lie and bleed 

do we wear our selves thin meniscus driven  
but then when does mother comet return 
and do we know the nautilus shape 
of heavens was exhaling invertebrates 
and the spines of told tales 

an ever open expanse 
of space and time 
the old dowry cloth we kept 
for life's emergencies 
was folded corner to corner 
neatly inside a cedar chest 
at the top of the attic stairs 
we knew the past 
and the future 
somehow belonged 
atop each other 
right there where 
it was presented 
leeward-ly leaning 
drift netting post-Descartes 
Tom Robbins' Pan 
his gallant dancing electricity 
and subtle musk carrying 
all our mother May eyes 
to any other third stone 
from the Sun we could find 

EJR © 

May 27, 2016

I think of myself as having always been artifice alone ....................................................................................... ..................................the paper wasp rose anthologies

I say to poem, 

"Poem, I'm knot sure it was the candy 
or the flipping to trippy downbeat 
smooth android dream skating ...

here I hear 

my own repudiation 
life pursuit 
what was that 
left out left lone 
weird wildernesses 
urbanely decayed 
in bey bay baby bebe 
hey call her Tuesday 
and Friday as well 
you want to tell her 
things about the way 
the universe speaks to you 
through sexual union
she's listening 
glistening too you hope 
by the time you role play 
as Moses 
to the fresh water 
in the reeds 
wanting a drink 

ghost tow truck operator 

hooking ethereal realms 
where women go while 
they sleep peeping 
their little bo staves  

to be a bitten bit 

we humans leaned 
wee into where it
was we, who are not 
supposed to be 
and voila there goes 
the neighborhood 
in some sort 
of dish we hadn't smelled before 
and yes it does sells us on engorge" 

poem says to me, 

"Edward, I got to get out of here within thirty seconds 
or motion detective alarms go searching 
the entrails of my exhales 
for pieces of eight 
to graft onto my soul 
in silver lined laced moonlight 
the garden hanging suspended 
time stills you say paint 
and tears come looking 
to pay the bill after desert  

who owns these colonized islands 

where we are so fascinating 
to each other as citizens 
denizens spun clay begins 
in the digital continents 
of an increasingly artificially intelligent world 
you ought try this line 
my darling you are spa lovely tonight 
the bath and bubbly tonic warm light 
of candle and the grab of shadows dollop-ing 
themselves on and off 
iris petals scattered earthen 
to forest pole 
north to south 
go grotto stone 
house cast iron 
claw foot tub built 
around shifting 
sensationalism(s) outside 
where walls 
we wear 
may be 
what we think of
washing each other's hair 
and don't forget Edward 
this is your birth land 
and your soul is 
like the shad estuary 
part of east central upstate NY's 
rappelling into canyon tomorrow 
you are quite comforted singing 
sixteen tons, ernie ford's versions 
forlornly praising yesteryear 
nostalgic for the beauty 
of the trade skill 
and labor movements 
and how they made America 
what it could be 
in your eyes Edward, 
people and poets 
people as poets 
people poets


it is so clear to me now 

you all only love to live 
with your heads 
so far up your asses 
taken with con ed 
adult like classes 
at your local 
uvula high school"

EJR © 

May 26, 2016

the standards and means by which poem and I measure ourselves (bad husband, bad grammar, bad attitude and the pin prick-y way I've been told I get under skin)

in this material society 
\ours is a quicksilver spill pool ... 

we have sold straw bundled mothers 

where's father  

the miller's daughter exclaims  
as her mother motions 
down to the grind house ... 

cleaving thyself true 
by pursuit 
of physical perfection 
sucks the life 
from your flesh 

the writer and traveling soul 
knows this is the universe speaking 
to stay here 
be part 
of your own 
living diorama 
while dying slowly 
occasionally blooming petal pieced  
pilfer pilloried piled works 
of go function naked 

where I am 
where are you 
what am I 
what are you 
dual dice 
four sides 
train the triangles 
to play squarely 
did you bring your monster manual cinder slut 
or is what I got to give to you 
the grotesque part of the evening 

give me a soul to grow 
and watch me
be like those sea monkeys 
from the back of the comics 
spawn of prince Namor
what in us 
dies sooner 

in the scheme 
of things we are
tiny brine
 choice easy
once offered 
 jonah rides 
calm clam digger man ...

no I didn't mean to leave this place behind so abruptly 
but I cannot survive another day at the precipice 
of my own life as a RKO newsreel of disaster after disaster 
with heroic voice-over 
this nation under god and indivisible 
is on the edge of fascism 
as an elixir for what ails you 
perhaps there is stability in that 
this nation which stands to be over run 
with zealots from every part 
of the political spectrum 
has really been a piggy b ank 
for the fat cats 
who hide their identities 
behind just causes 
and incitements of riots 
Ed elk oort cloud
the fabric theorist was right 
as we go further into a digital universe 
carving out places to find ourselves inside of 
we are craving the sense of touch more and more 
what will fit us to feel who we are 
at any given moment 
when we need to be purposed 
identified in a language 
of sorrow and joy ...

what can we weave 
into these lives we lead 
what cloth can capture 
how we reach for things 
beyond our understanding 
in order to feel 
the pretense 
of being free 

you have words at your finger tips wanting the strumming 
Mediterranean to Adriatic skin crawl old bones to soul raitos 
know the guild by ages Pliocene nanobot scene and you mean 
to have had that conversation with your daughter 
already when you go out on planning 
to save the world from itself 
by sacrificing yourself 
in the wellspring of pomegranate poison lip 
and the hip sway Jesus complex 

when magnets 
call textiles 
wheat cheese 
we are in 
the other ways 
we measure here, here 
we heard weights say
herd wane 
and you 
are divine 
to profiteers ...

we begin 
to lean liens 
upon this shit 
a soul 

some you 
that will forever 
be without words ...

for I have known 
no thing 
that attains  
a consciousness 
can be stopped 
when love 
gives birth-reign 
to its pain 
to gain 
to thirst 

we only bleed 
mostly when 
we become aware 

I dare you 
to think otherwise 
if ever lucky 
enough to 
want to be 
in love 


May 24, 2016

eye a muse-d ewe once ago ...................................................................................................... (dead bumble bee chronicles and ram low steam to rain)

photo by Edward Rinaldi

there would no longer be 
any good mornings 
or hey sweethearts she said 
wasn't I supposed 
to be dead already ...? 

I suppose I was always meant 
to be thought 
of this way 
but here I am still craw-ed in your stilled 
and not emptying quickly enough of me 
lock boxed chambered heart and eyes ... 

I went looking for sexy mum 
you went looking for father 
I suppose neither one of us 
found in each other 
what we were looking for 

and now the lace-lets of piano 
take me to the open window 
towards the smell of rain 
and deepening May 
the call to June 
how I love thee 
and Autumn too 
but Summer day 
is not so favored 
or assuredly mine 
any more 

I side with night 
its short breath 
and expanse 
the lance of dew 
the hand organ song 
of its soul is a tarantella 
that I knew 
when I first heard it 

the birds 
too, come to 
sing pour you 
the last glass 
on the grass 
and walk barefoot 
as if the tides 
are real low 
and whispering 
go to bed 
go to bed 
dream of mountains 
and the rain 
beaches and the explanations 
that sometimes arrive 
many years later 
in a poem 
or forward 
to a novel 
not yet written, titled ...

'Dawn approaches : angled your dagger-ed light'


May 21, 2016

I really wanted a chariot but I stole onto secret pedestals instead ............................................................... and like any good fool .................. I represented myself on trial

Reigen im Titanenhain
Michael Hutter ©

we are human beings mostly 
though suspected androids 
and other non-terrestrials 
are among us 
day to night 
in ritual haze time 
calendar sentry ready 
to become trees again 

my poem mood 
is piano grey 
minor note linger 
twined to within 
puff puff pass 
as chronicled : 

skate way 
sofa sofa to soap 
maybe once a week 
if I'm lucky 
'tis a terrible thing 
to fall inside yourself with no rope 
hope or other things to string 
and remind one's self 
you once kited dreams 
to pull down the sky 

who am I 
I couldn't say 
if I was asked 
point blank 
with my life 
on the line 
and in play 
I'd have to 
be ready 
to die today 
because I 
wouldn't know 
what to say : 

the tribunal was barricaded with beret wearing fae 
they chain smoked counterfeit american cigarettes 
while brandishing chinese kalashnikovs 
they read an article once 
on huey newton 
and the black panthers 
said the wee folk 
have been historically underpaid 
while painted as saviors 
of humanity's sometimes 
and that here at the end 
of human beings civilized pretense 
they would exert their rights 
to bare arm the scars 
and judge the giving 
of their lifetimes 
to our not much good 
done for the benefit 
of life in particular 

sentencing was 
an all the while 
and ever after wards
ringing around 
in ghost light 
of lost fantasies 
the fallacies 
of my being 
human belong  
they exclaimed 
in constant song 
and rendered posies 


when dogs are angry the poem turns its ears up

'Travellers' 2008
oil on linen
Lisa Yuskavage ©

my window 
the neighborhood 
is in a howl 
it is a warm turned 
mid to late May evening 

on the open side 
of the wind 
and sill
swell wisp 
their tongues 
bellow quick to
a burnt offering 
edge tendering water
held hidden 
by a ferocity 
of dew 
clinging to
the undergrowth 
and grasses  

they're after
the baby shoots 
and ladder leaves 
that first begat 
Spring's crawl 
from Hades' dark feast 

under the snows 
we often fail to realize 
in a notebook 
of indecipherable 
perhaps, the benefits 
of fertile simmer are
all inside bubbles 
as cackle scratch 
and pop relieve 

i set out in this life believing nothing 
always hoping that a star fell at my feet 
i'll let you know when it happens 
so right now i'm trying to ignore my life 
while listening to the music 
angry dogs make 
thinking it might 
make a good poem 

all the cauldrons 
we acknowledge 
or ignore
are filled with 
undiscovered and unsaid 
words and worlds 
gutter bleeding 
broken streetlights  
outsourcing need 
past human sight, 
sound and scent 
stirring the bloom 
while breathing beings 
experience calendrical time 

the house wolves 
will alarm us 
with envy 
displaying loyal canine 
protective anger 
at ghost hands  
out there 
unseen, walking 
the Moon 
on bones, 

sometimes i have 
to wonder 
if all of this is 
theatrical backdrop 
to a poem 
of ...  

i am thirsty too 
listening to throaty 
growls and barks 
i imagine 
i am part 

a brigade watch
in the dark 
do they wish  
like i do 
on falling stars 
to have mastery 
over night and
that Persephone 
had eaten all 
twelve of those seeds 
giving brooding birth 
to her own 
last supper


May 19, 2016

forms, cork, wax, old green glass and hermits healing hearth lit

Baba Yaga 
the wine 
she cellar-ed well 
asked if eye could 
help while here 

she drove sun to rain 
even when explaining 
how to cook something later 

was she ripe at birth 
i am sure she was 
imprinting herself 
upon everyone 
as soon as she 
could actualize 
a thought 
or bargain 
between flesh variance 
and cyclical ritual 
repeat or rinse 
and pretend 
pattern almost 

i kept 
exploring myself 
stepped, steeped 
in that womb 

she was always time
dressed nine gates 
living between silk 
and ash 

she is sly 
hidden wink quick 
macabre wonderful 
bold and sweet structural 
reminiscent Spring 
she has a pawed earth scent 
Winter root dragon 
hibernation on knees 
a burning quiet 
a somewhere 

she knows bones 
carry secrets 
in their marrow 
and that caterpillars 
never mind 
being eaten 
by birds 
while eating 
their own way 
to wings 

vessel pressure to precious
child bearing 

life was
to wear 
and be worn
with nothing 
but now 

where words 
are not 
as important 
as understanding 

she demands places 
in her self 
horses and carriage 
carrying Dawn 
her tits and lips
up and down 
an old road 
once took home 
to peddlers lane 

nothing but love for sale 
or else all is 
given away freely 
and we turned 
the bottles 
sixty degrees
every few 
new moons 

we'll open one 
imagining while drinking 
that we are roasting 
tenderly aged suckling 
disobedient spoiled 
Alpine children 
spit turning 
them slowly 
as we hum 
the songs 
of the seasons 
in the poems 
of urban social folklore 
humans and their lusts 
for their comfortable cages 
as the Hemlocks 
bent in a lean 
intending on 
listening with rhubarb pie 
warm at the window sill