October 22, 2014

I've fallen and I can't get up...

The Agony in the Garden, by William Blake c. 1799-1800





I was caught pawning agony for ecstasy


part 1 (setting the tone)


beach-combing debris fields for any sign 
of fuck you being my name

churches in America are 
still wish-death-ing liberties and keys 
despite the separate identities 
the same body assumes 
when mood and Moon are 
fancied algorithmic tools
engaging the blinders

the conservatives on tv are constrict-a-tives
the liberals are banker strung Pollyanna(s)

we are all temporary
seasonally curled scattered leaves
lawn carcasses for sale in a park
we are available to fill with an empty sort of nostalgia…

yes this was once a pioneering land
where demanding greed be the creed 
we bleed from whatever it is we feed 
with the lies we’re indoctrinated as children
to believe in

a leaf is a seeded reach that once in awhile shimmers 
a fall from grace perched then lurched back to earth…
a swan tide of maple oak ash chestnut and elm...

I color my world to cut roots with fire and sex...

when ignorance is bliss I can steal whatever I want from you


part 2 (cutting into bone)


bloody tires and thrown open sashes 
I watch who dashes away from the wrecks 
I’ve created by rigging the stoplight
I tell you everything but what you need to know
because knowledge is towed away
the theft is always going to be borrowed 
and never gained

informing any of you
is but a glam circus come on a thon
listening to me is a mistake
you will wake the next morning 
in someone else's clothes

your voice will have 
an entirely different taste 
of expressing the exhales

you will be play acting and stretching 
the audible parts of your soul
you will parse and piece the hard creases 
meant for easy packaging
you will distribute, attribute wisdom 
to painful experiences…
you will ask why…
you will come to find it is because 
you think beauty lurks beneath 
the surfactant scars…

we are teeming cellular metropolises 
breeding devoured excesses
we are a dress code honor guard 
a flora bacteria culture

we are the petri dishes
on every block by block
our souls in hock
do you lock everyone out
as I do to find what crumbles
outside the light of love
what do you look for in the dark

I look for
what I might have been
what I am now
what once was
part eager
part mechanical
part organ dependent
part of something
greater than anything
imagination might have
remembered was important
enough to never need words


EJR ©

October 19, 2014

go heavy on the eye-liner, catch them beneath a wrought iron flickering gas lamp corner...

‘The Triumph of Death’  Pieter Bruegel The Elder c. 1562




 throwing in the towel to catch the bleeding
( this is how we earn a living )

the main event today
was kidney theft
and straw poll
pie making

we used ladders
as scary walkways
racing over old brick
and brownstone buildings
looking to hook bankbook
answers and prey

you carry the surgical kit
I train the muscles with ice
we’ll plan for subterfuge
something to go wrong
we’ll improvise positions
on our moral grey areas

places where
smoke and haze
linger a bit
more insistently

tonight is cool
an October damp
our fates are
stamped and matted
slickened with fallen

we're being silent
when the night
is full of hungry vespers
and cupped mouths
it gives us
a fortunate rise

we lie somewhere
between a purr
and a growl
stealthy patience
rewards us howled

use your lips
touch purse
timpani vibratos
ply them against
reach skin surprise
lure lull writhe ecstasy
victim lost when we begin

the sudden gas
leapt from behind
then my scalpel
pain freeing past
painted dreams
knock out soft jobs
kneeling out of way
of windows
this back alley tryst
your final kiss now
you’ve gone toe curling
to toe tagged
a corner being
counted out

so no matter
what the daily
afflictive whisper 
we carry 
to view heaven is
there will always be
another rich person
with late onset diabetes
and high blood pressure
willing to pay a fix
to their undercard

burning
the mission
most life
knows death
is not proud
when hungry


EJR ©

October 15, 2014

let the culling begin...

Painting by Melchior d'Hondecoeter circa 1680



the weekend was seeking balance and disorder

(“the white zone is for loading and unloading only…” Frank Zappa)

birds of prey, birth vector influenzas, autoimmune protocol breakdowns, hemorrhagic fevers and barnyard pop stardom

the rail car cages were for remnant ideologues who might not be afraid enough of the myriad agent population controls loosened upon the teeming bourgeon of the serviced post-industrial society

the luckless pedestrians, we were arresting and amassing here, waiting for processing and pornographic manipulation, on the way to middle of nowhere America…the rest you were already eyes wide awake and sleeping with the enterprising shut ins, loners and hermits, watching too much television…

books were banned not too long after the ebola riots of 2019…who needed the truth to ever get in the way of orderly conduction of a warrant-less world bent on keeping you safe from you…

we knew conversation needed to come back in fashion

over coffee or some other intoxicating drink

modernity loves getting high on the past

there was a waffle house a few miles down the road

we knew some of us were never going to be sated until permanently out of breath

we decided to stage the cockfights in the back behind the tack house/ stuffing motion-sensor vibrator affixed squirrel tails into the asses of the pretty panty less girls we often used to sell the trinkets, drinks and other imbibes/ every weekend we would make a killing from killing/it was a news cycle variant and only part of the viscous underground’s need to bleed out what is and isn’t accepted for public consumption/ and whether it be our souls or the holes in the pockets of Friday night denizen carnival masks, we are always burning with a desire to spend everything on escaping, from and to, here…

Monday was a lifetime away and right now was swept up in a feeling of pure thrill and dirty causes/ naughty eyes and the reach of fingers for more of what the ever bleeding world of vices, sacrifices and the devices spawned between them, have to offer us in the forms of salvation, salience or solvency…

EJR ©

October 12, 2014

art and archery...

photo by David Benedict ©


her poem knew this song too…

an object fell from heaven
a fiery light, entropy
dark matter and energy
woven unseen womb seas
long count calendars
wave after wave it came

you go, she said
I go for unclean

I went as long
as she afforded me
safety, dangers
comforts and thrills

her undertow and humanity
wore levees and fantasies
flooded and fortified
she said I play 
burning free

one of her garter clips
snaps loose silk thin scented
with flowers and iron

she moves slow, at first
forged to magnetic poles
tide-currents and clouds
begin to swim
the aromatic decays
and back for air again

specialty shops
drive eyeless desires

what my nose says
is pull her closer
reach with vigor
my right hand
‘tween her legs
single handed origami
spelling shapes
and mythologies  
of please

I cast curling
further in
she says
yes, more
repeatedly

my left arm swings
over her shoulder
cupping a breast
I play maestro
as both hands circle
a counterclockwise
to clockwise done
conducting spun
wet clay waiting
the wheel says
turn time into chance
after chance

I bite down on a spot
where her neck demands
my attention with
a bent leg discipline of cranes
wading the mist for more frogs
in the wee unfurling whispers
of morning, nearing

she murmurs and moans
lifting low mumbles
in the dark room
she says this is my poem

“ play my concertina,
you will find
this kind of love
always knows to recite me”


“tonight”, she says

“excite me
forefinger-crescent
the orbit whorled
whirled world
inside me
make me beg
make me dance
cover me in falling ash
and dead skin”

her painted nails
became candle flicker people
staging every cycle
of water’s surrender
and clenched cotton midnight
onto the walls
to begin the stanza…

“inside every part of me”,
she says, “is quiet ritual time,
molecular diaphragm-soul
bellowing snakes and eggs,
archaeology and starlight,
every single one sings a verse
each of them say carry nothing
you can’t come in heaven with”

she quiets
no words
follow

she repeats
a breathless
scratching
as her chorus

she assigns
my back
a bleeding map
where tomorrow says, 
"I’ll call you
to return to
treasure hunting
front and rear
side to side
head to toe
little binds and
the rinds you’ve left
spent on the nightstand"

this is my land of let go
where I bow to grace
with what undresses me
still stained with
her yesterday poem


EJR ©

October 9, 2014

a flash fiction poem...(inspired by New York Comic Con)

art by Jacopo Camagni ©
 


ex caelo
(what if heaven were all our dark places, we shrouded in light…?)

    I was listening to the feast of the augury on the Greco-roman AM/ A.D. wannabe, sure to get a front seat to the apocalypse, heavy duty part of the radio dial, eating my life's hot mess as a gumbo, reading my tea leaves, sitting low on the couch, talking to myself about what I could do to die happy as a clam with a head full of clever and passion as the saints start to come marching in...

     our angel of death, was a subtle guest, arrived as an asteroid carrying, not only fire from above, but also a virulent mutagen, combining these two culling devices for a super-charged, infective woe-is-me, my life may not have been good enough for immortality, inevitability…

    all anyone saw at first was a distant flash of the roar to come…the shock-wave followed a few minutes later…and at once, we creatures of comfort and material security were roused from our near midnight rituals with a cacophony of broken glass, car alarms and screams amid flickering brownout pulse gasps of the way life used to be…was it a world-wide phenomenon, circumnavigating its carnage, something our news cycle image whore culture could exploit…IT WAS…  

     the television said an announcement would be forthcoming though delivery of said information could not be guaranteed…emergency broadcast measures were being put in place…communication would be problematic due to sporadic to widespread electrical outages…ham radio operators were said to have been alerted to being needed…I remember the last thing I saw broadcast was a visibly shaken talking head telling me to love who I was with…I was alone…

    outside my window, there seemed a growing, low decibel clamoring, a beginning to simmer, milling about, the neighborhood, much like all the other neighborhoods, I thought, turning, what the fuck is happening to us, into some Monty Hall’s joker’s wild survivalist block party…edge-bloomed velvet and seedy shenanigans with shaved and pimped rapturous religious overtones and theatrics…
     
      human beings thrown together suddenly and permanently is a fun potent exchange of life’s hidden shoebox-ed snapshot things and despite the cause…I thought…fear,  is an especially, giddy intoxicant if enough people share their misery with a thriving elegance…because, it seems, love in this world might not have ever abandoned us, had we always been this endangered…and not so ready to believe in a winning lottery ticket of an afterlife for everyone…

    a smell of roasted onions and peppers mixes in with savory barbecue smoke, cruising its wafts, up and down the block, filling the air…I watch an accordionist with an umbrella for a hat, waltz down the street, there is a monkey dressed as a bellhop, pulling a peanut machine, not very far behind him…the songs he plays makes this night a surreal peeled sun burn collection of scars in jars, I take them out, open them and take big whiffs, just to remind myself, I am really into the sordid beauty, underneath everything…all the caged marrow dreams feed on…be they melodies and bone symphonies twined to how I currently track time or the words that tag along while losing my way several times, on purpose, spiting my face, playing carnival seek to hide, when I am given any chance to show my faith by leaping abyss after abyss…

    and even if this is just to say when I fall I am really flying, warmed by the whip and tear of my soul’s skin burning with what civilized nations allegiances come before humanity’s algorithm in beaten path, cyclical ritual nostalgia for wombs and tombs and all that life can come wrapped and unraveled in…though sometimes, the poems ramble on their own and arrive covered in simple broad leaves and brown paper and are much more enticing anticipations than any gaudy foil and fobbed ribbon hoopla…

meanwhile the television never came back on
the internet froze solid, people’s cell phones died
permanent re-connectedness occurred
in simultaneous symbiotic serendipity
of parishioners, parasites and temples
right now, when I write

“Hey money changers,
you can count the money
I’m still selling
lemonade and hot plates
because hell is here, where
you go when you’re hungry
for an explanation”

everyone settles for comfort
along the way toward
what they already
assigned this life to

I rather like the burn
febrile prophetic
profit even
from the ash

the word passed
stay up wind
and last
another day

EJR ©