February 6, 2016

here, have a bite of me, too

here, have a bite of me, too

pour it into linger, think I said...

" were you singed dear? ", 

say something like, no not really any more 
clearly branded by the way your skin has raised and boiled
against me where the exhale of hot metal hid...were there 
messages of how far we were leaning in...

staccato poems known bones and 
suture councils, souls go leaping abyss, 
clutching handfuls of Autumn's last wheat 
left in the ground until just now...

was it picked to barter a better seat from those 
with whom an ice king might preside when Winter is riding, 
thorough and fare on wane...

even more though, 
as February turns 
command still, 
Winter does...

with more knives than all the teeth that have ever been for 
pasta al dente...so chew on the visage you want in the dark
and play the (imma gonna git me sum wautr) game...

you know the thirsty look by now...the hallways are marked
with arranged bones in tall pots that are carved to look like flowers...

you gather closer and hear me sing softly
smiling getting jiggy, jivey, jaunty too, trying to figure you out
just when the spirit gets inside...

"ciao bella how sweet swelling smell of you this Lupercalian fortnight..." 

the stars are scars 
what moments, we have or had 
crawling the clawing(s) across the sky 
we always order a night cap with dessert...
spit poems from every eye  
say no words, gift our limbs 
and sweaty noses 
slow tracing surrender(s)...


February 3, 2016


in my mind I'm a-dandering 
in a cutty-pipe inglenook
casting a glamour ambrosia 
winnock-ed and unchancy 
upon those who dare look

(and so it became a poem/in succubus calm tricks of the 
eyes/street corner wise/with ambulatory skills then needed to 
assemble the post parade in triage)

I told myself, never eat until stuffed 
but now you're here, I am 
making an exception, I am making 
eating all of you the rule

these storms, in me
of having a conscience 
or a conscious apathy 
are both a tide and spawn 
gamble on eroding dawn
as they roll on up 
with bits
of blue eyes
getting through

a back line
of bird calls
trapping me inside
the burgeoning pour
of belly rain this day
what if I were the bot 
and not body and soul
what if I am
just bones with holes 
where light got in

what if each life 
was mostly connected somehow 
by how we sorted 
our seasonal movements  
the desires, we took ownership of...
the innate music 
we felt the need to be part of 
needs to belong to some things 
we could bleed out with 
that were wholly ours, like...

the maples here being poems too
nearing, the end of Winter 

the tall and small things 
beneath the clandestine roars 
of clocks and calendars, counting 
reason or not to be 
in ever-circling time...

elliptical rituals 
heralds, trumpets and flowers 
seeded beneath the roar of wind
maples here are tine-d and tied 
spine-d thin fingers
reaching for all the words 
we want with
when filling in
the views 


the trailing train élan of Breo-Saighit

the trailing train élan of Breo-Saighit

she makes dandelion wine
she jars everything she finds 
what in you 
that can be 
purposed or pleasured 
for what ails 
the something missing
in someone else 
like you or me

each year when there's a little more dusk
to dawn at last she un-casks what has stayed ripe...

when remembering, who is the orbit 
and who might be the pane
we bring to renew the view we've mastered 
returning so many more times as rain...

are we only lending who we will want to be
interest in banking evening's tombstone society
though names be labels sometimes too 
here they're hand written pieced with you 
so in essence, potential is scent derived finer points 
the why, memory sells service rendered kinetic joints...

I suppose one never asks this collector 
what originally sent her, assured to spy
to want to know and sense a future purified 
what people, for instance, would come for, to pay and play to be 
what this once was, perhaps, when pickled into eternity...

air tight masons, wishes vicious and viscous 
in a pantry room with wombs, brooms 
and the tiny knives that flowers are 
accompanying, courted larks...

I tear myself apart
rubbing lamps to argue 
that with night
being a narrator guide
for my own soul 
will everyone, then 
understand me 
when I was whole...

will they remember songs
they say they've never 
learned before
will they say words 
out loud like poets do
taking to a knife's edge
in the language of rivers...

do we mostly howl 
at the precipice of Spring 
take to seeding the air
with scented expressions
like horny poets do
like jacks in the boxes 
and jills on the hills
are names irrelevant
will everyone get the picture
will everyone be the poem
will everyone be inside  
bowsprit and ride 
knowing nadir-apex-journey-arcs
their every emotion's coal to diamond story...

what in us, has to be told
in a stain of glass
or verbs affixed to nouns
and the past...?

you said to me, kneel
and I thought I was praying
you told me to starve hunger
when I really wanted to eat
to tremble my focus
to stretch slowly
to move with grace
to be mindful
of place and 
any attachment
to permanence...

to not expect
a masterpiece
though as we know
sometimes stars
release their dead

EJR © 

February 2, 2016

the torque crazed trojan horse gravity of human bones...

the torque crazed trojan horse gravity of human bones  

I believe I have been
mostly, part of the rain
sometimes, hidden 
in the cycle of grasses too...

while this life is 
mostly, of a poet 
molded clay wean river
wanting down 
from the sky 
mountains in shale reaches
just like life is when
turning toward the Sun 
I have also been 
warm Spring onions 
kelp swaying insistent 
inside the rest of those  
thin verdant fingers 
harvesting heat from dying 
roots once composed 
of reaching through maybe(s)...

are souls exposing vulnerable(s) 
in need of bones
in order to wear scent 
skin and flesh, though firstly
very furtively, within the throes 
of Winter readying its own end...


groundhog shadows
and light merchant opportunists 
are perched on the escarpments 
on the high side of the Hudson, too... 

Brigid knows to begin the tide
with her knowledge of scent
tells us to start to eat through 
the last of Winter’s decay...

poems here, show up unseen 
no wholes wholly hold 
each piece of us
put back together 
by our soul's desire 
for what eggs mean...


in a Spring time, ago
Humpty Dumpty told me...

"that come soon 
Beltane Maypole 
twining(s) bale, is silk 
and boon to bane weather
a founders' causeway fire
that knows hearts kneading hope
are dangerous things 
left unattended with time  
they ghost the eons 
stick to the wind 
carving ring after ring
mostly trees remember 
to pay respect...

reminds me though 
once, I attended 
Persephone's annual
it was a complete wedding reprisal
dancing blacksmiths
an alchemist and witch
drawing circle after circle
of forged mechanical claims
they repeated names upon 
each destiny, the bones 
they threw in articulation, said 
they had already
given Lilith and 
her mighty womb..."


February 1, 2016

lens-ing through loquacious whisper

lens-ing through loquacious whisper

there were bikes chained together in the basement, blocking an industrially gray painted door to the outside...I just wanted to find them alive...I swore I had heard knocking when I was searching through the first floor...had the devil lived here before or was it more of modern humanity's need for a lord...either way, I did hear something alerting me to possibly a positive outcome in this search for the missing town's folk...

we knew dream outcome gambling halls were proliferate in these former manufacturing towns and being so, many sold their souls to paint their bodies a golden glitzy kitsch while they spent their last breaths on things they could ignore the rest of us with...perhaps they were just part of the wind now or peeling paint or even the rust shuttering close, the gates between the many chained link fences...strange to see the empty bones of what once was...all I needed now to complete this surrey with fringe at the top, was a bit of tumbleweed making the empty bleed into me...something that said move on from here, this place is not paced to be sanctuary...

but maybe their absence was just the other side of boredom, 
seeking an alluring weigh station portal porter housed 
what once was thought of as holy and tangibly divine...
knees, palms and forehead down, searching the lonesome(s)...

I mean, can you still detect faint traces 
of individuation, when reading the words they left on paper, 
are these words what their souls wanted to be...? 
imprinted onto you or I, could they smell different too...?

here is where it all ends up being rhetorical 
a story board with things still to do...

missing town folks ended up being 
abducted by modernity and as such 
were unable to be located 
by way of poem, intoxication 
or escapist training...

we said, they'd come back 
when they were hungry 
and headed home 
for feast and fire...


Rimbaud was poet as seer

Joachim von Sandrart
'Minerva and Saturn protect Art and Science of envy and falsehood'

Rimbaud was poet as seer 

Oedipus thanks Antigone 
and warms his hands 
by the fire...says, now 
I smell the days 
and feel the nights 
on my skin...

calendrical rhetorical observations

are blinded to see 
therefore they bleed time 
are emitted admissions 
they fit to slit tits and tats 
can fill a flatworm sideways 
eyes to futurists 
palmed laughter 
given rides 

(what have you to gift me?...Charon asks liltingly)

I have mere words or so they seem 
seamed music, dancing to between(s) 
there is no chance, to parlay 
nor dug bones, soul sewn, could latch to
there is but me, another born, with want to see 
dressed in repugnant and given over to excess 
I want to know where do souls go, after life, that's best...

so if by promise, you cannot find me passage here alive 
then please, try me dead, for by this means, I will arrive 
as stated and intended to see where the souls are hid
on the other sides of these rivers 
humans stake temporary and infinity to...

and it is not that I want to know 
why you're here or even what you did  
it is that I need to know how the wind 
wears each of us or what scent 
have we to leave behind 
what expression can we carve into eons 
and what with may we let, someone in the future, know 
why it is, at least one soul came, claw-clutched and expressed 
this way home, in poem, wearing hair as hats, more or less...


January 29, 2016

a street level information-al-ist rhapsody...

'The Gift'
Painting: Oil on wood panel, 2014
by Michael Hutter ©

a street level information-al-ist rhapsody 

(there were aural rivulets 
unfamiliar graffiti, beautiful 
but near similar sounds, 
happenstance, clock 
and calendar make 
while eating)

she insisted on fashioning her own undergarments 
with a certain application of skill, seams on it were meant 
to represent who had been here, that knew what and when 
so quietly you, those are my questions, until then
why, will only be her slippery mistress 
something we'll have to leave, unquestioned 
of all its motivation(s) as well as dress
until there might be sufficient time 
to enjoy the profanely sacred process...

by the way 
stomach said 
to heart today
what wine 
are we having 
with lunch...?


la beauté de ces fleurs du mal...

'Portait de Baudelaire'
by Gustave Courbet, 1848-1849

la beauté de ces fleurs du mal

a thought bubble poem for this witch-y looking woman, 
who was ahead of me at the checkout line, 
earlier in the day...

"I know the algorithm 
that seeks my soul", I exclaimed, 
somewhat awkwardly
"have you met yours...?"
I ask hurriedly burrowing into 
my crept silent staging...


behind my eyes... I'm jittery, I'm needing a drink, 
I'm fumbling for something clever to say
something to stop me from staring at her eyes 
something to keep me from getting lost 
inside the rest of their wake...

do you know 
I ask myself, by way 
of concealing myself, in poem...

do you know 
your sown intentions, 
are thee spawned to crawl 
the deep lulled tides 
or are thee subtle like 
right up until there is 
no point in pretending 
not to know better...

does this routine 
get you chanced
to your fabled 
other sides...?


January 28, 2016

this poem is best suited to be an independent film about lost perspective

this poem is best suited to be an independent film about lost perspective

a whirring of processes 
in a meshed clock-less world 
anchor shadows, a whorl 
of wind hooks, dust 
and movie lights waiting 

quiet on the set 
ear-less black yet 
a nose full of you 
scent went intending 
never one to be ending 
what back stories do

slurry bin for recesses 
hungry endless mores 
poured more please Tories 
pining old ways 
tickets were bought and sold 

I too, can be lent 
poem says, and sent 
some thirsty bones and flesh...
and yes, soul does searching 
heart wholly holed, perching 
a front row seat in nets 


January 27, 2016

animalcules (the first tarantino flick I saw was 'reservoir dogs')

animalcules (the first tarantino flick I saw was 'reservoir dogs')

each thought after that was...

maybe you 
or something 
different inside
other universes 
are you, too 
one of the form seekers 
the watchers, wearers 
of being, 
maybe you 
or something 
different inside yourself 
is travelling through 
other universes 
becoming one's own 
thought aware, mostly 
of nothing 
special, really...

(damn, there's the poet's interior monologue, 
followed by his long tracking over the shoulder two shot 
up close and personal...old faithful jugular gratuitous spray 
western death engorged with revenge 
and its' eastern ritual desperation(s), the kill shot is 
squeezed and slowed, in letterbox)

single cell desire 
is the future 
anamorphic trophy poem
hellos ellipses agglutinations 
time, a far away old fellow 
is always an angled knife 
here or there too 
I suppose, it slipstream-s 
navigates, knows, the 
nautical charts 
of what souls seek...

free will 
spreads our fingers, pulses our intent 
adheres our spirit 
to skinned flesh, 
bones and consciousness

all our unknown songs 
calls, magnets and directions 
we take for ourselves 
are what we chain link 'round 
memories, what we've thought remembered 
and perhaps wished forgotten too...

here, at the abyss, 
the womb and after-life 
are full of people and freight 
fate and circumstance 
dancing mercurial depot exchange rates...

memories are better said created 
baited then staked and laid claim to 
each perhaps, a glimpse of when, 
simple seemed easy  
instead of accordion 

when we are being what we are 
when we are, ourselves 
most very often  
is likely, all the moments 
we needed to see 
as a memory...

were we a golden play or
the sweet ebb of laughter
or maybe a selfishly 
and hurriedly flung 
hurled rush demonstration
to a somewhere else
the sky didn't feel 
so fenced in...


January 25, 2016

at the edges of civilization...

at the edges of civilization...

within the din forests of this current incarnation of modernity
there is an eating away at what constitutes humankind's 
idea of permanence...

insides never meant 
to be ever lasting 
waver tone principle 
temple republic disguised 
aggregate masses, weave the people 
order has begun to be a languish colored flag
and decency is uncommon 
and seems riddled with cancer 
though we thought, at one time, that could be 
remedied, only by reading, ironically...

at the edges of civilization 
we are what daylight is strung with 
ritualized by seasons and calendrical adhesion 
we are, a tried tired decadent hesitancy 
an ever wanting setting in, 
remember, falling is flying 
sometimes too, you hear Prometheus say...

who is really selling 
tickets and trinkets 
to the when(s) and where(s) 
you fell, I fell, we all fell 
getting well when said 
we needed bells 
to repair our ears...

so we might soon forget
the music of when 
we were the same 
as an angel's wings 
instead of beings 
with weights 
on their feet, drowning 
in every one of knowledge's 
reflective and deep pools...


it was when the lens was in warm yellow...

it was when the lens was in warm yellow that I threw up this poem

mirror and tine 
pissing just fine 
a-spell binding 
tide and reading from
my soul, amidst wane...

my humanity goes 
throes in rows 
of, I am thee 
and me, in serenade 

sometimes disgustingly 
rejoiced to revolted 
elated to apathy, in reign 
explaining pain only to myself 
at the intersections 
of almost \and
boxing out the sun 
praying to myself 
no explanations 
would ever be needed 
when it came 
to my behavior desiring 
rabbit holed falling numb 
sailing away from time...

your terminal to perpetual 
divinity, I have coveted 
with no holds barred...

the candy shoppe is in olde towne too 
and this is where I do go looking in my worn shoes
I go a-guided, feeling felt by poured toothed blind neon...

knowing what I had already decided 
I was buying into, tonight I was to chase, 
this local shine as it seems fine enough 
to write this, in, a right now, 
with a what and why 
I was a-wanting 
not far behind, in tow...

this has gone on for so many years 

occasionally poems like this 
would recede  and erode 
like my gums do to old memories 
teething to you, the reader to find 
poking up through the ground
like a crocus perhaps, bones 
of a poem, before Spring arrives...


splitting atoms only divided the houses

painting by Erik Thor Sandberg ©

splitting atoms only divided the houses

<this poem is a could have been love's irradiate bloom, 
tombs and catacombs beneath my imagination's 
cities by the sea, their scalloped 
and reed-ed marshes, 
we had for seed, 
this to lay claim to, 
to flood with fresh water
for our fields of wheat, vegetables and beans 
would not grow, on their own
this poem hears and sniff-crawls 
in felt along, caught, cut tree bleeding 
kinds of meandered ways...
ways, we've ceded bones to rain, 
ways, eyes never could 
pick up or hide when 
not to know how much 
further, a memory 
might need to see into 
all the places souls ripen 
and take to, between 
every light and shadow 
every ritual and happenstance 
of their heaven(s) and hell(s)>

poem says...

"I'm a cardinal
on fire against 
a bare budding bush
I'm wanting 
in desperate words 
to melt in a way
as if ice, cast 
in the wake 
of your smile, 
some tossed flight
straight towards Spring, 
something I hold like this, 
some kiss, flown, tickled 
by wind, on a string..."
I said nothing 
I just listened 
probably, as you did