July 24, 2016

........................... what if She had just eaten Remus and Romulus

 photo by portraithaus ©

the desert kingdoms 
would still be 
southern hinterlands 
whereas the Alps 
had kept the wolves 
mostly at bay 
and there were the sometimes 
when Her young mothers got lost 
on the way 
to pack life adulthood 
so if they had wandered 
down into the fields 
and groves 
they could then 
find suckle 
guidance to feed 
upon orphans 
left as tribute 
at the grotto 
for humans 
still believed 
in sacrifice 
back then ...

provisional chancellor I will not sign your oath of condemnation 
condom nation slip rubber rain coat duck shoes were chic 
once or twice in the eighties we found campy 
was cool enough to hide 
behind and vacate the soul for shallow 
but indivisible means 
of and to an end means 
fathoming farthing fathering less 
the carriage cost of contractual 
obligation relegation supremacy 
eugenics on the news stand 
the band strikes a match 
and the whole shooting works 
is junky body parts all blown to bits 
with plop flesh rain where gut drops sit 
damn it eye fell 
asleep wheel clay-ing wings again 
pretending glaze kiln wish factories 
were real places, they aren't ...

but for the pretty designs 
our own wet slip silt pottery makes 
when smashing the ground ... 

scatter wink led bells 
shards and long bows 
a pitcher with ornate 
forest motif 
we once filled 
with water 
for the plants 
we kept shelved 
in the foyer ... 

I'll spend  
the entire 
ends of time 
in poem ...

I'll be looking 
over edges precipices 
falling onto points 
hooking whoop-sy daisy(s) 
hope you got the claims in correctly baby(s) 
in my best annotated appetizer self hypnotism ... 

the risers 
behind the pulpit 
are where the chorus 
stands and sings ... 

and sing they do 
all the ways to Heavens 
and back to heard 
and herded, listening 
listing slow tide 
moonlight again ... 

it was Sunday morning 
and I could smell dinner afterwards in words, worlds 
of smells and slow rebounds back to our little Hells 
we rang bells tells we were tolls, we paid each going tithe weight 
our moral letting off(s), we let the liquor and gravy hit it 
afternoon tuned to evening when service was over 
in our minds ...

pre-seeing the ways 
prey prays payment 
to glass laying still 
for something 
patterned in almost ... 

the impact point 
is the shattered 
and mattered 
what of us 
when given back 
wind and host 
use most of ...

spit with 
amoeba bites 
as it is its 
and ours 
in littlest bits 
what are 
we looking at ...

the sand fine hewed air 
is my ripened bleeding 
my humanity fallen down 
into all the eventually(s) ... 

the seas are 
ever hungry 
to tame and eat 
every mountain 
with their rivers 
their tongues reach 
sky and eons 
ancient poems 
long tines, currents 
haint driven winds 
climbs and repose ... 

I suppose 
we remember 
each time 
our bones 
jump in 
I know 
souls do ... 


................... poem says I am the folds and unfurls of you

“And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?” Walt Whitman 

let's just wade the minute parts 
(thought experimental poem tone-d)

in the microwave 
I made ramen noodle soup 
asked myself if you wanted some 
you said save me 
the crunchy salad parts 
the rusted larks and this country of hearts 
you say you live in hope for ...

are we going to shit here and now 
or has the post office scared us constipated 
with their gang of mad maxian thieves 
and assassins like some imagined borderlands 
we've been assigned to protect
but we knew this already 
prisons were of our own design 
but you yes you I've imagined slurping 
are my darling 
sitting somewhere next to me 
in some scenario 
red to indigo 
you say pick a color 
on the wheel 
and spin, asking yourself ...

"can't you always hear music if you listen 
within the constructs of making love work with me ? " ... 

and while I searched myself for answers 
you just kept dancing anyways 
how I imagine I love you for that 
up against my walls 
and thoughts and ideas 
half thought out, then implemented 
with collateral damages 
already actuary tabled figured in ... 

the processes and the fee structures 
of the hot summer outside 
is this clown face science 
and bombast substitution 
part of the eternal rhythm 
of human and sub frequency 
communication ...

(replicating teletype movie sound now)

cost bearing guilt trips 
took over for taxing my humanity 
as the woe man upstairs 
stands by and allows me 
to rape 
my sense 
of belonging 
here on Earth ... 

(storybook fable segue mythology now)

a pied 
piper style 
has made the most of us 
and we pay 
for this life 
and its attendant death 
birth to burial 
conscription clauses 
and circuses 
we're bread to hate here 
because empty plates 
are socially keen manipulators 
and we know 
our pulses 
innately when bleeding out 
don't we poem ... 

love works our good corners 
at night with streetlights replacing 
the coal parts with diamond almost ...

because when we have faith 
in our selves 
we are 
the brightest lights 
shadows will love 
even after we 
have left each other 
behind in all our expressions ... 

skipping-ly the evening is whippy buggy sticky 
stockyards of milkweed have gone to pod 
attendant queen anne's lace is a-pacing 
in all the possible butterfly future-d maybe(s) of me 
milled fabrics of destinies and seasons passing 
hide time along the rail tracks, road sides 
and river banks, don't they darling ... 

and calendar keepers 
they follow me 
painting too 
the odd collected 
pieces of my life 
strewn behind me
all that I owe 
to me being broken 
and the you 
that came along 
to see what happens 
next when I sing 
my poem 
my soul 
my shadow 
my body electric ...


July 19, 2016

i've hope for you yet, another beaten beat poem ...

Hymnal 69-OU812 
(the rumored vonnegut to hunter s routine melody 
was chaos vanguard squeeze lemon tree divinity 
while watching being watched)

Okay Poem America, 
 it is after midnight 
on the East coast 
cricket seduce 
yourself, a quiet and 
repeat after me ...

"I will be taking 
an extraordinarily
large dose of LSD, first..."

I want wont 
coal glow face 
because I knew 
know porter intent 
was a Broadway 
Hudson piano man 
a lent scent 
cat's cradle too ...

can you pull the trigger with my back turned walking away 
from the fight in which you learned my spirit cannot be broken 
(y) your lack of humanity is a race car 
a race war a raw rack and stretch 
it is the truth stretched out 
over the hot coals of mesmerification 
amidst our cultural adhesions 
slow burn-drip-collection 
agencies of the fat of the land ... 

the anunnaki gold mining 
operations in south africa unleashed 
ancient gauntlet-ized mandela effects  
a shooting gallery 
when and where memory 
was and is supposed to be
fish bones or souls ...

chasing march hares 
is dive variant flight patterns 
you repeat to yourself 
falling is flying when buying 
the island you see 
nothing but yourself 
until death does its part ...

the wars were misinformative sloggeries by now no news but 
inform the nation of massive shifts of consciousness by little 
drippy bits of truth at a time slathered in ointment and jellies 
with just a remnant touch of former life-doms fiefdoms 
ease the pain 

"... discovering you are dna fodder 
for advanced civilizations 
that have been coming to earth 
for millennia to fuel and re-fuel 
themselves while giving us illusions 
of folding and folded in on 
ourselves trying to bind ourselves 
to the idea of a singularity when 
none has been known to exist 
outside of the phone booths 
we slide into 
to go to places 
we've painted 
with scented memory 
signposts of our familiar ..."

from a piece written because today happens to be in the way of tomorrow ...  
accidental incendiary 
mauling manuals 
and martyrdom  
the radio plays both kinds 
country and western 

  " ... i am caught in your forest pretense and i am terribly sorry your world at large is burning, but while i do have a heavy gasoline smell on my hands and bad intentions where my heart and eyes used to be ... i was too tired to strike a match tonight but even as tomorrow never knows, and no, i do not mind at all, watching the ash climb and scream former thee, with my face and skin aglow with what you used to be, this part of the poem, a brightly alive, a once again for a moment or two, burning to attend to you ... though, i will admit i wanted to be the one who set fire to your life as it lies but i cannot lay claim this sweet accidental spoil i have happened upon on my way to dreamland, tonight ..."

a rote submission :
love demands, prayer too 
ten fingers clasped, church and pew 
but there is no pen to paper 'round 
that can hear you tell time your stories 
nose open, eyes closed no poem or sound 
you promise to wake and spy 
the glories 
and hallelujahs 
of when the world 
of words takes leave 
for home ...

i went about playing river side wet clay diorama god torture to 
titillation appeals the processes were strip mining to subtle 
fabric culls thread pulls tags out and you knew to avoid certain \
fates when needing language of escape i had a pocket of coins 
different faces different places to ride off to when we start to 
believe in disbelief as the ultimate truth soothing sayer ... 

dream sequence my body given to growths natural and cured 
with artifice and the imaginative circuses of the human mind 
allowed to wander freely without dimension-ality strapped to a 
rein-less saddle grab hold manes kid for in this ride you might 
just give your eyes to smell yourself again ...

war soul paint job everyone wants the new tattoo symbolism 
did you get it ... music cannot be stopped ... topped with 
physical at tempts at erogenous precipiced near perfection with 
anticipation tied down and voila ...

we are permanently crossroaded 
and indecision will plague 
the simian brain structure 
with a logic based paradigm 
of sacred scared scarred ... 

the ghost aint
tables that are able 
to guide the wise 
but only through care 
to notice do fools 
surrender to initiations 
which run the gamut 
from degradation 
to soul gifting bottle 
and dry goods store fronts 
places where wear can 
a spirit be 
or sold 
on its terms 
or infinity's ... 

liberation armies all fight 
in god's name 
women fight god 
the goddess laughs 
directs the rain 
her water remembers 

she knows this 
we know this 
bliss knows this 
the sage in the mountains 
knew to lock away guns 
she knew never to say 
they were coming 
to enlist and enslave 
conclavity depravity 
and sewing circles 
keep your hounds 
nearby ...

in the barn 
on the rafters 
we've hung things to dry ...

winter the seeker 
is coming nigh 
autumn the color whore 
says why must I 
give up my party dress 
to bless the womb 
you cover hole 
hold anyway ...


July 17, 2016

these are the fourth walls ................................................................... you must break down ......................................................................... to feed your beast for wings ..............................................................

photo by Jo Spence ©

anything remotely real 
and residual-ly caught 
in a moment 
drunk with possible 
with you 
meaning to aim 
down the road 

drift wood and moss 
eaten by calendar rain 

beyond shadow form 
the rook motif was 
a symptomatic automatica 
board game warfare 

it had all the spoils 
of the robot culture 
and originally had 
come from wind driven 
wooden articulations 
the harnesses 
of kiting the skies 
with sailcloth 

thoughts when dying 

"...eventually every painting 
every photograph 
every sudden trip 
to the corner store 
you take to get away 
from it all for a moment 
is remembered 
on the hurried ways 
we leave each life 
eventually every poem 
and every expression 
becomes harder to imagine 
without you having 
to do something in it 
to keep yourself from dying 
in your own eyes 
it takes lifetimes 
of love to believe 
enough in one's self 
to bleed through 
to just one of them 
enough to be stained 
for all of eternity..."

early steam engines 
were the first leaps 
beyond weather 
and the journals 
and servers 
kept when sailing 
from Europe 
to the New World 
began to tell us so ...

here in the 21st century 
record keeping is as much histrionics 
as it is historical factuality 
we're better off dreaming 
while standing in line 
for bread or wine 
than to wait until 
exhaustion takes hold 
and drives us 
gravely off course ...

fantasy rivulet 
I get it on 
in my mind 
behind you 
while on cue 

we thirsted iron 
sucked on blood soaked tampons 
we went about collecting 
door to door with fantastic stories 
of DNA caravans threading 
between slip covered membranes 
fabric gentle pinches 
of pitched bunched 
pull releases 
we crease 
the needle 
into shimmy leans 
of an eternal childhood 
manifested as all 
physical desire(s) ... 

the poem says get over here :
I say nothing 
let the stream 
of consciousness 
word itself 
to a stilled 
scented arrest 

gingerly my fingers 
mete time, a spent life here 
with my outstretched hand 
spread o'er 
your head 
I give caresses 
taking to noting 
in an arch spasm melody 
how the blessings 
you keep giving 
of your wet lips 
feed my moans, combine 
for this poem's last line 

EJR © 


* fully recommend you check out Jo Spence's work :    

poem of where her weather and scent sent me ...

graphic design art by Hara Katsiki ©

yes lady girl 
agent demise 
to reprise 
surprise me 
as if I lay bleeding 
dying for a breath 

you are my 
phoenix and ash associate 
a back side contagious 
and outrageously inviting 

I'm biting cheek to cheek 
fighting sleep 
seeking the kite and string 
of this night 
and without keys 
or care other than 
it being right now 
how dare the poem 
slide surreal 
between slats 
and old newspaper 
when the flat 
was re-done 
after the great war 

Geppetto messianic opus penthouse 
petting the mouse turning 
the keys into lightning 
gather tides to rains,  
symbols and 
explanations ...

"I'm not anything", 

he says fading 
into deepest of sleeps, 

"save for the string 
and wooden dowels 
the cloppetty-clop-clop 
of my metal cups stop 
and the herky-jerky 
manner in which 
my marionettes switch 
to silent and still 
allowing dialogue to sink 
into eager ears 
of an audience 
I had captured 
then and there ..." 

puppeteer near exhaustion 
been starting revolutions 
instead of sleeping 
well we know ...

all about these stories 
don't we glory seekers ...?

there is this girl 
she wears me dreaming 
she wears knives 
where her eyes 
ought be 
I tell myself 
her limbs 
and fingers 
cut through fog 
and it is 
in this desire 
an abyss to consecrate 
is said for thee ...

to not leap 
for a kiss 
is to miss 
when life 
leaves me ...

a stationary 
for pinprick 

heavy roll wall curls 
we went 
broken egg yolk at night 
yoked to fire, we awoke 
painted with 
and fever 

they said 
I kept repeating 
Lilith's name 
as if this 
was I and I said 
as a blessed 
singular memory 
of life before 
and after 
these words  
I am repeating 
am repeating 
I'm eating 
I and eating 
of me 
and me, the 
the repeating
of Lilith's name ...

Heaven leans in 
spells Hell 
watching Eden 
aware of where 
I've been ...

with a nod 
and blink 
I am winking 
at the gates 
they point at me 
to go through
and as I will often do 
I am thinking about 
lying down right here 
because it isn't raining 
and I am drunk enough 
to convince myself 
of how dry 
and insect-less 
their bellied boughs 
merit for my sleep tonight ... 

I wonder 
what old pines 
when a poet 
crawls under 
their wings 
to find sleep 
in the thick air 
of a warm 
summer night ...