Wednesday, April 23, 2014

NaPoWriMo 2014 #18

engraving 'Temple-des-Muses' by Michel de Marolles

Hypnos and mercury spilling

we might have been friendly once
bent outwardly and seemingly benign
but make no mistake we were a malignancy
upon any complacency we could see

we gave up taste long ago
promising ourselves that in order
for scent to wear the crown
we would mob mental vision
into the ground

we would worship freely
the gods and goddesses
of maximum extracted profiteering
and whether teetering on disembowelment
or the elusive sugaring
of dopamine trees
we would use knees
on concrete to make anyone
beg for the memory
of the grass again

the flowers are friends
every insect and feathered mend
this tourniquet romance
a harlequin dancing chance
bullet to ballet television

we see you

you are all wading ads now
while debating rising spirit
or going for another beer
twenty feet away
which mirror
is nearer thee

we see you 

can be manufactured lazy
covered like a one door G.E. hot point
in amorphy, articles and adjectives
that you won’t mind we are ash
at your windows and
that we know
you’re not yet 
drunk enough
to want to
laugh or cry

we mine by shadow
as you fall numb
to our taking you
wheel and become

another Antigone
and Oedipus
a fire and 
sharp stick thus
where your eyes
used to be
you wear your
nose wanting
some hope left
to see


NaPoWriMo 2014 #17

engraving by Bernard Picart

barber chair Daphne 

(part 1)

in coated oils
I poke fun at those
making me nervous

I become some
edge water trafficking
what escapes best
most easily sold

I’m taken
with creating art
from moral sleaze slants
granting myself a selfish 
novel sanctum access
when I compliment your eyes

you kept drinking
I thought you were testing my resolve
you surprised me when you took to vulgar
and became a biting and aggressively raw

you began to avail your soul
in elliptical lust
spit and shine
you said so much
as come and get me
toward morning
before midnight
and its band
of liquor gallantry
stops me from playing

you masked yourself too
and somehow
knew me acutely
by scent and key

you saw me bleed
as I threw leeway
to angelic monsters
with wings and disguises
I pretended I might be

(part 2)

I wore myself lost
admiring her ass
her dip-perfect pears
pared and paired
her bent, curled smalls
her movement nautilus,
wines and songs

she was interestingly
wielded beauty and
rapier intelligence
she was bellicose
to elegant
meant to send me a hint
she was going to
inherit  all
of my attention

she was all weather
biological seasons
and clocks
we were meant
to be in tides,
time counted
limbs, digits and
toothed algorithms

we might only
ever see
iris, thunder
and rainbow
playing their hands

keeping track
by three card monty
rain chasing
the queen
of hearts
to steal into
how she roots

each of us are some part fantasy
and some part romantic door she said
rightly I agreed silently seeking
why before letting go as well

(part 3)

thinking she was right

we are
some sort of begging
silhouetted cities
with immediacy

we are our clothes
hasty ancient ruins
modern technology
control mechanisms
imbibes we tie ourselves

spelling our names by poem
with every articulate gesture
of surrender and command
we take hold of our souls
feeling how full
of a moment
with each other
we can make
ourselves with

we lick
in ornate
we squeeze
we tease
each other
wanting more

before breaking down
into the quiet womb
sleep provides

please she says
please I say

I say
she says

do not stop
or go past go


Friday, April 18, 2014

NaPoWriMo 2014 #16

art by Marjory Woodbury, circa 1922

goddess librarian stockings, moorings, slip and away…

her minion uteruses
wanted equal footing
the PSA seemed to say

the background tv land
is a fuzzy noise
some kind of corner
stoned mason jar
catalogued and stored
here barker
cornered fare
I was
a ware

she arranged the table
in cartography tricks
ease pulse dynamics
of finger strengths
and trigger pulled quicks

she felt me
she said
when I knelt
being dealt
the cards
I remembered
having faces
I already knew

buy bide imbibe
seek tribal impunity
become estranged
from kindness
be willing to pay
for ignorance
use books
as doorstops

and remember
to tell me
to tell you to
turn off the lights
turn up the heat and
dream in oscillations 
between the roots
of your madness and me

stop for a bit
just to smile 
ask me
if I ever noticed
how many ways there were
to read each part
of the dark inside us

how each tactile bloom
is a sound
a language
time wants
to count with

you said
stop talking
we both agreed
eyes were why
we crawled thirsty
dance tonguing knowledge
spun bowsprit to rain
why we trusted scent
when we had empty pockets
old shoes and a few books
tucked under our arms
we hadn't yet read


NaPoWriMo 2014 #15

my intentions are a pyrrhic pyretic

I am

crawl panning
for sirens
in the sluice
of humanity’s
declinational tides 
and reigns

in Spring

I dream
caught sharp
Sun warming
words for bones

I bounce
ugly anxieties
high escape plans
every exit hatched
and latched onto

I steal time
to not feel alive
life can be a bitch
to keep up with
so I mostly
throw up
poems, cloaks
and a comfort
for the quiet
in the slipstream

my hands too
wave like most
instruments of burn
desperate to smell
what feels
like timelessness
and music

my soul’s weight
is more than
a farmed sentiment
framed by a longing
for every moment
to be my alchemically pure state

with captures
and treasures
every when

I smiled


NaPoWriMo 2014 #14

a photo by Phil Dawson ©

I am that moldy bread

 I punish myself
with an anger
that can be fed

 I listen on occasion
to the voices
in my head

 I reason that
I might be slick
I might be the poems
I might too be only mental
I might live in my menial clutch gardens
I might hear my security devices clicking
I might just be me
somehow taped together
with synchronicity
sometimes narrowing
the focus
of what I fatten myself up with

so as not to notice

 I’ve already devised myself
with oven simple(s)
near felonious plot lines
to keep
from always being
sick with love


NaPoWriMo 2014 #13

'rainy evening' by Nisheedhi Adukuri
found here

more raining submissions

I say to myself
I do not want or
need to be published
or obeyed

I am being
passively aggressive
wanton through divergent glass
playing the transparencies
as a cavalier and apathetic

I have an appetite
for flimsy grandiosity
for floozy clever construction
for what makes me woozy
I like the dizzying heights
of almost there and lucky

can I complete a square
without the right angle
I think not, then maybe
I wonder and wear myself
thin as a starved railbird
playing long shots
as if they were ritual
days of auspicious obligations

I pretend I am king midas
bargaining any hope I can
for a little depth to my soul
or something that keeps me
until that moment again
when I have to fly or fall
leaning slowly, surely
tide, tithe and pour


Wednesday, April 16, 2014

NaPoWriMo 2014 #12

'Nude torso with Venetian Carnival Mask'
a photo by Graham Lowe ©

Carnaval y patrĂ³n mi prostituirse

inside the patterns
I find no fence works

she was trimmed
goddess Brazilian
maybe she was Columbian
I lose sight of maps
and wanting knowledge
when blinded by this kind of mania
I can barely disguise
my intentions with a purposeful scent

I wanted the graceful
easy poison of her dark eyes
the dangerous smiles
the turn hands
each framed moment
when I am another
drink and task
she cups herself with
full of wax and wane
crescent thumb-nails and
dark dollop-y new night skies

here is where
I pay to be worn down
with what I crawl through

wading into
how she waits
for my immutable
laughter and
to become 
the mask


NaPoWriMo 2014 #11

When slowing down life...

     am I an open thirst-way/ a human causeway/ a one way in my own way/ is today just like any other day/ do I  or don't I place-matter my declarations as pieces of time/ outside of my own thoughts/ any thought of a here constrains my observations/ what I think is/ a realization sees me as you probably do sometimes, if you’re looking/ I’m in for your penny/ in for your pound/ in for what your once was/ I’m in for trying not to fall for nostalgia again/ in for my arm hair to always be raised bumps and anticipations/ I’m into baring myself as thin as molecules pictured/ I'm in for the poems, in for how they will come and go/ in for their tiny stops and starts/ their clocks and stars staring at my every in…

     hungry Spring is honing her raw parts/ I lash myself falling for her/ surrendering to lust at every turn of wind and rain/ I am in a raising raised clutched determination/ another fantasy I have of Spring's large round ass/ enjoying the tilt and swirl her velvet weddings can nick you with/ where your eyes are crown noses searching the smells of instantaneous urged blind/ little hooks, pulling in pearls/ telomeres spawn poems too/ as you unbutton I writhe/ we grind, staying alive instead of dying inside/ sometimes scent itself is what thirsts for sensation/ memorizing the pheromonals, mapping the replication zoning fixed chaos/ the mandates we set upon our souls/ names we carved by wind/ the hungriest knives let us know where we are set in stone/ where we are libraries in the long look back through dust/ where we are calendars regaling…

     where I can dive right in/ pulling your hair/ wearing fantasies of fucking/ stealing time after midnight/ downward dog you lean/ back looping language into pure ionic bonds/ syllable durable temporary master slave safe word maybe the baby can hear us/ the wren is listening/ the titmouse too/ singing the same sort of pleasingly familiar humming sound that we do, when we are just now begging for more continuity…

“where are we
when we found ourselves
drawn and incubated
in a Fibonacci sequence
part of someone else’s
bone-art chemistry
and sound…”


Thursday, April 10, 2014

NaPoWriMo 2014 #'s 5 through 10 (a long tone poem)

Another ballad of Eduardo Fortunato

    I use the poem to see the floors, ceilings are moorings wearing me too thin, I am bowsprit leaning into false bravado clever, I imagine there is a gallantry consumed by leaping into the abyss, I tie up recorded minutes, I swear by dust covering, I slow grind to forget, I write the self out of view from the new parts of old skin, bone and clay, any waded birth rained, any deep channeled currents and imperfections, any impermanence circled, all the eons spent remembering not to pause, as if any of us might have been more than merely a yesterday ago

    here’s another, a let’s start all over again cause/ because I want to fuck your poetry, your words, I want to silent-purpose your trembles, sharp egg paper your shells/ game valence your empty/ fill burst your kited membranes/ till into your undertow slaves and ritual kabuki…

    I want to breathe in a knave to knight to king of the earth and sky moment/ I want to be full/ feeding on your indicator lights, setting the table, opening the windows and setting fire to the absolutes of the fantasies I have of this world

    I spin an old RCA Red Seal 78 thick vinyl/ imaginary paper wall scratched raw, humid Toscanini, I am phrasing a you inside me, a pulpit, I pimp it, cause it to be something alive outside of echo chambered nautilus turned exit wounds/ I leave parts of me behind/ shrapnel fertile, beneath the southerlies/ I am keeping myself by eating a kept hallucination of you/ we become misty sound/ this fantasy I have of every tomorrow/ you, in the palm of my hand (kneading rise into needing wants, wands and wanes)

the Moon ( I want her, badly )

   late push/ pull wobble/ teetering geometry
craned neck observations

   I whisper things I want to do to her/ what I want her to carve me with/ bones and blades, portal star maps, red shifted spines/ folding me into your blues too/ eases and creases/ free always chooses/ coming or going/ between all at once and slow dispersal

   what am I willing to bargain life for/ what am I willing to see sold/ is my every death going to end up microbial or macro-cosmic/ does clock time stay at the end of someone’s ugly stick/ does fishing with hope beneath the dreams of skins tip our hands blindly, as we search for bones/ what is the common madness here…

it is

    I am caught coveting/ metallic in the Sun shined/ will I be something that asks/ or a soul starved for any piece of beauty I can dance stolen for/ a seed, subscription and slow tiny dying(s)
   time happens, to be made up, all at once, by observation, it is thin lined/ time has deep surface wounds and windows and is widely expanding today into tomorrow while re-writing yesterday/ I am also waiting to be/ made up countenances from jewel quiet nights, all at once/ I skim sustenance from what makes my thoughts fly when falling/ eating and feeding mysteries, meniscuses and menageries/ calling the shapes and forms between my theater marquee and the opened teller window, my poems

behind which
are doors
I smooth broken
glass by tide, ass and ride (poems)
donkey and steed
don Quixote and lady Godiva
put baskets in the reeds
while I backwards saddle
another old river town

   distance, it seems, happens when night ignores where it came from/ stamping my humanity’s reaction into weather letters and a language of desperate to understand itself as seen by modernity/ I am a literal now/ a raw and guttural species/ I speak in tonal velvet(s) as I kill myself slow enough so as not to have you notice my disappearance/ I am written in the cries of crumbles, cracks, concrete and rust/ I am steeled by stolen currencies/ black market histories, erode me into horizons and back-lighting, silhouettes and trees, miles ahead of please or be pleased

   I scry, lying with my decay, proclaim it news, by saying, I’m okay with rot, look at what shiny things I have still got to trade you…

  “…trading palms for promises…”

   I hand myself every fortune and escape by poem/ skeletal ink/ emotions, secretions and the wind/ blood stains relationships/ go all the way/ cross my hearts through pocketing things/ my soul knows sown eternities are inside every almost…I call an imaginary front desk…order late bar service/ rendezvous with my lonely thoughts…not a you in the melt of night, to twine with…only a me, not yet drunk enough, to keep the dawn away

  the pitchmen and swoon

for rapture by women

I bought
an allotment
of circumstantial light
and lotteries

I eat the right poison
to reach heaven consumed
I risk life blind white
for colors that smell
as if they once were sounds

alkaloids and dollars
chalk lined outcomes
possible redemption
versus dirt nap drip mined

minor and major trespasses
accumulate along the way
tribulation and trial
by here and now
may be erased eradicated
may become fertile
may become erogenous
solvent with wind again
without any I, having to pass through
the sticky rivers of writhe-worms
the wren wading of humanity
as a shoreline, beaks open
hungry to hear
an oar fish talisman
being bitten, smitten
lanced and poured
its chance taken
by bleeding little deaths
into why we count lives
to lie by time

barker-ed world

gaslight hearkened
seeded taproot indulgences, if ye will
rings around trees are the many insides of your soul
they can be counted on, courted for an analogy
fly-wheeled, quick-silvered with social gadgetry
enticements, wagers, thicker barks
and high angle limbs

detecting the curve

evidence of ash is…
the past rehashed
recollected by soft edging
jigsaw puzzle fashioned

“…some of me
might be missing
a piece or two
some of me
are you I see
mystery eights
that might be the key
as I dream
of gold panned sluice
winning by astronomical ticket validation…”

some poems

(are joys thought lost forever
like the parts of my humanity
coming back to me
for another go around)