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)


Friday, April 4, 2014

NaPoWriMo 2014 #4

photo/image/art by William H Mortensen ©

lonely indicator lights, alarms and the wind

she said her engine needs servicing
no kidding I thought, servicing, servicing, servicing
play cards placate placard vacate gyrate pulsate velvet 
pellet bandstands to dance halls she channels 
what can be filled and filed, a slow fingered nailed
a found by way of thinning yourself a shelf 
going along with the setting Moon

she is what I have to get done 
when caught by sirens pining 
for even faux rhetoric 
and tonal inequalities

I might add, 
I subtract nothing 
from being a running pedestrian 
and this peddled shaved 
square corner deal…

she’s still sleeping…
I’m outside smoking, 
pondering moonlight and 
a seemingly never ending winter, 
still gripping tight to ghost March-April this year
she said our needs often strip wanting 
into surviving with internal terrors
we are prone to praying
to being what asps prey
to explaining the way rain hypnotizes
indicating why every lonely is another poem…


Thursday, April 3, 2014

NaPoWriMo 2014 #3

photo by Edward Rinaldi

window Ceres, fish eaters and the feasts of purification

it is morning again
in late modal Spring
a model song and sunrise

words are being spoken 
as if they were 
broken utterancesglances 
and the quiet stretches of when

you were listening
tending a fire
when night was taut
to cut daylight
and stay longer

oh, sentry silhouette
to windswept
my calendar tree
you are a creaking bough
and bare limb April
still cold enough
to bark wool as I reach
in my hair shirt
for an extra blanket

Ceres, I have begun
to look back upon
what you wrapped
finger and dream
bleeding slowly to us
seed, grain, till, turn, 
water and millstone grind

from Candlemas to Beltane
your year is an end
that closes out
burst novae
honed in

Ceres, it is your
womb leading me through winter
giving me gravity to bathe in
an amniotic now
a dark fertile remains
thirst and hunger
Hansel-ing and Gretel-ing my way back
fattened up in the woods
from decay and antler slough off
to portal mooring in mushrooms
from early greens between carcasses
to divine to deadly paths

Ceres, I am
feeding a feeling fed tine-d
for the starving placentas
for being tuned to the ancient
part of your memory
I read aloud
when mining what I say
without needing words

what kinds of elliptical
movements are you
when you watch us
aware of even
our tiniest of root ways
the single cell byways
that keep our time,
hopes and life
in our hands
self winding


Wednesday, April 2, 2014

NaPoWriMo 2014 #2

illustration by Maxfield Parrish

why have antlers

last night
I was in one of those
subtle mist shroud lunacies
the thinnest edge
of reason I could steal into

the skies were on fire
the trees were begging
baying at the low slung clouds
we recorded every name
the wind knew to write by dig
light amber opaque hard syllabic sounds
and the words that say
take your skins off
toss them in
rumpled cities
at the end
of some imaginary bed
the gloaming presents itself as

shadow Christmas wants Easter
light flicker pause left right control,
no control, out of control, contorting
veering the people who steer clear
they perceive crazy dangerous
consider these miniature epics
mania of escapism
wet clay motions
getting dizzy spinning rain
centrifugal fiction  
marking the diction
between a soul’s density
and what is not immutable
what might not belong
becomes a prayer
of keeping

beg the goddess

I am poem-ing to be a loam king
I too thirst for warm licked Spring
I root with what you regard as reticulations
structuring mental illness to fit your vulnerabilities
yes, I use sticks to scratch words
my take on cynical post modern

glass house, glass walls
I try the exhibitionist bleed
make sport of locking myself
away from being able to be loved
by all the light morning brings
to my very own
ten penny freak show


Tuesday, April 1, 2014

NaPoWriMo 2014 #1

veneralia e il culto di Venere

(salvation is an open, thirsty road)

soapbox and bone
pulpit to paucity sinew

water carves life
the poet says
with a circling sky
in arrested orations
we are just
the clocked discarded parts
drinking in the rain again
bodies, souls and perspectives
lurking in the turns

we root ways
the preacher says
to steal into things
from tendril birth ride
to clung hope soft and tight
from palmed hidden light
to each desiccate death
we are wanted for
we preserve order
with our reflections
posed as art and artifice
for temple scents,
baths, salt, ash
and dust

storms and calms

the wind
boils tides
into howls
and ghosts
says death only
razor-edges time
into the knives
and sharp lines
you define
yourselves with…

the wind sings
I am what seeks
your ambition
for permanence

the churches of chaos

patterned asymmetric
the forms that ye fill
are what ye bow down for
what ye bend and curve
into each pause of now
from brightly stained pain
to the fading colors
of your articulate beauty
desire is bleeding
suiting up in what
you’ve bargained
to be here for

hymnal parted algorithm

any peddler knows hustling
the poet says
by ready nose
and sight blues
what you’ve come
to this corner for
why you want to cleave
the quiet spaces clean
why conversations hint and glean
tailoring hollows into hallowed thin
sinning repentance into words and imagery

praise be god peach blossom contemplation
namaste hallelujah and blessed be
the bread broken here
is non-denominational
I see

this explains how the wind records
the preacher says
by cutting canyons
into wonder and awe
it is why
we always
want more
once sate and glory
have come and gone
why reason often dreams
saint hunger returning

fade out slow a cappella
in hidden chorus

we are
ready to shine
caught in headlights
we pass beneath stars
asking them
to drive home
collect tolls
pass plates
experience us
piece together
what they must
just remember us
ritual, sabbat
and eights


Thursday, March 27, 2014

early rise...getting ready for NaPoWriMo 2014

illustration by Walter Crane

if not for you Narcissus ( a mirror poem)

circle, parry, thwart, thrust
trust here is an elusive elixir

fighting for my soul
psychopathy versus sociopathy
there must always be
it seems, five senses seen
as embodying a mean

a walk along an open road
is a journey where one finds a point
at which surrendering to the unknown
becomes another complete cycle

singing seized
falling upon
any moment I can
throw myself into
whispered movements mimicking
what tomorrow brings
to burn back to rain

a few coins jangle
want me
to toss caution
inside myself
the mason jars
are already labeled
with formaldehyde
and the kept parts
of my humanity

songs of sixpence
pockets full of rye
here I am
only partly dead
wanting still
to feel alive