February 25, 2017

the maples are bleeding ........................................................................ (a warm February poem mined from the air near where southern Canada looks after its sometimes wayward neighbors to the south)


photo by Adam Collinge ©


In the southern Boreal forests 
often Spring nears 
when ravens pluck grey hairs 
to stir into boiling cauldrons 



I ache and arch 
beg my talent and prowl 
all fours to upright-ed ruddy skin 
rubbing myself raw with pine sap 
on this poem's a-begging in ...

chance blooms 
for it is 
swoon season 
and every turn is 
malady, remedy 

who we are 
pear tree perhap(s) 
gnarled bark, storied leaves 
and what bite and sliver-slows 
old growth in trees 
are we dusty stuffed animals 
do we color and whisper into our lives 
moppet, poppet plunge blade 
to cheeks stained 
with an up turned cup 
as chickens might  
in childhood forest homes 
Baba Yaga prayers in shoe box 
with our tales told, 
each one full of wonder and awe ...

are we birch skin marionettes 
old tires tired eyes, are we places 
or merely faces where memory 
gave in to rememberin' 
a soul is a timeless poem 

the flash point 
I was puzzled by teeming thronged modernity
never sure whether weather was hydrophilic 
or hydrophobic, stomach sacred 
lining lingam blood stables cleaned 
sable saddled fable tabled feast worthy 
this is our fine tine pointed tinfoil hat parade 
and if ye provide shade words, I provide duct tape 
so be kind or be shutting up for the business of destruction 
needs no amplification from any of us, these days ...

sometimes when the poem ends 
I hear You whispering 
howls and growls 
warm mud sounds 
this is how most 
Spring(s) begin 
mischief 
into merry 
from wary eyes 
where wear wears 
once were 
and thirst is a bird 
nested, new and begin ...

EJR ©

February 23, 2017

archon archaic croning ..................................................................... (or how cronyism has come to love bombs too)



art by Andrea Dezs√∂ ©



tele-vise-gripping-dramatic-comedic-
paralysis-by-accoutrement  
fantasy island hopping mountain popping 
hotch skopping leans, 
leaving scars and other 
sacred marks upon a soul ...

do you have what it takes to rake the fluffy 
bad seed infinity seasoned white noise 
belly button catchers rye high heavy metal infused 
control row-row-roe-bot-ic life style ...

all the while you want you need you bleed 
for more shit to cover any it inside you 
meant to fly perhaps or swim 
the night ... 

lake front dessert s'more fire and the ash flowers posed 
E=MC(squared) dared threshold variant culture 
bastard accidental planned mythology over-ride 
deride snidely whip-lashing the pine forests belly skimmer  
deciduous sen-tried Winter realms seeping the boil 
cauldron spit bubble viscous stew and poultice means 
by witch Rumpelstiltskin and the Miller's daughter use 
to weave daylight back from dreams ... 

more straw and coffee please ...

< the Anunnaki are sure to return 
now that we have with purpose or knot 
portal prey prayer flowered every today
say hey what cabals have designs 
on what host minds 
to mine fine pointed 
reclamation resourced rinds 
pickling the deign 
gives reign with 
half booked story 
that is by necessity gory 
in its revelations 
starves the soul 
feeds it bones 
as young as possible 
for human beings 
the immutable truth 
of spaceship Earth seems 
a wisdom that is as 
much a rebuke of vision 
as it is a rejoice  >

 yes, have you heard my pleas ... 
for more straw, more coffee p-l-e-a-s-e...

EJR ©

February 22, 2017

the five states of being (s)matter(ing) me .............................................. (poem says don't forget about us)




I am potato with eye-limbs, tuber nightshade
and poems are my whim-aggregate masses 
we are bones, cage cycles and soul music ...

my intentions are often bent shuns, 
poem becomes me 
demented lunacy 
can be sad 
but social like a movie quote 
or sweet and strong aperitif ...

we are often just off 
the mark, drift-y enough 
to appear haphazardly 
in musical happenstance ... 

I am/we are poem, 
accretion-al illusion 
the average, almost 
of my/our 
last five forays, 
mind you ... 

we are 
hive aware 
or knotted to mad 
Fibonacci sequencing 
while wile is 
a past life be 
a damning tree 
a sometimes, Winter seeks ...

I  like nautilus shells 
and poems says me 
is a verb conscious state 
and is always going to be 
a well of hell's certainty 
adorned in a hand 
to basket mythology ... 

we take to gifting upon calling 
an invite, linen lined woven wood 
jam and bread with an assortment of teas ...

and lest we forget, poem 
heaven is in a reader's eyes 
especially when 
word doors open 
the nose 
and windows 
saying otherwise ...

and lips 
and tongue 
well, they bowsprit 
the silence 
that eats need 
and want 
for language 
that describes 
having something to do 
besides enjoying how 
You and I tie 
the ends of things 
into beginnings 
or maybe we just like 
being, in the rain ...

EJR ©

February 21, 2017

another episode of dead man walking :




Lazarus was an underwear salesman 
who never understood the moves away from silk 
the year was 2026 and the serial pandemics 
began to wane, we'd eventually explain 
to ourselves this was crowd sourced culling(s) 
ways we used to combat discomfort with truth ...

today I wore boxers outside of my pants 
and went to the bodega to buy a pack of cigarettes 
yes indeed, my money bought the same death 
as the day before, inhale exhale prevail regale 
the weed frenzy divinations parsed into absurdity 
the word is me, see the nose knows eyes want 
to understand how memory is created 
all I smell is the flesh falling calling to arm 
all the hope I have for remembering 
to carry dimes in my pocket 
for emergency phone calls 
and to always wear clean underwear 
inside or outside pants dared 
mothers will say 
you never know '
when need should arise 
to go to a hospital 
for care and bared 
they see you, carrying around 
the stinks, dead self sounds ...

EJR ©

February 20, 2017

taking ovation : buttress, bowsprit and blade




the poem is the voice 
it is the instrumentation 
the notes, floats 
of propelled forefront-ed 
nascent binding(s) ...

humanity is 
two dimensional stage craft 
poems gives ambiguous line-less 
character to color outside 
to inside of us 

have you candy in your pocket 
Yes you do, She smiles, knowing it's true 
pied stitcher might witch Her 
and away this vignette-ification goes 
grows pretense, patterns stains 
though towed company lines 
state clearly, there is  
a directed intelligence 
a spirit vessel 
a stored, storied us ...

the audience needs 
no board or three panels be 
they are what  
the eyes want 
nose knows 
they grow fond 
discovery sweets
tonic journey 
bitter poems 
to the fine 
stilled parts, distilled hearts 

thus ...

<most poems need a three faces of Eve>

<Lilith bloods a piece of silk, says retrieve>

the past is pop 
when first lens-ing 
its stored flavor 
it fizzes, whizzes by 
reaches high gas spry 
but as all things will do 
eventually, the kite burns 
and that captured moment 
falls flat, ash and dried posies ...

my funny valentine plies plays plumes 
feathery chaos hero questing leaden marrow for bones 
those pauper rich soul holes where the rain got in 
and I hear the jazz half notes, rote(s), jumping points 
from leap pier fog, you dream in fingers, I dream in dreams 
what magic, like fungal under-lords, 
carpet slow advances then retreats ...

we've grown, groaned against beat fantasies 
our oh so human intermittent kneed needs kneaded 
particulate sand-grain seed selves 
we've crowned shelves, cobbler-ed 
most somewhere(s) & between(s), what 
the wind makes, & each take of time, when 
toe holding the letting go(s), why 
riding infinity means 
as many hello(s) 
as goodbyes 
wise is 
this way 
you dig 

warm bread 
and sometimes ...

EJR ©

February 16, 2017

................................... are we wear where we are ...............................






spread us nude north america 
are we thin whiskey 
are we corn copper still 
are we hidden filled 
limestone caverns beneath 
chaos grove-d old trees 
the neighborhoods and quarters drawn 
heed to please here here 
hear hear herd heard dear deer 
the wolves and lions prowl hunger 
we wear pride, what desire skins 
bones to soul captive will freed 
and ride 'there goes fire in the air 
daring the dead light of stars to realize 
our parents are from out there ...

fish or fowl 
humanity needs 
to be the children 
of Antigone 

every culture 
recorded, remembered 
or stolen from then erased 
has a tale told 
of the prophecy of greed 
it is an algae mechanism 
it is, it does thirsts\y rain 
it is in crawls, intention spawn 
with an estuary entropy 
with mention of urgency 
it emerges sea to river 
and splurges 
as sacred 
the ways 
to a dominant 
breathing while 
consuming now ...

in each instant instance 
of chosen comfortable cages 
the sage survival 
we happen to choose 
is not happening to care 
or be aware other than 'being worn 
and weary of that as well ...

this predation elation-al channels 
tomb to church varietals 
seasons and terroir 'one presumes 
we are, aren't we born with blood 
on our lips, doesn't this 'constitute 
passion and play 
doesn't this lurch 
almost unseen certainly 
and not felt enough 
to repeat which way 
found you, salvation ... 



(at this point in the story 
the open road greets us 
in choir tones, found 
spear headed Jocasta, 
a good grand maternal 
bark and apple fine 
and by the way 
I like to save things 
in jars)


sew life to life 
is a recollection plate 
immutable spirit surfing 
most of us mesmerized 
sofa chattel gyrate 
we want easy cheesy 
sweet and greasy 
we know 
electronic warfare is 
interference gangland morphology 
we became, we become 
we be numb to those thirteens 
those squads of sharp invisible leads 
tide basin babies  thrown out bathing reeds 
the laundry and the middles of roads 
always seem dirty, deeds to be cleaned
Lady Macbeth places we lose sight of : 

are they what 
we are to know 
sown seed shoot 
petal flower reach 
each fleeting scent 
we jar 
of ourselves 
heavens knot hells ...

are we gill and anxieties 
are we keyed codons 
are we teeming tepid 
slow friction warming hordes 
boiled roiled squeezed weeds 
are we in some lord and or lady
instinctual hoe down 
are we separated realities  
player piano remarks 
are we larks and other 
songs night sings to plead 
its case of why eggs have shells 
and we have hens' teeth 
when late Winter 
starts to turn toward Spring 
are we its seethes 
and seeps, are we, are we ...

EJR ©

February 13, 2017

grandine alla madre grande, fica e ventre


'Given' by Lisa Yuskavage ©



Each day my hands clasp 
a prayer to Her wholly trinity 
where I wear what I swear my allegiance to 
each morning I become aware 
I am seared with this insistence 
an amplification, a supplication and mollification of ego 
mason jars of jellied laughter await 
those breaking of fasts with tea and toast 
most Life is vacations 
and not seeing such slays the wise 
which is why being on the road 
is for those that enjoy the ride 
journey-ists are artists 
willing bones and soul past 
future aggregate material sacred 
we scar and are scared 
when we are dared 
past comfort 
She says with a smile 
this is the language 
we all ought strive to know 
it sounds like a bare armed tree song 
with the wind rushing in 
from the partly rolled down window
I scan back and forth 
across the road 
painted lanes and sides 
I remark in squint hark to myself 
even in bright daylight 
electric lines crackle with anticipation 
they feed the dissonance 
dampen resonance dancing ...

the radio suddenly comes on 
hiss and static then factory sized machine angels in choir 

"There is no sanctuary and discord 
has been around since soon after the printing press 
when we began teaching others to teach 
how not to teach the masses the glory 
and power of cellular infinity aka 
why do we have telomere breakdown ..."

I shudder 
think of how 
and how long 
my cells 
have been 
compromised 
by intention

in the hush pattered moments 
when alone in ponder 
the traipsed intertwined laces 
of conscious will, will place us 
where We want to be ... 

my little collection :
(an obtuse clever play on name or definition) 
how many poems 
are carved 
onto your soul

scabs in the rain 
finding pieces 
fit me eaten 
a nose, says brain 
eyes,  jealous, says soul 
cry imaginative memory 
invocation & wine

automatic surreptitiously serendipitous 
the thrust of Life is fall fly do what soul must 
send regards, it's snowing again, February 
and the road is quietly beautiful 
and dangerous 
as entertainment
that is so fucking weird 
a gloaming light no wade motel 
kind of living part of a 
microwave background 

witching hour forays 
egg laying weaver 
Her house is in the trees 
calendrical leaves and needles 
knee palms belly crawling calliopes 
whistle sounds muffled in the frozen night 
wolves howling why we dig marrow 

I Love Her too is hand written 
corner embraces, destinations may be 
tourist truck stop paper place mats 
with all fifty states and roadside attractions 

She has me 
in wobble smile tarantella 
I am wet clay in Her hands 
my poems, pulse bleeding 
tongues, rivers and rain 
I'd explain more 
but you get the idea 
how being 
held and holding 
what cup is pouring 
and what cup is storing what needs 
find limb and articulation ...

I am on a lazy susan 
in the middle of the floor, We have 
drawn a circle 1-13 indicated 
salt, shaved rust and costumed rubies adorned 
She sends me spinning 2 what O'clock we R now 
mystery to wild card to clutched bed sheet roses 
poses We made roles in the patterned chaos 
bloodstains down Our forearms 
like inland deltas 
feeding the grass lands 
after the desert of Winter 
cedes to Mother may eye 
Spring again ...

We find ourselves 
spun, picking wild flowers 
and divinations 
from the litter we picked up 
along the ways  
into what tales 
the children 
of the Miller's daughter 
and Rumpelstiltskin, tell us 
excitedly as we pulled over 
a when and then 
turned towards morning 
here and now, a cow 
and those magic beans 
gold for straw again 
and all the things 
We hold court for 
inside Ostara, shell, 
yolk and surprise inside 
the waiting births  
each and every sunrise


EJR ©

February 10, 2017

revisiting Jonestown








potus is a punchline puppet 
self contained 
in preordained cult personality 
he smirks in an animal house 
and farmed "wait'll otis sees us, he loves us" look 
a look that says "you'll see" 
love is not the only weapon 

(this poem is subtitled can you order 
a Yemeni raid like room service in bathrobe)

so it is okay to kill children at a funeral 
or social gathering as long 
as they're deemed enemies 
as long as you're America first 
as long as you're feeling scared 
and wanting everyone "saved" 
as long as all is in order to 
appropriate reasons 
as ways of weighing treasons
and perceived trespasses against you 

all the news is fake now some is real fake 
though, gold flaked sluice addled 
swung low chariot pan handled 
the pace and stake 
of progress in humanity's heart 
and mind, would kill an elephant 
who might spend the rest 
of its long pachyderm-ish life 
in alimentary anguish 
over feeling 
the deep seeded 
need for humans 
to be fish again 

(upright 
uptight 
out of sight) 

heaven 
within 
sees 
how blind 
we have Bcome 

CODA=remember you are being called out into the light 
to see if you will fight for what Love means to you 
question everything 
find answers 
looking for you 
from within your 
journey ... 

outside sources 
are meant to sidetrack 
the descent of heaven 
into your exhales 


EJR ©

-------------------------------------------

*Concrete Blonde - Jonestown

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zOEDFO5wsOQ

February 9, 2017

I believe ... truth is out there ...




eventually the selfish beings have to reveal themselves 
before departing this planet with their stolen loot ... 

not all the star people were kind and compassionate ...
please remember that ...

when repeating 
a ritualized 
algorithmic adherence to 
any and all emotional 
ports of call ... 

electro-magnetic-chemical-catalyst-
breakdown-of-insistence-angels ... 
wrangle resistance as futile 
when engaging in systems 
designed by those with purpose 
enough to obfuscate 
the entirety of their time 
on Earth ... 

with DNA wands 
in hand 
and a sense 
of curiosity 
gone awry 
We are the blessed bastards 
that continue to outpace 
expectations, how great 
is that ? ... 

I rather like this poem 
it's home to a feeling of 
how She found me 
another Oedipus 
standing 
on the beach 
blind ... 

EJR ©

what We keep, often keeps Us, a kept simple Divine .................... (together we began by chronicling Crone Agnus and Her silly hats)





" I welcome myself to another day here on Earth 
one filled with blowing snow and humankind lacking Love 
be aware, the world needs more wares "


there's no pot o'gold 
at the end of my rainbow 
truth be told and if I may be so bold, 
eye needn't have one to feel 
richly elucidated in reveal 
each odd wobble facet 
courting countenances 
or what lasts or fits 
my mind and body, as gloved ... 

I am a fun house, a heart Loved 
a man, a poem or tome 
my palms are outstretched soul  
my time, fingers grown cold 
bent patience seeking warm wombs 
through the ground sky snow 
my nails reach for dirty Spring 
my hands full of Her hair 
my ears full 
of the sound 
of Her bobby pins 
hitting the floor ... 

I imagine Life with Her Love 
and without it and while 
without can be made topically busy 
and frenzied and often 
with good purposeful intentions 
it is hollow, a version humane-less and needy 
me, a holographic beggar of bones ...

I once imagined 
a great flood coming 
up the Hudson Valley and devastating 
the city of Troy 
I believe now 
this mostly to be metaphorical 
allegorical, rhetorical 
historical revision waiting 
wading my shallows 
my being Faubus with delusions 
my being fabled with illusions 
the accretion-al weight 
of my drives up the mountain 
to the coin-op vistas ...

places to stay 
where We might say 
oh look there's another stork 
coming baby-less, hunting '
amphibians in the mist 
saying limbs like wings 
are often over-rated 
be Humpty Dumpty again 
follow Your Bliss ... 

mama don't let your babies grow to be empaths 
or anything for that matter that doesn't fit neatly attired 
or splattered on the walls of the secrets keeping you 
a tethered taut skin covered tintinnabulum 
a felt covered hammer on a piano 
a sold invigoration for security 
as a Life insurance 
meant to dent 
Your need 
to bleed 
in wonder 
and awe 
every day ... 

we dampen the sharpest parts herd the shards 
and depart for unknown 
when throne be a stump 
or hillside where 
We remember 
in a moment catching us 
unaware, We dared ourselves 
to this, song and dance 
the music is chance 
taken, inhale 
and exhale 
reaped repeated ... 

(all the ants and hoppers begin to sing)

"broken eggs and scrambled lemonade"

EJR ©