Wednesday, September 17, 2014

vim and vigor...

photo by EJR ©

satyr masquerade attired

inquiring an invitation
all pimped out trying
to look buying
without dying
of course before dancing
I would not want to be
looking for another soul
steps away from
the entrance hall
to Persephone’s ball
and her underworld heaven

she has whimsical powers
ways to bleed you unseen
she steals color slow enough
to watch you smile
when she strides by with what
used to paint your flesh, vibrantly
she is Autumn

I could not see her
but I certainly heard her entrances
felt her cirrus cloud trailing(s) in
her tides from sea foam little roars
her slaked and climbed hungry rivers
her valley tongued eons, shale and clay
ghost-poem-ing me
and probably you
entranced too
somewhere along
where articulation
will listen for
these things

somewhere time is
twisting orbital looping
reading me as calendrical
a slightly odd angled observation
a Schrödinger's cat seen enough
to algorithmically seek no answer
that could be construed as final

I remembered she angles her knives
plays behind the curtain charades
shadow filling her cutting sun Septembers
she tipples tickled calling
through the windows

I nose press
scent the dust
trail my concern
fingers running
against a cold afternoon
waiting on decay

the outside is
inside again
looking for me
wanting to play
for pussy and cradle
wanting me to gamble
with words
not quite impossible
c'est la vie
ready, rolling dice
betting on a corner
tuck and ride


Monday, September 15, 2014

beat heart, beat...the smell ruin is nigh...

photo by Todd Hido ©                                                                                                                                                                 
ushered, bellowed and weathered

when altering any mechanics
desire and need
odd channel happenings
caught fire bleeding

yes, I am talking to myself
through the crackle voice
of a warm hearth
in a falling house

bless my soul 
a nameless mutter
an udder-less wallow 
a rain torrent shame
a blame someone else 
a game of tame
and shelf

I hear the echo say
night time is my domain
you'll have to pay
for there is a price
on every line you cross

the line you are now idling by
one of cornerstone destruction
commotion-less seep
blow out fancy party
keepsake and all

all reap variants want is 
for you never to pretend
you are flying
when comes
the fall and decay


Friday, August 29, 2014

a favorite painting...

'Catskill Mountain House, The Four Elements' Thomas Cole, 1844

freeing freedom free

pleasing by cane and bell
 sensory banquet fuck it
 pleasure forays tell
what wisdom hides
rides four elements
horsemen disguises
you tell me things
lens to flare nostril
quarters drawn to blues

we play playful
we harvest ripe pelts
our velvet turned
a language lingering
where scent marks
trying to remember
journeying while stuck
destination soul hole
solely sorrowful role
assignment is ritual
algorithm joint flesh
marrow writing credits
music at the end
moving pictures with
each piece of you
I carry to bed

this me fits time
chaos counts my moments
what I've burned
digging my nails into trees
leaving poems where the rivers
come to dig into you
where mountains surrender too
when I become rain praying
a pleased need
an always another again
emptying into you 
what fills wanting 
the bright reasons, seasons 
and holiday celebrations
the shadow toll fits
all the places 
we steal into

I fall freely in love
in war in apathy in anger
in ache in agony in danger
not being, turning chance
shoe away soul from song 
shoe away soul from roaring
shoe away staying hushed
shoe away lush languid lucid
keep letting water 
steal soles and the keys
to the poems


Thursday, August 21, 2014

decorum of decadent end...

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec 'Crouching Woman with Red Hair' 1897

When two poets crashed the party

when we first spoke
we looked at each other
as if we had just stolen
something neither of us
knew the other was carrying

we heard noises
rolling cacophonous laughter
and what seemed like
goings on with libations
we had heard them through
the paper thin walls
the cheap hot and sticky
leaky ice buckets we kept
knocking over on the way
to the bathroom through
condensates and quiet places
that could not make us
comfortable without
a landscape of sin and skin

we realized then
we were souls
and always would be
spirit beyond the sate
we met online
coyly engaged until
we braved a face to face
we fucked without a word
for hours

I wondered
did she wonder
were we noisy enough
to turn others on
those lovers we had never chanced
those that had caught our glances
those who might have ventured to guess
just how much abandon
we kept inside us

inside the party
there were crackers
Piper Heidsieck 67
velvet robes
and silk ropes
the sofas looked like bedposts
and no one seemed to notice
we had slipped in
from where the smokers adjourned
and returned from their fancy lighters,
ash and inhalation rituals

she looked at me and said
the place was decorated
as if they were listening
waiting for us to finish
weighing their place
in the stains 
we would leave
on each other
they must have known
beyond this evening
each of our poems
wouldn't need our names


Sunday, August 10, 2014

a month of Sunday poems...

dining on conventions and pocket knives

mentions of a beauty queen
that liked it rough once
no one knew she wore
the crown, somehow
we all pick up the pieces
of what beaten bones
Hunter S. Thompson stole into
the death of the American dream
smells like gasoline and unabashed go

we still dream
here in America
but it ain't
the same rasp
against soft skin
asking for a salve
that it once was

those of us here
bleed freely
paying price-bandages
designed as death’s clothing
weary, might we be
we allow mouths
to feel our edges
sledge-hammering velvets
rampart wildebeests and
blind lemming drives
to oceans waiting

thirsty as we are
salt will not save us per se
but it will keep tomatoes
in a jar all winter long

a soul is buoyancy
essence preserved
shell, albumen
and yolk
a light lunch
a little radicchio and endive
a little green onion curry
stirred into the eggs and
please toast the muffin lightly
the tomatoes I’ve stewed gently
with some Riesling and roasted garlic
chiffonade of lemon basil
as a finish and presentation
somewhere a betty boop-esque cigarette maiden
is offering me iniquity, I smile and tell her
I prefer the naughty girl blow job routine…


Saturday, August 9, 2014

for Summer reposed...

'The Echo' by Julia Margaret Cameron 1868
at the flea market I thought about how they still stoned women for adultery
(flipping through the channels)

     I wanted to get there early, before the crowds breathed and seethed/ see the vendors setting up shops, tents awnings, tarps and rugs/ wares spread out to attract the eye/ pots of simmering savory and crackle fired sizzles punctuating the air/ the smells of come and get some percolating in playful wafts across the large field designated for such events next to the municipal park and athletic field complex...

     in America comforts on the weekend absolve must direct connection to the calamity that humanity has become outside the machinery/ propaganda, left right in between buy this become clean or without senses enough to call numb the raising of slum to divinity/ everywhere, even in this very town the whole world is a portal down a snow globe attraction/ waiting hands on me to shake and find the fuzzy bits and window treatments of my manuscript, falling exactly where it needs to be...

     we like to kill more and more slowly in America than just about anywhere else you can find on a map or journey, though we don’t always own up to our wielding the whip/ putting ritual on cycled steroids so even death rows know in this free land how the weekend grows on us/ how we parasite on material shine/ how thieving into a less than fulfilling love is the fence part of our distancing ways/ the splayed and paid out installments/ the interest on the loans we took from our captor-creators...

was stoned
and I don't care who
or how many she slept with
we held her to be an insurrection
for wanting to see the dangers
of world that uses subjective faith
as its only form
of passionate intelligence


Thursday, August 7, 2014

precipice lurking...

illustration by Edmund Dulac from Hans Christian Anderson's 'The Little Mermaid'


she said
it seems to me dear
religion is candy glass
a slipper that ain't really meant
to be worn as much
as wearing you down fast
to a pointed no return cycle

a no view-mastering of what life
is to you spiral down spiral drown
breathing in infinity blue,
sunlight and water too
dreaming of ascendancies and descents
daughters between clouds  and rain bent
to a here where you lose me again
gaining the door as prize in exit
every poem says hold on to a together

look, she says
we've made another paper boat
with a candle for a smokestack
what we lack is a keel, rudder and sail masts
so let’s twirl our fingers round the surfaces
cull a storm with wind and waves
brave ourselves ashore somewhere
smitten, bitten, eaten and strange
back to that garden where
we were once naive and unchanged


Wednesday, July 30, 2014

be bop was rap way back when...

photo by Karl Johnson ©

white flag news cycle amusements

last week we had
atop the Brooklyn bridge
a fear mongering narcolepsy

these days we always
seem most alive
at some eternal
eleventh hour
of our survival

we hail almighty good will
wall building of the dollar
and the incremental-ism
of what love cannot do
when we’re watching
the doors and windows
to feel how division,
divinity and devilry
got inside us


incursione in emozione classica...

‘Venere di Urbino’ Titian c1538

tourniquet capriccio

I fell into your beauty
as if it were a sorrow
a fine china broken
I enjoyed the seed
the doorstep threshing
a future past
entrance examinations

today you said
was always a matter
of my eyes spending time 
with spied intentions
caught or otherwise
surrendered to tides
and skies

you said
I was soul-black
pooling night’s escape
onto canvases
thin menisci and
teleportation devices
that I wanted to create
a keyed brush stroking
flash-bang-grenade effect
to disappear and reappear
inside desire

but you saw
I could only afford
to fade frenzy away
rusting in abandoned parts
I had never thought
to ask if you liked
before I discarded
any possibility
or symbiotic telemetry
of what we wanted to be

so you said poach me
a still as you can life 
a silt slippery meaning
beyond any expression
you found clever
and paint something
with a scent of me
inside your bleeding
here is where
we will begin
where love
stops receding


Sunday, July 13, 2014

in the summer rye...

“…the way life used to be…”

you found your way
past jesus and lizard tree
saguaro puncture wound hook-a-thon
old desert trading path
a river of souls as water
there where thermals
play tricks here too

the heat speaks funny
in melted faces and places
you thought you could keep
all your things attached
to other things

there is a faint rot
of forgotten divine
a bloom-sweet hollow
emotional nostalgia
when you want
to remember
feeling something
besides pain

eventually, this too shall pass
as torn skin toughens
broken bones mend
with compression
ice often stems bleeding out
when you flow with letting go

you session comforts enough 
to throw away the keys
turn-caging hinges
doorway promising
and window kissing
binging on lotto rituals
in your guarded Olympia
all puckered up in prayer
narcissist tight as a drum
waiting for the crickets
to find you once had
a few things to say other than
where did my humanity go…