March 19, 2015


Trinity Atomic Test Fireball 1945


when stolen 
for a pure 
are they always
little yellow 
star bright
guiding us 
between grace 
and place 
agrarian ritual  
and seasons 
does science 
and security 
have to 
take us 
race us 
for the reins 
when we
have faith 
in chaos too...


narrator voice...

illustration by Virgil Finlay ©

narrator voice 

a new narrator was being drawn in...

choice microphone 
dangle spotlight 
held blade honed 
skin taut taught 
reading reeling poems 
ten penny shows 
sideways often 
to the point...

response fluid dynamics 
free will tangent geometry 
lite brite making things with light 
and spirograph black paper neons...

the narrator voice 
is fleshless 
another forever
what smells 
womb crawling 
begins with

how did it 
get turned on
to here...?


this is a windy road paste hungry vignette (what it reminds her of)...

illustration by Virgil Finlay ©

this is a windy road paste hungry vignette
(what it reminds her of)

she was into 
go go dancing 
creating silhouettes 
inside of lockets 
she also had pica 
happens in adults too
she was a flour eater 
carried a spoon 
everywhere she went 

little baggy tucked away 
licking empty metal sway 
she coats thick heavy 
names on her entryways 
she says it feels good 

the strafe fine particulates 
are as we, suspension principles 
dynamic held together(s) 
bread ties 
twisted gravely(s)
vine pulling(s)
twined gravities 
harboring reaching 
with ivy come thee 
end of winter

she drinks 
bottled time 
as gravy 
taps her feet 
a staccato-ed 

"...turning pages 
stuck to 
is what I do
I can disappear
like you 
when I eat 
the why 
with things 
like this... 

(shows me 
her flour 
and spoon)

...I take 
 myself birth 
to death to
 dew birth 
rinse repeat 
 cycle again


I've always carried myself as the poem...

photo by Edward Rinaldi ©

I've always carried myself as the poem

praises sewn patches satchel
thatching planned well wishes 
and wants out windows 
moving and dead letter slow...

what once was, 
a favorite tune 
I catch the wind with, 
is carrying the melodies...

says trade 
with me 
will we 
only if I, 
feed it rhythms, 
ritual phrases 
and the afterglow 

coming in 
or out 
of phase

something tombstones 
as well as bones 
know souls 
will leave 

and clues 
knew names 
were vague 

was a stem 
buried ice 
crawl spawn 
carrion activist 
no sign needed 
to get the words across...


canvas hat, portable spade and goatskin...

image by Edward Rinaldi ©

"Fires outside in the sky, look as perfect as cats...", 
Robert Smith, Andrew Tolhurst, The Cure

canvas hat, portable spade and goatskin

the green man is feline playing on
archaeological weather station radio

excavation evocative earlobe douchery 
dickery dastardly new poem gather(y) 
hear the sound found 
when words want to be 
what you want more of  
mouth stumbling wishful utterances 
or so much surrender to give
you just can't talk...?

I see the scent
now in rise 
is this why 
pain leads to 
wings sometimes 

just crawl around 
trace the poems 
brush away 
and dig into
the thirsty dirt 
for mud 
and clothes 

egad, the temperature rose 
with daylight precipitously...

you hope 
your hypothesis 
is a good idea 
a fat bulb burning 
yearning soup a gain 
when it is hot outside 

...sweat the sweet bits off ya kid 
you don't want this life to be sugary slid 
into someone else's pocket 
lest you ever misunderstand 
the reason salt is in the rain...

(narrator leans in close)

...lock this away 
for keeps sake 
then forget where 
that key is... dig...?


March 17, 2015

an odd dream...

photo courtesy of AlbanyPoets dot com ©
(photographer was either Keith Spencer or Thom Francis)

an odd dream in vaudevillian velvet and clever ill repute
(Spring reveals how much dog shit the snow hid)

champagne glass leaning back laughing
a ready tide spill joy filled symphony
ride the rabbit hole 
dark infinities 
hide in the light

many merry meet the propped ass fae

this time year sweet 
seep bleed crawl elliptical necessity 
cycle Sun, little yellow star 
geometry and the wee folk 
some may see 
when where 
wears matter 
not to feel 
but rather 
the let go...

there were moments bottled rains 
we knew would not come along again for awhile 
times lucky upon something 

best to bathe in water 
drawn from streams 
after midnight 
during a new moon...

these are the things 
the we wee dreaming 
wanted to remember 
just as they were discovered, 
in ever lasting taste and thrill...

bubbling well 
bell bottomed 
tells doubling 

she laughs for me 
come with her  
burgeon and crawl fire...

she whispers 
street corners 
and once was(es) 

says all you've 
got to do is fall 
in love enough times 
to get through 
what you think 

death and wombs 
swim the junes

I remembered 
how it sounded
the stretching of morning 
into night's linger
when she said, 

"articulate flesh, 
can be the best 
of our pet intentions..."

I smiled 
some time between 
the pantry door 
and out back  
I had kissed her 
where bone met skin 
and gesticulation 
and she was gone...
now is all about 
having me wake up 
scent and sound 
fleeting raw haze 
car clamor outside 
broken glass 
old wood 
peeling paint
telling me 
it was time
to go dance 
for the dollar again

vernal vernacular...

photo by Edward Rinaldi ©

vernal vernacular

you spend me 
lost inside wear 
molecule and sin 

you send me 
cost inside ware 
each life a thin world 
you said

a cell 
each end 
to begin 

we shine 
and covet 
we gift 
to ourselves
until sacrifice 
wins out 
just the smallest 
of pieces 

clocks try
to measure us 
by movements 

we only register 
an impermanent 
ghost glow 

and infinity
come to know
our values 
and arts 
low brow 
to high tide 
what tills 
what tithes
what reasons 
it takes us
to keep renewing 
our blind faith
in love, lust 
and humanity 
when it is Springtime 


March 12, 2015

the poet is a river too...

photo by Edward Rinaldi ©

(from the Eastern banks
of the Hudson River
where Troy's City Hall
once concretely stood)

the poet is a river too...

"river towns 
are full 
of thieves 
and thirsty 

every land, as it climbs away from the sea is strewn with 
ley lines...along insistence of rain, dotted port slips and 
towns with names connected to the wear of cargo and 
freight...where we make transitioning, a necessary part of 
our spiritual bloodstream...

yes, I was a drifter float wood viscous...I have always been 
a drifter though thoughts beyond this life are purely 
conjecture or feelings one way or another about a subject 
begging for definition...this is usually when my soul says 
consume more to know your holes need fill...

the constancy of my empty is a...

hunger paint silt slide clay mountain tongue...
a language of dissent drawn onto tidewater banks...
why is reason enough for anger to subdue me...
I knew how foment was foaming lattice bones...
how it lent my body an escape from now...

this is...
where I am more brittle...
when I wake up on occasion 
and say well I made it through 
another night being me again...


March 11, 2015

parabolic parasol too...

parabolic parasol too

light pared
spared pear's 
sweet sensory 
cut mottle ripe 
in a white bowl 

holding scent 
leaning out 
a window 
as Spring 's
a-comin' through 

in between(s) 
I rubble bones  
slow rise true 
melt heavy wobble 
wanting, wearing 
your skin

why quiet 
need be
on fire 

you will it 
you demand it
it must be 
it must be 
salt and

beauty is 
on fire

lengthening day stabs  
a late Winter's eve
desire then
turns, drippings 
pan caught 
slow roasted fats
are proceeding

the receding 
old man is
lipped rings 
the crackling 
of skin 
he already knew 
we'd cook 
and release

shadows can get 
sunburned and do
I hear white noise, say
whisper damp decay 
is again fertile today, too 

rapid iris shuttle sign 
is often the timeless 
wanting to be a poem 

words at home
are like I 
closing eyes, just
to see a you 
to know me by 

circus certain 
tome tone 

where time 
doesn't count 
against you 
much while 
in motion 
and connected 
to another


March 9, 2015

irregular regular poet tree...

photo by EJR ©

irregular regular poet tree 

hanging wet sheets 
tinder painted words
empty moments burn
ashes waiting, fill 
embers wading, spill

the thirsty words  
can be instinctual 
or learned 
over the course 
of our collected 

seasons, some 
of us reason 
come only 
by way 
of our 
own arcane 
shy away 
and carve 
the dark parts

this kind 
of solitude
is sometimes 
all right with me 

I confess 
I do enjoy 
on occasion 
getting myself 
boisterously drunk 
at the helm 
of riverboat, logorrheic 
writing what 
vomit piss or shit 
the light 
inside me tries 
to get through 

there could be 
a chance 
something good 
is snuck in mining 
base humor secret velvet(s)
and I don't give a fuck(s)

learning by detriment 
however, is not necessarily 
a strong suit 
in my regard

but I've yet
to surrender 
my last poem 
to sound...

I have found 
silence is 
always thirsty too 
for that matter 

but this one 
a little stage 
stooge careening 
is far from my last...

right here, please
mind the exits left

(la mia piccola 
poesia all'interno 
di questa poesia)

"...the mad hatter 
and march hare 
they wonder, 
does individuality 
bear it fair price 
or is everything 
these days 
latently meant 
to be thrown away..."


March 8, 2015

to be hardly noticed...

photo by Edward Rinaldi ©

to be hardly noticed 

as life 
is going by 
day to day 
month by week 

you keep 
yourself busy 

fitting in 
no one notices 
you much

you're a poet
clouding angles 
shadowing will 
and heralds

you write 
mostly about 
the selfish 

how you commit 
to folly 
and iniquity

while knowing 
each year 
you proclaim 
adhering need 

to stopping seasons
to slowing down enough
to try to tend to 
what you can 

what you can
remember without 
being inspired 
to do so

is your best poem 
you wonder 
just how often 

one needs 
an ear, nose 
and shoulder 
lean specialist

you see
awe almost always 
elopes with anticipation 
these days 

on the internet 
the new mob fancy 
is a dead art 

it was said 
Niagara Falls was frozen 
and their roar 
was a faint whisper 

the couple was...

a distilled 
empty almost
wanting to be 
poured all the way


March 6, 2015

poetry myringotomy...

photo by Edward Rinaldi ©

poetry myringotomy

it is only
what oceans 
were meant to do 
seed us in rain 
tonguing mountains 
beaches again 
modernity is 
to remember 
music has needs
to listen 
to the hearts 
of things

"( questo è la mia poesia e miringotomia )

( this is my poetry and myringotomy )

 il ritmo infinito ,
vuole essere ascoltato 
essi sono i nostri timpani 
che sono solisti  
in grado di udito
la nostra umanità ,
solo così a lungo 

the endless rhythm ,
wants to be heard .
they are our eardrums 
that are soloists  
capable of hearing
our humanity ,
only so long "
what amazing apathy 
our world has become 
teeming temporal 
palaces of undone 
droning white noise 
too rapid to employ 
serenity en masse 
nothing to toy with 
but a thought 
or two

some of us run behind 
collect little pieces, 
furiously still
playing the haunt 
of notes and melody 
painting the tides 
knowing why 
we crawl scent 
calling out to find 
if our names were 
always born inside 
of what once was 


March 3, 2015

eating this fantasy poem, ass first...

illustration by Marcus Gheeraerts the Elder
 from Flemish fable collection:'De warachtighe fabulen der dieren' (1567)

eating this fantasy poem, ass first...

tease small back...
finger trace tongue fever 
spine the limbs articulated...
and 'cause I do savor 
lingering gingerly 
and intoxicated 
with equations 
out of balance 
I start with
her funky
parts first...

this way 
her slow to roaring 
locomotive ghost glyph...
her Doppler curve sounds 
stick to me, mesmerized 
dug into, branded red or blue...

I say to 
and chorus
I'm lost 
the dream

what time did she 
just whisper to me 
for more of what I 
seem to be stained with...

can you tell me?

or is this where 
another fantasy 
wears the end 
of the poem again?


to square root in you...

"egg and wing, arching clasp"
by EJR ©

to square root in you

my core,
at times 
worn thin 
waiting for 
a cage

you seem to 
forsake nothing 
revel in why bones 
are a soul's craven 
skin, flesh and fire 

you wear 
your rhythm 
as attire 
slow burn coal 
iron stove hearth
and cyclical heat 
to cold oscillations
searching earthen 
ancestors for recollection

your monuments 
from brick to mortar 
fiefdom fed 
to primordial 
chaos and forests
what most desire 
is parsed with...

our humanity is
by journey
I suppose 
most true 
by what 
wind does 
to you

no greater 
or loved
could I 
find to know
the finite parts 
of my conscious 
seeking a forever too 
shared or otherwise 
imagined as real 
at least, one time
factored by two 
being held 
close enough 
to be seen 
as one