May 26, 2017

every landscape, full of cannibal temples




(magic eye the whole ten penny alley way, give out black light fuzzy recipe cards ...)

they said they kept the severed heads 
for when they go kiting the underworlds 
they kneaded what felt sacred 
what would keep them safe from harm 
marking each day, counting 
the passing irregular seasons 
after dark matter plumes stole time away ... 

what the unseen 
a planet changing 
reality for them 
became 
new temples 
being born 
visitors slowly  
angler fish wondered 
awed and attracted 
to the magnetic resonances  
of their worship 

this is
what had sustained them 
consecrated with why 
they said they needed flesh 
and taken by guerrilla guile  
it was so written 
so they could remember 
quickened & nourished 
feeding pulse song and surprise 
eyes long ago sent 
pining for the nose 
knowing what they had 
looked like before 
their humanity died ...

EJR ©

May 9, 2017

wer a one, stone-tabled outside the rain ...

 'Alas, I Cannot Swim' (2012)
by Jehan Choo ©

a thrift store biscuit dive : 
I mean can playing what ifs on the edge 
bring on an apocalypse, someone's, I'm sure 
but not mine, not yet, 
I have need where 
my heart lives 
bellow liver and goats
all putrid remains 
of chances not taken 
are buried 
in the basement 
what I hid 
is jar lid me(s), 
what I remember 
the popping sound 
and smells, open windowed  
warm Autumn 
canning late peppers 
and tomatoes 
playing what ifs 
on the edge 
tide skipping 
flipping off 
the grackles 
and pipers 
on a wire 


it is almost 
another full Moon 
and May is buttering 
bread past time, the  
what ifs are what is 
said as  true 
and we have to 
try and feed 
the masses again 


I'll make something 
zucchini, tomato, onion and pepper 
water early and globes of garlic 
the Sun pilfer neared absolution  
and whole religions 
rise die and rise again 
because of it, each 
a little more special 
in their own eyes 
don' t you think  
besides, we've been throwing 
the young and the elderly 
into the deep end 
for awhile now 
and yes as with the end 
of most poems 
reflecting a future 
with and without me 
a icy cold nehi, 
would be great 
right now ...


EJR ©

May 7, 2017

we went colored mad together: a poem slow infused memory ................ scent and me




it takes us to nations 
elation(s) for raced places 
time emits us 
spit bit bridle certainties 
so well, now, how's ya hearse choice choke horse life after-all 
not very fancy, are we, no pants see, down on your luck 
no one has to be real 
rocking the bellies, 
the what belies, 
being lies 

ooh, the poem goes oo-oo-oo 
here, there are 
bobbing head chattel rhythms 
you cannot escape from ...
legacy structures 
robber baron 
outlaw mentalities 
we are expressive 
in our tenacities 
here, we have minds full 
of passed on know how 
cow-sugars, fox 
and goat sacks 
here, we know 
what is needed 
where the water goes ...

the rivers here 
get muddy quickly 
slower angling silt sliding  
warm booty mouthing  
the Mississippi delta
eventually meeting 
salt of the seas 

segue, sanguine please pleasing 
the squeezing bargains, harp-y-ing 
into intracellular, let me tell you later(s) 
always 
working 
the piece 

sACRIFICE IS YOU HAVE TO 

accidentally cap locking 

the micro poem 
throwing it back 
boomerang-ing 
when it rains 

with an occasional close 
honed onto 
fading the skips 
times when 
you are falling 
driving eggs 
legs, skies 
knowing the wind 
is in the eons 
some kind 
of ghost calendar 
joyful moments 
carving stone 
parts of us, to atone 
for why(s), 
the prices pain paid 
is Love  
sometimes, 
in this Life 

things we do 
to remember 
need not 
be won or 
carried with us 
they are everywhere 
and anywhere 
the wind went 

last stanza 
soft kicker 
sod housing 
the ants at work 
I, a hopper at heart 
still trying to learn 
how ...


EJR ©

May 5, 2017

the news is snewed shit festivalia, fecal aid for everything .................. it binds you to your unbound inhumane poems


image found on internet
photographer unattributed 


GOP = Greed Over People 
Democrats = Do everything misguided or cry republicans are totally sinister 

Independents = what the fuck are they anymore, 
though this poem recognizes the grandfather from Vermont as a possible exception 
but illusory means of proclamation have been known to fill my fridge before 
stoner food man, watching sparkly things go round and round in the microwave man 
man why didn't you fight more about California ...

Fringe parties = been sown as bad seeds so long most are conditioned at automation 
to write them off as ludicrous or dangerous and a folly to follow ...

labor feeds fixes and bloodens the gears 
poor bones have always died quickly 
and with necessity 
at the beck and call 
of towers tall 

so those wanting to know 
at this point 
in the poem, 
please defer research 
to the time skipping 
ability of a nautilus shell 
of a woodland snail for instance 

I mean, if you are 
really that impatient 
go to last stanza now ...




affordable care 
we act as if we care 
America, as an institution DOES NOT CARE about YOU, period. 
people are manipulated and easily so, me too 
I watched Baywatch on TV and might the movie too 
a mad dash to get the cash and coconut 
the trading post is close and  
what BB laden hoses supposes 
like socks filled with soap 
to clean memory 
from Life and Love 
as embodiment(s)
of ideas 
to murder 

we are usually lacing fear with implied threat here 
we have labeled this terror, a tactic 
what politics and religion 
has given us ...

thus we bare ourselves 
when alone to ask if  
we can care to afford me 
acting like you care accordingly 

we have reached that critical mass 
of wholly I don't give a fuck 
when the Earth as a commodity 
won't last another few decades before 
damaging changes have taken hold 

community after community 
will be sold chattel and spectacle styled 
to know security 
will be to know the cage 

outside there is palpable 
desolation, rows after rows 
of what we sow and had sown 
slow siphon-ing what colored our world 
this future variant 
is never letting go 
of our forgetting 
of the when(s) 

we recorded everything 
had library upon library to prove 
what a big bunch of dumb asses we are and were 

chances are and beyond the sea playing on heavy rotation 
on the automated radio shows still ghost going 
transmitters powered by solar panels

the future seems more greasy than dusty 
but I could just be looking at the interrupted streams of rain 
the eons take going calendar and bones 
every time a soul cries for articulation 

the churches, temples, mosques 
and other sacred gathering pools 
of ka and ba, list the entry ways 
to the beyonds, heaven 
for a layman or poor reader
people in line remark 
that this looks like post 9-11 'merica 
only the floor is more slippery 
and the tones more seeping 

there isn't music playing 
but the sounds seem to say 
to each of us what we want 
and need to hear ourselves with 
better than beats, best headphones ever 
I said to myself now or never 
get with the rhythm levers  
and let knowing thyself how  
be part of a poem, part of a people 
this could be my prayer to tell 
my whirling dance to spell  
I am, is and came to be 
without rotunda, or steeple 
and grand voiced wisdom 
we don't smell to see 
what is weather belled 
we all just want to hear 
that tone 
that rides off 
into the sunset 
blissful in decay 
each day, a future 
we dared remember 
to color further in sorrow 
for what once was ...

we once believed 
we were created 
not realizing creative 
was the game 
to be, we 
the same gods 
the same manufacturers 
the same cities, 
sawmills 
and quarries
we are alien hybrids damn it 
now get over it 
and get on with 
more and more Loving 
and being aware of it 
every moment you can 
peace out 
poems shout 
too and can 
if you write 
and speak 
those words 
of yours ...

EJR ©

May 3, 2017

in tonal varieties, bearing down upon thee-isms




take me in, take me home the poem speaks doubles 
spoken token broken bits of me I seek 
comma to karma, a chameleon revealing alien 
secretion-all-relationships between encoding 
we part ways and the bones are the days 
we decorated as countenances 
I hear one of Huldra's Nymphs play 
this same song, a maestro in the rain 
bleeding skin, tissue paper carnations 
falling off her like dyed barely dried 
sales pitches for the eyes 
discounted like Easter egg coloring kits 
I bought the night before Beltane ... 

the stanza here 
is dedicated to the city style minds of America, Rome, and Babylon: 
Persopolis, Tenochtitlan , Timbuktu and Nineveh 
never recovered from the losses 
of indicator species 
frogs and bees man 
frogs and fucking bees 
tiny robots to pollinate 
metal in the air to dare the clouds 
and perhaps shape the future 
long enough to escape 
with enough of us and stuff 
to start this all over again 
we are a gullible species, aren't we

"somewhere in outer space 
where God has prepared a place 
for those that trust Him and Obey" 
* ( a part of a sunday school song from my childhood)


this is the music playing 
when amplified progress desires 
soft tissue ambassadors 
to the soul 
survival/will want bones to be Senate 
sex organs and brain 
to share the mouthpiece/leadership role 
they'd also like to do this thing truncated-ly 

twang is slang sound 
midnight escaping into the daylight 
must be late December or June 
somewhere again 

I ask myself how does everyone fit inside my mind 
do the voices take turns switching the switches 
and dreaming of riches to shower 
those I've un-comforted along my ways 
not so fast past TV night you see 
nothing changes blames witches 
because the churning of culture 
only seems to 
want Lilith 
kicked out 
for demanding 
what was rightfully Hers 

I swear the allegiance codes change every day 
and to drive these roads at night 
well let's just say, irksome is a pleasant gadfly 
not I as I ran into an old woman with a window 
for a stomach 
and the future 
on the very ends 
of her pursed lips 
why do I think of candy 
when impending doom approaches 
play games with the words to change the mood 
doom odom modo mood or something like that 
dramatic segue into closing credits 
scenes of barber chairs and milky white linens 
ruffling in a sunny wind 
while pinned to the line 
by maidens in long dresses 
a long shot is tracking 
the audience grasps 
we, principles and puppeteers 
behind the curtains 
rift the drifting 
of story 
into a smiling dark 
poem has grown to know 
when the endings begin 
where wombs carry to term 
the weight of our sins


EJR ©

April 30, 2017

there are no damning parts of us ...................................................... NaPoWriMo2017 #30



we made it through, poem and eye 
nose knew those then begging 
were somehow wishing 
the picture was less image 
and more scent 
as memory 
remembers best 
while looking within 
thunder and convulsions of an old cat seizing with 
an 'I remember to remember' 
everything has a smell 
you want to carry with you 
for safeguarding against 
or posterity's sake 
or at least self relevance, 
memento-ized 

dusty ramparts lamp arts somewhere in outer space 
the elite have built a place with access to plebes 
and other classifications, only by lottery dream card, 
subscriptions to an afterlife 
dependencies on outside 
structured good behaviors 
systemic interlude-al 
recital tired rites 
rolling rights 
we ask you 
to read them 
speak them rhythm-ed 
to us beyond 
small sample sized 
identity kits 
you complete 
the shallow grafting 
of our bones 
under spotlight
and vetting processes 

what is good behavior, the cardinal sings, 
starkly on fire against the swath exploding green 
of a cold wet Spring morning 
in moments like these, future 
is a thought paused 
while observing the weather 
with a cigarette 

I question more than less of me, 
what I see, what I dare feel as myself, shelf leaning 
are poems, mine or yours, ours or noted collections 
mason jars patina-ed to yesteryear as we like them to be 

who was, is irrelevant, who is just is 
and the rest of the time poem is eye wanting 
to be a nose, wanting to be 
wanting to be wanting wanting to see 
sight is something worth being blind for 

I desire to be a lantern 
held more for spite 
so someone might 
see that I too 
have my eyes closed, here 

I hear calm voiced sweet sorrows fill backgrounds 
warm pies rise on sill, waiting still like most things 
for their number to be called 

words are coded to ancient texts 
we drive the myriads with sects 
and different dictionaries 
of the ritual clings 

we are always that cardinal 
clung to the sway bend 
of a pine, heavy 
with last night's rain 
southerlies desperate 
to race over 
the miles and miles 
the tilled earth of my rural sojourn 

I am waded desolation(s) 
deprivations too 
rung with power 
and surrender 
for any what 
that can be known 
when a poem ends 
goodbye-ing a satisfying 
NaPoWriMo ...


EJR ©

April 28, 2017

a parable of a broken man : .................................................. NaPoWriMo2017 #29



he held himself, a penny, pun, a jab jangled hope 
and confection in a paper sack 
he rubber chased shadows working 
angles for angels, dirty faced/ 

he knows there are 
no fleeting infinities 
in this story 
there is only hubris 
and the masks 
of monkeys 
and their kings 

he shines, smiles
shit filled  
insignificance ... 
you see we waste 
wear most gold is 
the silt and bend of rain between 
small potato size stones 
we otherwise pass on by 
walking calendars 
by river's sides 

the arc and line 
of tale is ugly stick-ed here, 
as poet pearl dives an allegorical 
and scatological poisoning of the cats 
the electrons are not there 
mirror near, fear of aging 
is where clarity is 
what you seek 

muddy visors, adds and subtracts 
the glad tidings basin is full of dried flowers 
eye once meant to perfume my stink 
room, womb and tomb with, for  
eve n a broken man wades 
poem bones for patterns 
today will always seek 
only to find, ghosts 
willing you 
what gets through 
to other sides 
of any me 
you held with 
hope and 
glue ...

EJR ©

suckling poems in heady scented tall rye, eye surrenders all ..................................... NaPoWriMo2017 #28




who was it decay fathom-ists broken doll faces in the pillar candles 
we dreamed in lofty exhales, exchanged glances under the flicker light 
why do we have so many clothes, vestibule mud room, wear stored 
leather of the soul stretched over found animal skulls, you call, I call 
corners and noise marked consumption waves, sin (e)lephants, doppler 
their call, thunder when the grasslands burn ... 

im-balancing  my checking out accounts 
I spend most of my time trying to find 
where I fit into the matrix 
is it all illusions and observable ones at that 
the affix themselves up to be lamprey to lake trout 
and you kow tow to know 
zebra mussels are but one 
kind of invader species 
because any lord knows, we know 
invader species, leaky roofs 
those rooms with plastic over the furniture 
rooms for when good company comes over 
and because we never seem to be 
good company anymore 
those rooms are eaten 
with shadowy white noise
I listen to the grace 
of this social decay 

sometimes I find listening 
to a box fan 
more interesting 
then what is on TV 
though I admit when stoned 
everything has good story telling 
especially those 
ancient alien shows 
especially when I am stoned 
Ben and Jerry's in the freezer 
tub of popcorn as my side car \
water and mandarin oranges 
on the ready ...

inside this world 
outside any window 
of any life you care 
dare or share 
to remember here 
the seasons race 
by and bye 
milk gland-ing eggs 
hoops and spindles 
sold straw 
prospect daughters 
waters we always knelt to 
rains mostly, cold Spring days 
edges, reins, reigns, reality 
in the ugly headed rearing 
back to that island near Mexico City 
where an artist hung thousands of found dolls 
no longer part of the joy of this world 
and we live vicariously, selling narrative(s) 
soul, and spirit, death becoming 
old odd ambled may be(s)  
tourist attractions 


EJR ©

April 26, 2017

who was it ................. the push carts and peddlers pondered AKA war became commonplace mechanics adopted as origin language ................................. NaPoWriMo2017 #27

illustration by Josh Kirby ©


if a cacophonous hippopotamus 
found its way into your story 
would you have time 
for plausible deniability 
truth it seems, 
has never made it back 
in style or otherwise applied 
in these longing for old times 
in these new ages 
we are constantly visiting 
for answers, for destinations 
for poems wear, 
showing where we 
forgot how to ride ...

we have no reason to incline 
they said with bewilderment 
we're wanting to be Life in a poem 
moving about, antennae short waving it 
through thick and thin 
we find surprise variants rampant 
these days when joy wants a home 
to be a comforted view 
of what the soul and spirit 
knew to do to the body 
when it rebelled 
a bone cage 
breathy accordion  
hand organ 
again  

we goat skinned wine 
we held vigil parties 
late hour-ed eviscerates 
all we had once celebrated 
we denigrated with ideas  
of beauty we could put in reverse 
with an Annine Everson piƱata 

we were at another 
precipice moment 
in our tenacious cling 
of stewardship to Earth 
when we noticed 
crone magic wombs 
were tending things unseen 
in a slow apocalypse symphony 

who among you can dismay 
so readily the perils children face 
today placemat pall bearing 
the wearing of our indulgences 
still we deny leaving a mess 
oh the blessings addressing 
what we owe in roe chains 
of command, lands of milk 
and honey don't come cheap 
you know, so we hand over 
our gold coins, cows 
scarlet letters  
and runner beans 
there are no giant vines 
here in this poem 
only treasuring 
the egg layers 
pursued by slayers 
of community trust 
and the collective mind 
you see, the scents 
behind the curtains 
are wizardly types plying 
politics, barters, trades and wares 
marionette-ing push carts 
and peddlers 
every sunrise 
trying to stave off 
the stain 
of dying time 
because at the end of this poem 
Lady Macbeth is left 
wandering the hallways 


EJR ©

spending days with cassandra .......................................................... waking from comas with commas, karma and calm ........................................................................ NaPoWriMo2017 #26



here the poem says mothball everything, tell no one  
america, scared of ka, is going to nest, next line blessed 
while the rest of god here, is an illusion 
comfort by sleeping however, is not ... 

so I believe I'm called a lunatic to keep reason from being my friend ...

words need bleeding, me in the weeds by the roadside, watching 
bent quiet crept, waiting bouquet traveling at leisurely rates of speed 
I spy weathered signs, yesteryear(s), clear views of nature getting through 
to where I once was ago, the flower petals are clock dial hands, 
turns of the sky not having control over 
any of my eye movements, scent wants me lost 
in ramparts of color dollop womb-if-ication 
I think spring and summer thunderstorms ...

it must be a new moon, my eggs are breaking
 and my balls are stuck in a vice world at large of humpty forever 
some follow a king, some the horses, 
still others listen, pay the fare and play 
it is if we wanted to see the ship 
and captain go down wearing hole Life 
as a black tie affair ... 

nicean 325 pagan politics disguised 
ravenous cats, christendom ... 
damn mother of constantine stole the library of alexandria ... 
after fact-ers proctor examinations of gullibility 
they are half book rulers, schmooze-lers, 
they use novelty vomit to feign concern ... 
they wham you into liking cable television, internet 
and low quality digital feeds for music ... 
poem says fuck'em, give me kettle drumming 
and crossbow salvation-ists, deadheading 
zombie flower peddlers, anytime 

the dream of when 
nine foot tall marionettes 
they were thick piano wired 
to the tree, we used pulleys 
and ox yoke chestnut collars 
we gave hollers for dollars 
through megaphones 
into microphones 
they write poems 
we are contacted, contracted 
to relay them as penance for not believing in magic 
a time or two when we hadn't known 
what to do simple grace was to stare 
mirror mirror nearer the face 
bowsprit and buttress 
we gave the harpies 
and gargoyles a chance 
to harmonize 'and to our surprise 
they reprise-d human foibles perfectly 
we called around a fire story time, 
all the glories 
of days we had 
at go and stay 
in the mountains, camp ...

we spread ourselves aurally thin 
and fit into speakers 
we had positioned above 
and behind the audience 
licorice lovers always lagged behind 
they like the changelings 
and morality zoetrope-s 
some of us kept stones 
in our pockets 
dark skipping 
what dreams 
we remember ourselves 
precipice-d desire 
mental illness 
as causative deformation 'reverse engineering 
special circumstances that fence the killing of the soul 
articulate limbs 
broken shells, skin 
names I call myself 
when about to fall asleep 
dreaming again 
of endless mouths 
to feed into why 
we move coffins 
lid to slid 'off the cuff 
with remarkable lies 
we hold as holy, pearl diving 
a midnight we hold dear 
calling us home 
I bind thee, poem says 
to your freedom, to your madness 
to your quiet discernment 
and I am personal logic, 
an illness of cures too, it seems ...

EJR ©