November 20, 2014

pane and brachial reach womb framing...

she reads how

the sun outside
cracked dusty glass
is ol’ November

a death angel pilgrimage
in cut lean light
a thicket bramble
bone finger wobble
oaks and maples cast
in skin 

shadow sentinels
losing articulation 
a daytime faster spin 
a Yule tide undertow 
wassailing time with sin

I lose track
of word formations
feeling my way
into the poem
what it will sound like
feel like taste like smell like
how much of it will be
how reason lost its way here, too

I fantasize
she ambles
in oral aural
angled bouquets

she’s reading me 
angels atop pines
fallen for flattery
she knows her eyes are
hypnotizing ventricle balloons
release parlor tricks
making the dog howl

verses are squeaky squishy
bending ambulettes rescuing perspective
vignette(d) images, sounding motion

the endings, she says
are always the perfume
that seeks our eternity

in all the bodies
we ever knew
awareness is always
turning wheels, seasons,
clocks, calendars, noses and eyes
seeking a soul
trying to remember
what we smelled like
deep inside the poem's
point of view


November 19, 2014

a worship of want...

illustration by Kay Nielsen ©

this forest winters inside a body's electric holy of holies 

I sought to hold her hand
it was my plan
to temple brush
and canvas show
attraction and allure
slow tracing assured

my fingers crawled
hall to altar
surrendered to alter 
I bare need
for pure desire

the fares to here
bleed seed knees
breadcrumbs, stones
and weaves

my palms and nails
finish quite dirty
and stain sainted
with my covets
and pieces
of how she 
houses my divinity


November 16, 2014

Icarian Saturnalian...

occhi, morso il rituale ...

I, beg and thieve
prey fantasy
altar rain
I eat mosses
beneath weather
skin to dew
slow lattice
tease fan expand
twirl rapid feather duster
stop and tease again

ritual window
wishing theater
this is water
holding its breath
it means Winter
directs hunger
desires purity
ribbon-ed surrender
candy bowl unnoticed
Yule and fire
steamed windows
savory cries
love and lust
the lean parts
holding on

lengthening night
paints choruses
whispers and moans
the audience knows
how to color what’s best
for the rest of themselves

holidays though, to me
are a mad uneasy
a slut gift frenzy please-a-thon
near shutdown impossible
I imagine you
stare words too
turn tuck and bend
back into
the day
wearing what is knew
of a soul passing through

nude anew has its own allure
in my comic strip, I am a whore
for anticipation
I am always taking
my time unwrapping
an almost somewhere


November 13, 2014

potion to tourniquet...

Art by Michael Hutter,  "Satan showing his city to the children?" ©

seasons pied piping

reasons to stay enthralled
watching theater river collect light
and souls along a turn of sky

explaining yourself to no one
and smiling in the dark
often enough to remember
we might just be a part
of someone’s ten penny shoe box show

the universe may be
accordion membrane molecular
thin wings and lungs
observable carry expression
heralds for gravity sight unseen

the vistas and view-masters
are our multiplex nautilus folds
finite infinities we
shimmering sea grass undulates
caught carried rain
memories, seeds,
trees and needs

desire is why we bleed
the will and choice
to pool and luxuriate
the pieces of ourselves
time makes us
pay attention to


between the alphabets of erode and spawn...

self portrait by Edward Rinaldi ©

sat the arachnids

formula silk safe daylight transcription subscribes ties to electromagnetic field pulse neon dye languages/ ego disconnects, chooses not to speak/ pearls want divers to know blade kiss electron slit miss infinity experiments are prying open what desire possesses of the observation/

holiday season upon us/ festival bang fire, kettle to palm/  town squares circled, evergreen life stealing moments of abandon/ lemming and wildebeest world of carnage, collection and someone is always to blame, say tomorrow is your gold/ the history books want us to keep the television on/ burn salvation when we can/ try never to remember every soul is scented/ a permeation bloom/ salt, sugar, blood, iron and eon/ we keep repeating rituals/ finding the explanations are wolves for sheep/

poems go
predator to prey
pariah to parishioner
deliberate to deluge
inside midnight to dawn
fabric dark
fine smooth 

roadside attraction says
ruminate here
enjoy smiling
know something
no one ever has
to hear
or read

write perfect a poem
tap the root song
keep it to yourself
you’re selfish
the poem only meant
to be thought 
once, never knew 
it was a poem 
just a window 
thrown open 
or a door 
walked through

crave the carved heart
your bones be part
dust and rain
mostly things
you stain your pants
and love with

I just wipe my hands
at my sides, mostly
wear dark clothing
drink in dives
pretend I’m an
omnipresent invisible
laughing sinister to serenade
my mask is purposefully
grotesque, you could not
possibly like me
mad, macabre
and mindful
of joy’s place
at the table


November 6, 2014

Carnaval et de Carême...

Illustration by Aubrey Beardsley from Short stories by Edgar Allan Poe

être celui qui, Carnaval et de Carême , éveille , en vous

womb facing strangers
we had become
our memories
sickly decadent
with nostalgia
barnacle encrusted
embedded veins
what once was
had the reins

right now 
was maple leaves
a capitulate empty thirst
in last drop regards
bled fire novae they
all fall pouring
spider web silk
into why arms
were once fins

when it rains in November / entry level visas become bone theories and lottery skin/ what cold souls want to win most, is their desire to be

at first it eats them
creates more them
sleeps with them

conscious state repeat ritual language
adherence level is a variable part of self-awareness
I too am wary wearing too much shine
literal translators lock the gates
from other divine participants
us lesser paid extras
and those found
to have good voices
are still sometimes
caught and sold
on subscription schemes

we’re all bought time eventually
circuitous slow orbital knees
belly swell straight shot
atmospheric refraction
travelling remember when(s)
endlessly named archetypal
spiritual marionette tent revival
ten penny shows/found
along old roads that wanted to be
back alleys, strung with lights

punch and judy, camp downwind
just outside of any town/
prepping salacious acts
waiting saints fill coffers
coffins and thin glass
calamity insurance fortunes
told per coin per chance taken
casket basket barker lark near
hearkened hearing ye
and me and why we
un-pocket salvation
trading labors of life
for favor and vice

strolls down a street's lost innocence
you care to pay attention
you engage in outside of light tricks
you play the shadow masquerade
you wick, wax and haze
you rust and dust 
engage in gold come-ons
lanterns a-gloaming 

when we close shows
the audience is captured
in close-by(s) and proximities

we surprise many with variations
so as to increase potency
this is how maybe
is always the paint-fuck
of hope and allure

an “I want to feel this”
resonates within the din
chamber exclusive thinking
how is everyone doing
milling the exits
if you are clamoring for more
we do have some to buy into
drinking wine and recollections

the labels saw
pour wings and claws
four heads and paws
footprints you knew
the tides would take…


the fates are bringing desserts...

illustration by John Held Jr.

still life in cherubim voodoo stew

(radio voice crackles, unattached)

“…in a spun magnet, a fire for a belly indicates want, a terra firma place setting, with full silver service over the courses, this, ladies and gentlemen, would suit your appetites finely…”

sewing little indignation(s) into penny scrap dolls
I spell and poem by exhale into each one/
leave them where silence comes to eat the words/
paper, rock and scissors eyes/
button down clown suits round a table/
the strange cornered sharpen your senses/
high gloss sheen to vernaculars
particulars coming to look/
I shuffle documents fidgeting/
nerves examine the perils
a body count in my head/
who deserves, how can I judge/
what kinds of limbs
reach and express
something more pure
than I otherwise
might imagine myself
to be…

boss man, lord tan lady shade/
I've made deals before someone gets paid/
I've hired attorneys with concubine crop fare/
hieroglyphic reading tea/
honey, infinity sweetened
inside wax sealed jars/

I've arranged mementos
afterglow kept things
I’ve written down
following desire, pleasure
and bliss while not letting
unsavory ever get too far 
away from me 

I am dust and bones
heading towards wear
rain feasts low…


November 2, 2014

ir más allá de la novena puerta y séptimo círculo, a vivir dentro la sueño, día feliz de los muertos...

photo by Edward Rinaldi ©

we all wade the trinity/witch, old man time and fire…

in the temperate forest zones when winter begins to come, they start to give us holidays to celebrate, one after the other, we end up three months drunk with many opportunities to forget sometimes why we give thanks and are mindful of generosity and enduring our own dreams with or without acknowledging the helpful nudges along the way…

 “…one Yule I remember the tin soldiers and nutcracker Cossacks were funnily arranged above the stockings on the mantle, I mean bow-tied gift wrapped boxes I remember leaving under the pine/ the jarred amanitas and sweet ribbons of candy and various oranges I recall scattering about/ nestling them in the boughs with cut out paper stars, written wishes but I do not remember pushing the candlesticks aside and putting the effort into this meticulous diorama-ed meaning of some kind, I mean no, I am quite sure that I didn’t do it…this is one of the reasons I still believe in magic and hallucinogens…sometimes having no answer, is a gift…”

peeled open, thick curtain me, I was cloth looped burlap almost, on an iron rod, I looked out my very old, cracked and taped window I’ve neglected to fix for awhile now/ my writing desk is near the vent where it quiets its clanky roars and I can hear the lurching, hackneyed cries of an outside the words that I write…

I surmise, as do you, the reader and listener, that I see, we are mostly selfie puppeteers, rackets behind glowing electric tether binkie nipple cathode ray nurturing/ we greet change too often with fear based revelry and a numbing hypnosis of long termed bacchanalia/ and as most automotive culture worlds do/ we want our basic things easily stolen with ignorance without care, good, bad or atheist/ we will compete inside ourselves against anyone in everything from calf roping to the idolatry of material stain/ fight until red or blue, coming or going, clandestine to worldwide celebration, we’re Einstein’s speed-time curvatures of what is and isn’t in a cruel jag-cold raw, wind and rain, first Saturday night turning Sunday novena November…

we pay no heed, bleeding our creeds, to the growing number of death angels/ we pillage too, over pore and pod seed vine residues/with haunts of sugar we listen for those with a tenuous grip/ we seek to find where we once had fingerprints all over moments like these/ when we still wanted to be trees eating stars as well…

we never notice soon enough the now hungry sky of Winter approaching us in trough-starved desperation/ desolation and dark wombs slow life, suspend it, breath cellular fertile embraces…

we race, in and out of glass, stone, metal and wood, huddling around oil and gas shelter hearth ovens we leave on, heavily clung with ancient savory and familiar smells/ there are no insects outside anymore/ nor any held little mists that rise nor even the sticky warm dew made when July left night too short to ride/ no, the frost and snow now start to come and go, though not as often as water did when it rained…


November 1, 2014

the all souls day trial of resource allocation civilization...

photo of Delicate Arch, Arches National Park, Utah., by Jason Corneveaux ©

the all souls day trial of resource allocation civilization

human survival instinct
was due on the stand, first

we the people
felt it was necessary
to engage with our defense vigorously

we would need a sharp
and blind emotion
chained madness
frothing anticipations
image snap sated rituals
a releasing of the hounds
the sounds of chase ensuing

we had to play
for the jury
the sirens
and olfactory angels
as delve downs,
rabbit holes
and gullies
rain uses
to find rivers
and oceans
willing to eat
into where land
has stood for eons

we felt it was
impossible to build
a case/house without erosion

lead to evidentiary
flood plains and
implied circumstances
storm clouds
feed the memory drains
and fades away
decay knows
show them
forests and
high desert
algorithmic cycles
gravity in the reach
of seasons

our life has become 
persistent reason's 
consumptive reasoning 

the delicate arch into
a free tomorrow

what has always been
the tall monument
of rock left
in a night sky
full of empty
as the wind
works truth too
from purpose
and perspective
like water does
honed and hungry
for your time