October 4, 2015

this is what she said...

this is what she said...

fear leaves marks 
on our faces 

love however 
leaves scent-
all our spaces 
observed between 
together and alone
keeping art- 
iculate theater 
of bone 
and soul 
our want 
of more 
than door...


October 3, 2015

nom de plume...

nom de plume 
break neck speed 
ricochet and random 
relay to resting 
places taken 
and granted us
the second law 
Newton wanted to know 
but faith blinded him 
from his desire 
to understand 
the reason 
bones seek souls 
for their cages
most often 
the watchers said 
the soup is 
not quite ready yet...

the fool is often a paralyzed trigger...

the fool is often a paralyzed trigger 
queen of spades 
empress underbelly 
has me under her
libraries of eyes 
she dares me 
to try and know 
what she lives 
to let go 
and retrieve 
in the tides 
time, wind 
and rain 
what ghosts 
go round 
seeking bones 
and found soul...
the deciding factor is 
the fact that there is 
no deciding factor, 
other than my free will/ 
damned am thee looking 
for a spiritual after life 
when thirsty beneath 
is there for the taking 
a thought's 
pierce light 
is intentional 
shadow play
and exit wound
oh, for the broom 
and the bullet 
this life 
it seems 
is meant 
to be a game 
of give and keep...


September 25, 2015

the accordion was named, Jericho...

photo by Seth M © via Flickr

the accordion was named, Jericho

we carried black sack cloth bags 
filled with every sound 
of joy we could remember 
every feeling that could 
turn us back into children...

but whereas we used to be able 
to lure passage with our calibrations 
of surrendering to happy memories, 
the wards here gained wisdom 
to our ways and blocked us from entering...

we needn't have these tones 
as much as enough brute force 
to obliterate the doors 
whose locks we could no longer pick 
for our gold vistas...

the angels here 
are righteously damned 
musical algorithms and 
voracious mind readers...

they can detect our, coming 
to take them away, routines 
so instead we bake bread and 
paint them with crushed flowers and honey 
and peddle them outside the gates 
hoping to slip past all seeing eyes 
of a secure future in order to know 
today still has no price upon its head...

and here we hear 
the humming 
an electrical choir 
beneath us... 

"run rabbit run 
the fun is 
in knowing 
you can feel 
yourself being fed 
into what stills you..."


September 24, 2015

la poema fa mangiare per sé...

William Mortensen (1897-1965) 'Nude with Demon',
from the series "A Pictorial Compendium of Witchcraft", circa 1926-1927 ©


la poema fa mangiare per sé

(if I convert my infidelities into a sack of acorns and a 
back-pocketed slingshot will the trees need to be 
worshipped as much as getting high on the female 

well, you are not what you seem
tall in the mirror mirror dome 
are you really tall or has the lead glass 
wept in slow tides past homes you once knew 
you belonged inside warm and waiting on Winter

I kneaded myself 
towards sanitarium plans 
I was yeasty, my mind 
grew up and down 
bubble, spit and crown
I couldn't stop 
the whitewash chorus 
of voices piercing 
their flights I fight them
wave after wave 
against rocks, abandoned cars 
and shipwrecked piers 
wholly peeling memories 
disguised as landscapes 
of vaguely familiar silhouettes 
the sins and regrets
turned graffiti that seemed to know 
I was talking to myself
should I jump from a bridge 
or eat a bullet 
after all this is America 
and we got enough guns 
to solve our obesity, class wars, 
poverty and over-population 
in fell swoop of suicides...

growing old is no longer an elegant thrive 
assisted living is jive turkey prison training wheels, 
canes and walkers and the inspirations 
are dimming for me...

I check myself in, to see if those 
are streetlights, souls or the way I used to be 
skinned tight in the tanneries 
of my despair and poisonous regard 
for anything that makes me happy...

do I know what does make me happy 
have I ever known this 
or am I an empty calorie and kiss
a moth headed to a fiery end 
seeking whether these vignettes 
are cupboard-bare and dare 
cones of lights 
or skimmed froth 
from dreams 
I once thought I had...

the shadows are forests 
of want, they are nothing more 
than human forms we once 
called, each of our lives...

the symptoms and symphonies 
are the sounds the leaves make
they are free will selling out, they know
what compels you to do what you do 
and their recorded histories 
are the rituals we repeat 
life after life


is civilized humanity supposed to fail 
does scrutiny and mutiny 
go so often hand and hand 
that this land has to be governed 
by a surveillance culture 
with its attaches that can manipulate 
the waves of grain and immigrants 
is everything fed to the grinder 
do the sausage makers delight 
in every new recruit 
is the solution always a veneer 
where the sick and tired 
the old, infirmed and weak 
become the miracle 
the plenty, the fish 
and the loaves of bread...

in this land 
of your land 
and my land 
will we have to hide 
behind snide delight 
in order not to fight...? 

the walls of stone and
high mounted security posts
are keeping the crushing throngs 
outside the gates 
thank god 
I don't want 
to share today...

"soylent green" was a movie once
where they told a tale 
about the miracle of food 
being made from people 
does feeding people people 
after the Earth says no more 
to the farmers and their ilk 
give us reason not to treason 
a divine purpose...?

are those who would patent seeds 
and genetic structures 
squeezing death for profit 
can we be a proud face 
where grace once was 
can we find a place 
where shadows go to remember 
they too, need light to grow...?


September 23, 2015

the simplicity of my bones and their ripe apocalypses arranged on a platter...

'Persephone', by Ian Cashman ©

the simplicity of my bones and their ripe apocalypses arranged on a platter (this was a dream, I tell you)

she must be the samba 
instead of the calypso 
I should have known, 
this music made me want to lay down 
and give up any thought of a crown
inside her bed chambers 
the windows were open 
and the curtains were billowing 
Autumn had arrived in prattle paper poems...

my feet were a tangled mess 
I was hoping to be blessed 
by forgiveness in an envelope of forgotten sorrow 
I said I'd be right back and ventured toward 
the lavatory, she said it was down the hall 
and to the right though if I had to pee 
she said I could do that outside if I preferred...

the wash basin had a spigot over it 
that seemed preternaturally extruding from the stone 
wall behind it, I thunked it with my finger to be sure it 
was not stone or metal for it seemed like an old tap root 
gathered on some seashore, a piece 
of driftwood worn smooth 
tide after tide, gnawed at by time...

humanity is mostly 
salt and chance 
taking a liking 
to the way sugar bleeds 
it always hopes someone plants 
a maple tree nearby 
it as I, can feel falling 
as a necessary ritual turn of events 
that need not be chosen 
but rather just observed...

my eyes knew to look up and my nose knew 
to follow along her scent for there were surely 
going to be flesh left on my bones 
when I said I didn't mind 
having to see the world this way...

my soul was 
crawling between moods 
in search of invigoration 
dilated pupils and captured light 
I was in the dark 
when my irises widened to adjust 
to the sound of Morpheus 
and his courtesans and couriers 
who said, sleep and nourishment help
for they are the mitigation squads 
and we are your chorus of wanting...

"...inside you..."

they sing 
<fading to black>

"...there are seeds to twist 
the wind into strange fruit 
for Persephone again..."


September 17, 2015

gone mad fishing my sorrows...

photo by Keith J. Spencer via albanypoets.com ©

gone mad fishing my sorrows

here I am peering 
into your storefront again 
with empty pockets full of wishes 
here was where you would take me 
by the gills and turn me 
into your recital amniotic hypnosis 
which psychosis was the tune 
that would be you 
hooked into my humanity
which ghost is which here 
what can or can't you see...

the audience was under the spell 
of the dead light of stars...
you said I like your hat 
won't you carry my bags...
will you be eating me sir...

I turned to the stone masons 
in their wombs of metal and mud and said...
no I won't be...you be looking for companions 
and I be looking for a way outside myself...
there is nothing here for me anymore 
so I am closing my eyes and riding 
this particular taste 
of regret until even my bones 
give up their form to time...

am I worm food 
are you whale shit 
the bottom of the ocean 
wants to be rain 
but doesn't explain 
itself to the sky 
often enough 
do you 
do I...?


September 16, 2015

her black cat on parade...

Peter Martin – Figure #1, Greenwich Village Nudes,1951 ©

her black cat on parade

she said she was Mary Magdalene 
in a church pageant once
she made it seem 
as if she didn't want to be seen 
as coming on to me 
but coy plays both ways 
and I was more than 
a willing participant 
in this game 
of chance and take...

I went from hoping to spy
a nugget or morsel 
to masturbate with 
to a slack wheel fisherman 
with an ugly stick drop 
of the line, letting currents feed 
into her sense of mystery...

there was no history of entanglement 
just the instantaneous chemical override 
of enough wine dulling our common sense...

I was much older than she...
maybe she was into soon to be 
museum pieces of interlude...
nude with grey chest hair 
and dare I say 
an invigorated sense of ribaldry...

yes my dear you can press my buttons 
all that you want but first can you 
crawl back across the room 
pretending your life depends upon it...
curl your bottom lip and tilt your head 
let your hips wander in a slow bit of, 
I wonder what he wants to do to me first...


September 14, 2015

le fantasmi galanti autunno del sacro anima...

le fantasmi galanti autunno del sacro anima

under a spell of rain 
this cool September morning, 
I bend low to hear my soul, 
and in turning toward Winter 
I find it hard to stay
warm and tucked 
inside the promise 
of being alive...

with a hot cup of tea, 
I stir my broken self 
raising my body to greet 
the pale grey light 
I try and understand 
what causes me 
to keep going...

idolatry and uniformity 
casting a wide net of horses 
riding out to meet me
where the exhales greet 
what tomorrow knows...

is this world for me, it seems 
it does not want to understand 
the beauty of decay 
though I keep saying
maybe today it will...

humpty dumpty is on the wall again, 
a friend of fragile skin and golden heart 
he understands as I do, why 
I let some of the basil go to flower 
everyone likes to watch 
the slow bees 
at the end of Summer 
take to late nectar 
and go to where 
all beginnings can 
meet their end...


September 7, 2015

the peaceful moments will feed me your raunchy substrates...

Putnam Pond sunrise in the Adirondacks
photo by Steve Bennet ©

poem says, the peaceful music will feed me your raunchy substrates

(down to being dirty minded me)

an old brick ranch 
on a country road 
with its cottage 
and pond
on the back acres...

outside an early 
century hill town-
once a mill town 
now a maybe story
of if river knew 
the silt did too
who was who 
through and through...

poem says 
the pages need be swept 
each of their steps 
leapt with wear...
where yesterday went 
when nobody was looking 
dreams might have known
morning has always 
been empty cups 
waiting in ritual 
marsh reeds again...

the mist at dawn captures me 
I am staring at you 
with every literary ghost 
in the caked grey ash 
wanting to star 
in the story
of these parts...

thirst came many times 
barter, blood, trade and goods 
what once was crackled 
in a spit and spill-spackling 
out of the hearts 
of burning embers 
I poked at inside 
this field stone 
fire pit and oven...

you are still here, threaded 
to our last night 
you are  
trails of smoke 
little convective words 
the wind beginning 
to curl while climbing 
with the sun 
over the trees...

frogs and jays stir 
at the perimeter 
of the pond
while a hungry egret 
is a bent knee like me
a low moving tide note too
an overture for this awakening day...


sought candy houses...

<sought candy houses>

revisionist disciples play father god games...
their gambits on patterns perceived 
decide war and famine 
and who better to profit 
by cruelty tome-d 
in curative wells...
its drawn foregone conclusions 
are paired subscriptions to an after-life 
with its limitations written 
into the payouts...

i sing..."don't push me 'cause i'm close to the edge..."

i'll play in shadow traffic 
and suckle upon the breasts 
of the fallen...
these fantasies of mine 
these goddesses 
these nymphs 
these maidens 
and mothers...

oh those cemeteries are keen 
with our arriving fully engaged with the lsd...
scent of velvet is a ground fog 
a whispered mist that clings...

you said this is way better than parking lots 
weeded with the ghosts of theaters past...
the pines trees like being sentinels here, i said...
you smiled, told me to trace my fingers 
over your lips in the dark 
said gently, I already knew 
the map of her October...


mania, depression and thoughts, off tangent from

photo by Kristian, 'Cascade Lake in the morning' ©
found at www.upoverland.org

mania, depression and thoughts, off tangent from...

so poem and I are always having to choose between two 
diametrically opposed sides or possible outcomes, 
chance and chaos dancing for each second 
of movement within our off kilter-ed 
dog and pony show, we are
behind the makeshift stage curtains 
we've rummaged through 
the neighborhood for 
on garbage day 
to put up around each view 
of an act an eye plays 
desiring to be a mouth...

what much if anything at all are we thinking 
each second more that we live in this life, 
is choreographed by feeling 
by feeding into something 
just to be fleetingly and bleeding-ly alive 
outside the inside of a skin side taught 
we ought not share but notice 
if by chance the passersby caught 
in their hair, on their arm 
raised up, reaching for more 
of what they thought 
they saw...

I am sensitive to injustice, poem will often say 
especially when it comes to humanity gone missing 
are you ever getting beyond politics, poem asks
no longer afraid of being 
and exploring every mystery 
of me and you, poet 
every dark corner 
every bright blinding light 
every oops moment 
every broken too 
every crested tuft and limb 
every waxed on lift gone fallen 
every good thing we are ever learning 
every living thing we've taken to burning...

this is where memory lives to be harvested...

(conversation with poem, directly)

remember when you couldn't fathom swimming 
how it sparked nightmares of drowning 
and how we learned to swim so long ago 
at the salvation army's summer camp 
in the ranging iron and clay foothills 
of the adirondacks 
and how you went 
as often as you could...

are you distilling me as the potent self, said the poem, 
am I your future expressions of inner forms
do we both endure, are we both desperate 
for a love of certainties shared between senses 
are we a fleeting gold haunted by the scent of pines, 
are we deep glacial lakes steeped  
souls in rain, seed to tannins 
silt bottomed soft worn soles 
will we always catch the sky 
when we are thirsty for more time 
can age creep unseen upon many 
when a set of eyes the nose devises 
whiles ways around this canard...

moon sniffs the night, a bouquet late august 
early september, edged rusting imbibes 
she is hoping an instantaneous something 
comes along cup and song 
something she especially 
longs to drink in...


August 26, 2015

oh gypsy, will you dance your theater for me...

'Der begehrliche Faun', 1867
 by Mihály Zichy 


oh gypsy, will you dance your theater for me

it was a dream 
she wore certainty 
inside a chaos 
that drew me in...

her irises 
were ornate 

midnight approached 
I saw her there, I said
I need you to take me
to a land of escape 
preferably some vaudevillian 
back alley portal 
in gas lamp flicker 
wear your eyes  

a lined smoky come closer
with hypnotic dulcet shine 
spread'em o'er the cobblestones 
the corner wrought iron quiet housed 
glistening, stabbed in fuzzy fingered 
neon role plays and enticements, chance offstage
in a dark doorway waiting...


to sit with the air breathing forms...

to sit with the air breathing forms...

portal shoe shiny
mushrooms eat trees 
time eats bones 
I search stars 
craned neck sway 
bobbing slight neigh 
and yeah to sounds...

I am wound steeped 
deep wobble cyclical 
a nature-d gravity maturing 
in fast cellular telomere breakdown...

wisdom is 
cosmological blink therapy 
faith in one's self 
and I've left it 
for the looters 
on the streets 
in the cities 
far away from 
where I want to be 

there, in the urban decay 
is organized roman legions 
and harpies who don't believe

it is in the woodlands 
in the foreground 
away in the distance 
that I come to live
can I be abounding 
and unbound 
at the same time
ranting rise 
and wax 
from lost 
to found 
near each shelter 
the scent captures
in gathering my deaths
with countless leaves 
ready to fall 

I've come 
to collect a few 
to burn on occasion 
in the Winter fires...