October 1, 2014

what rain remembers...

photo by EJR ©


entering tomorrow through a rabbit hole virus

a dangerous fantasy preoccupation
warring with mirrors
nearer to errors, regular irregularity
wanted once only to live in utopias
never ending Saturday mornings  

I squeeze sleep from my eyes
while a haze hallucination fog
steals into an echoing night
who begswe must have more 
the mist and shadows say
dawn always smiles for you
it is never too soon to open the curtains
for you dark lords, actors and ladies
your play, stages bright enough
to be our permanent executioner

we hold a lottery in my little river city, once a year
for our elegant-less, hard-scrabbled wanting to be
we crowd the forefront of an imagined post apocalypse
we want to see who will
eat the sloughed off bits
the pathogenic mutations
voraciously racing our vector wards

we elect borough presidents
plan revolution while picnicking
we take stock of panicking huddled comfort seekers
we are horrified and rubber necking the imagery
we are riding wave after wave of subtle indoctrination
right now it is seasonal light disorder Autumn
underbellies for the horse drawn melancholy
holiday menageries of wholly holy smiles stolen
and made a spoke free odd wheel mad

for an axis and identity beyond anonymous
we wait in the long line of other mouths to feed
we are fed sexual recollection, ancient evolutionary yaws
and given spawn direction migrations
we seek out lampposts and campfires
heightening our sense of the dark outside
what we can ever know
we abandon reason for telomere breakdown
we name these forms, ambulatory articulate
demons and angels waiting
we are the will to be divine despite mortality rates
that necessitate rapid reproduction fates
where wealth is distributed with the greatest imbalance

as the leaves fall and gourds lie
in the fields gathering the frost
we wobble a frenzied adherence to scripture books
we have art and literature 
songs and hymnal marches 
ritual feasts and quiet sates
that all say we must promise
now is always the time
to look inside the hearts of men

we hold our breath to look at stars instead
just to say there is more to substance than attain
what gifts can we construe as thieves
we are but a back water town at heart
no matter where it is we start
we are too full of nationalistic class jealousies
herding ourselves pinhole camera squeezed 
our views of the universe
with even the most humble of our prayers
are still infected with our humanity
and because there is no way around
this damning or disease, we are so often
reduced to begging the silence to come
by doing what we please


EJR ©

September 26, 2014

eating after midnight turns me into one of those...

photo by Edward Rinaldi


Autumn is a digestible velvet-beauty

she peers into every observable death
she is always waiting for it
what is your scent, she asks
will you frame your dreams of me
what of my raptures, will you peel them open
will you sleep tuck me away inside your loamy seams

I am mist and decay, she says stirring into sound
I am what sweeps through the trees, after midnight
I am the sweetest dark before the tilt of October
I am who cries herself to sleep
I am who bleeds in whispers
I am what sugar coats the long knives of Winter

EJR ©

September 25, 2014

el mundo espera oportunidades tomadas...

 photograph of "Dawson House" in Mobile, Alabama, taken by Frances Benjamin Johnston



Rumpelstiltskin was my attorney

I never knew what time
I was supposed to arrive for
appointments I'd made in the past
so I always went earlier
than I thought I had arranged
so I could be thereabouts
right on or near schedule

down the manor lane
a large house beckoned me
the gathering gloaming said
to venture inside the entry hallway
where I read a sign above his office
telling me, “now never waits, why should you”

we see to believe
time goes for the jugular
while capsule mementos
are the sentimental
human-trick-long-sleeves
we cover our tracks with

we deceive ourselves
Rumpelstiltskin said
with immortality and its sheen
we preen feathers
for working class daughters

take gazpacho for instance
who knew tomatoes
were a breakfast food in love
directly connecting alchemy and romance

you’re billed for the hour
regardless, Edward
so stop watching where time went
every lance of the minute hands
and their hourly watch are not your friends
you, yourself, savor and slow things down
when engaged in bargaining
for your life or more
I’m only here to make sure
you get what you pay for


EJR ©

refining the undone(s)...

photo by Kyong Nguyen ©





the librarian wore louboutins

we happened upon
seldom seen essays,
terrific hand written
old paper roams
tucked away
in a group
of old author favorites

hidden in a little studio
we found behind
an abandoned
reference section’s
back wall secret panel  
there was, left ajar
a door, for the curiously and
exhaustively patient wanderers
of wondering if this moment
is all there ever is

there were tomes about
would be robberies
time travel by copper wire hats
how to manuals,
describing every kind
of grift imaginable,
merchant cataloguing
of black market commodities
descriptive tales
of narcotic highs
and seduction clues
even reactions
you can give to news
as if someone
were waiting your life out
not knowing you would have
already read this poem


EJR ©

September 24, 2014

Table d'hôte...

‘In Mortal Repose’ a sculpture by Diana Al-Hadid



until dinner was served

she said leave
two limbs free
tie up the rest of me

I wanted to make sure
I fed off this need

the breath blood bleeds
is the same gasping for air
and exhale when we regale
such clutching and falling
into what holds us here
parts, parcel and pedestal

the forest and fabric beg us 
tear yourselves down to sound
hide the rise of rain outside

there is an old rope
and pulley window
its’ glass rattles
and courses
horses around
our velvets
and ferocities
so very much in play 
we break bread here

EJR ©

the slow mint crawl of Mabon...

digital art by Catrin Welz-Stein ©



the apple was in the foyer

this nymph had guile
and uncertainty
for eyes

she was why
Nebuchadnezzar
was dreaming again

the feed crop kept pouring
from the silo store
raining singularity streams
torrential grains pushed tame
forcing rock faces
high sided on a river valley
to cut their hair where
eroded names lock wet clay
pressure time with the way
wind moves things
in slow eventualities

I bellowed, nickered 
and squealed circles 
penning words, I spoke 
inside the quiet
of my incoherent 
mumbling

I say things to myself

"damn, she's hot, 
how much distraction
is enough to make me forget 
how long had I been like this
where did I come from
how did I get here
am I the only one
who sees lucidly 
between white noise 
and particulates”

what brings haze
to cover my old house
my blushed disrepair 
and haints standing by me
the streets here are
a decidedly wayward cause
the gated community crowd
eternally wish for vaccines

I knew better than
to hold things so close
which is probably why
I went mad
every bovine, equine
and porcine fable
every reconstruction
and assertion of wild
every necessity mortar,
hoard and brick-mimic
every civilization ever
in a lurch forward
could destine 
as its’ modernity

“don’t you mean lunch, sir?”

“no”, I say, smiling at the youngling

“today, is workweek burnout day
and everyone is vegetarian,
the delicatessens are closed
and a national bread and water
holiday has been declared,
parade wide wheel turns
and blackboards stretch
will wear us with dust
give semblance to regularity
we’ll know how much chaos
trips our trigger wires
sends us to places
with things we never
expected to possess”

 “you mean like endless
pumpkin spice things
to bleat an indication
of Autumn to all us massed
with our asses firmly planted
in a comfortable version
of a settled for life, sir?”

“yes!”

the youngling’s got it, I laugh
chortling and snorting
pushing the cut angel light
away from my eyes
as I wind the why
of myself further inside
this fantasy taste of her, I have
feasting on what seed she might be
beneath the flesh, blood and bone 
my square, compass and clock 
were building toward today 

EJR ©

September 23, 2014

fair thee well...

Witches going to their Sabbath (1878), by Luis Ricardo Falero


scythe, sin and seduction

it was panning
a river town’s weekly
street vendor pushcart
peddled congregation
when I first met her

between my open wide
sample eye for honey,
my ribbon bound stalk herbs
zinnias and hardy mums

I must have looked the part
a readied surrendered iron
scavenging slow fires
for the little pieces of me
I had thrown away carelessly
littering along my journey
with forgotten promise
after forgotten promise
pocket warmed vignettes
and fantasies
of what life was
meant to be

once, when I was young enough
to be buoyed by hope
never having to see
beneath possibility
and wished for outcome
I did so think
to gather my lives in jars
to stave off my mortality

(these I’ve lost track of)


she would
say my name
in the song
of the rain
if I came
along with her
while she rode
behind the Sun

I was in no position
to decline
I had been
mining my soul
for some time now
wanting an ore
that would burn me alive
with something more
than the sum
of what I used to be

EJR ©

between seed and ripe...

art by Luis Ricardo Falero

a pomegranate lottery

it was
her life for sticks and stone shit
she dug a hole and fit herself in it
she saw by fingers and hands
carving sand best bent and crawling
thirsty for next morning’s condensation
the little dome cathedral meniscuses
of rain that never wanted to be
in the clouds

Autumn is when
she cashed out
her house plants
went to die

cornering the dark
she was bleeding out
with her pets
quietly turning wheels
she breathed slowly
she savored, watched,
painted and peeled
each self bone raw

she knew
this dance and
ache by tide
a gallery season
she let it ride

her loss of sugar
a concubine price
and bite to the court
feast and dance
of this year’s
Mephistopheles again

EJR ©