March 22, 2018

readying the crash test dummy self for national poetry month

Poestenkill Gorge 

bully wock cock on a walk chalk talk outlines fade in the rain
we hear jazz beats beats that seep sleep reap the benny tenny
dub too microphone check one two what is this ...

and away I went into evening six pm
and the light stretches
nearing April the fool

and the star dusty regards
we, poem and eye,

lean light womb
yolk yoked fire sight
nose says go ahead
give all you thought you knew

a clear view
and I'll know

if when then and why
the sky is full of rivers

silted slit-ted electron-ed gold
disguised as words
in the herds
of folks we just wish
would shut up
a moment or two
especially in public
with a
cell phone
and ear buds 
ya feel me ...

desire holds us

to standards
in the carve
on the curve
wind and rain
above and below

the Mendoza lines
of saving face
I remember
being ...

eerily lobed strobe-d in almost 
I was in a dome lit 78 Newport
with the public radio on
some weird Moroccan shit Rif Mountain Musicians
kept pitter-ing(s) pattern-less junkets and pocket lightning
125 mph down 378
one finger steering
the poem veered
to avoid life
so did I ...

atoned bold stoned brave face, blind to fate,
in a race to taste the scent of near death
being born
poem said
I did
now watch yourself die
after which
there'll be a beautiful
much like here
when this poem

you can
hear the ocean ...



Master Musicians of Jajouka

January 13, 2018

fuck it fuck again fuck me fuck you fuck us all

about your towns of fuckeries
go fuck them too
plant a tree or two
and have the audacity
to sign your name
in blood somewhere
the light can burn iron
deep within the salt
of our eyes, fault lines
places where we thin
bone on soul
and cover the holes
where Love got in

all ewe minimalists twist my guts with glass
the past, loquations, locations and the greasy exits
set me on fire ... at the breakdown of your control mechanisms ...
it all becomes cell structure dependencies
and barter for what used to be free and from trees
science will become alchemical magic once again
as the slip noose orchestrated by our madness descends ...
we call the cattle to slaughter, not killed
by some vacuous wound hunger sense
of purposed humanity
but rather what of us can be
made into separate brains and bodies
the soul has to be
the last part
of our divinity
to be corraled
or all is naught
the body and brain
will die off
their nose
glandular glam glue
who knew sub atomic stole the show
so go forth and propagate or something sum thing

gladly, hands purge themselves of spirit
and are ready for the price
of wielded service
for these instruments
we are truly lacking
a sense of being
cut off
from the counsel
the soul
through the brain
says the illusion
of free will
leaves a lasting impression
that evenutally bleeds into false gods 

wear ass whereas
I know
to choose
freely I might add
(what bit of quackery is me)
I wear a cap
and not much else
seeking your back deck
in the quiet, tiny slivers
of an imagined summer night

when winter wears me 
all too well 

the crickets always play the coda

did I not know
watching a rabbit
escape my dog
who never noticed
its spry shadow, glide
over snow cover lawn
scooting through
bones old tomato plants
under the fence
into a den while the sky
began to fall again
ice and snow
did I not know
that this moment
would wear me
a hush bunting home 
did I not know
even the smallest
hope caught and held so
would be beautiful enough
to stop this poem


January 10, 2018

so goes the poem, below me ...

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

~Walt Whitman

some of us
are transmitters
some receivers
some are even both

at first, we thought the sky was falling
but we soon realized uncle jebediah
had switched out wood alcohol
for the hooch we stored

behind the old washers
we never thought 
to get rid of
in our broke down palace 

of a garage 

does blindness from seeking praise
indeed raise the spectre
of malcontented self inspection
is the soul
merely an erection
of articulate bones
by any other word
life distilled stiff

what if
it was all about the blood
the trailing desire, shadows
leave behind
the ache and glow
in wanting to know
a life in the light

though eyes spy
the silent seas
of no can do

nose knows us too
so what say you didgeridoo
does the wind carry us all
from fancy flight
to where we fall
like starlight
when we are waning
are we want to stay
as dawn arrives
what are the words
murmuring thrive
when following us
as we fight for permanence
knowing only death survives

a lonely song 
and poem 


January 8, 2018

the camera she uses captures souls on fire ( for the librarians )

she documents demented
I said I was bent Ed
she just smiled
never heard her voice
but I knew she
was listening ... 

to store knowledge she says
humanity's needs
why they bleed
twined to desire
lined up, pockets full
pining for more
of something

never easily quantified 

I am myself in a poem when here
and my fingers are cold
pale skinned outside smoking a cigarette
I get it, the world is soaked with buzz
and breathing in one's self
is a lost art
I get it, I really do
but I got to tell you
I don't care for it one bit
and it drives me rather moody
and manic and not caring
and I am sure I am not the only one
but fate is a fickle lover
for all of us, I imagine
one who never likes
 being rousted
after saying

she awakens
furious but keen
says to read these books
the ones not yet written
the ones like wind
that find you
carved against
what you thought
was free will

<coda posed to be close to supper>

knew I was keen, on 
big asses
tiny wastes

fucking a lot
parking a lot
there we went
bowl after bowled over
clovers kept four leafers
and lepers
the idolatry
of silence

in noise
a pandemic
in every near


January 7, 2018

a march hare, once never sat still to tell a full story, painted fleeting glimpses clearly, instead

I say Alice doesn't visit
much any more
she never wore
a top hat
or gown
too long
any how ...

storm breathing, we shackle spirit marley remember marley
there is this curious melody, I am sure it is different for each of us,
that wades every weight we've ambled into mists ...

stork, silent carriage
versus spontaneous song symphony
miller daughters, proud mothers
they were ugly sticking  jesus
in the marketplace, said
this is reflection
the story we tell
what we tell
to sell any self
any you
we can get
to imagine
a scenario with
in order to have
a you

selflessly want
to pay
the freight
to take
the next breath ...

storm coming
they're feeding it to us
we are being bypassed
the introductions
were those smiles
you only remember wearing home ...

hyphenate anything, everything
into a religion
pray fast
for food
razor leap
sweep bones
those mad mad bones
then dig the betweens
pausing where story
says look what's happening here
breath breath breathing
you sent me the ham radio
wryly spying license plates
clear across every place we ever were
what is it gill womb lace
there was amphitheater glow light floor rug persian
big candles smudge pots and warm amber flicker poems
everywhere I was
eye am
the squeeze
lungs are thirsty organs
wear as a heart hungers to hear
soul sits back brain and body
fucking the distraction ... 

(and now the broken the put back together, portion of the program)

eggs, motherfucking egggggsssss ...

spent that time in traction
back calm back clapping
snapping ourselves into fires
in the distance ... 

raw apathy
grows in us
these cold
the outside out tide
some sum time again
we need k-nead the breathe
weave lives, trees, we pray rain
at the end
of nearly every poem
at least I do ...


October 4, 2017

pomegranate sandwich in the hands of war

the butchers
were long gone
they and their victims
ghosts now
wind and rain
still stained
with the blood
of what's lost
when Life
is not held
as sacred

we eat their flesh
and their bones
children, we
tear them from
what nature provides
we ride out as wise
our thirsty oscillations
of want and what we say
we must do and
disguise this as
revelations from God
or our most common causes 

that point of no return
we burn with
a communal fear
is always nearing

and Pinocchio is
its door knocker now 

in perpetual almost Winter Hades
he is wishing on Persephone
again and again
and again and again
he is a worn ware
wearing aware

visitors hang
little bundles
on his nose
they're tribute
for mild weather


September 12, 2017

to host tiny fires ...

ode to dying
self stand sands rain names eggs and long memory
helpers follow culls, understanding is rain, we are the rain
death is rain wind drives time, rain cuts us ... slow knives
low aches and imperceptible sharps
we die to feel the rain
stopped in a moment
pause lighting
fuzzy walls written
don't stop 'on  that thought
what skin is thin paper poem almost lost
the host tiny fires lyres and melodies beneath
the bramble babble bubble and spit
din denizen when it rains
we raise our noses
smell the rise
of muddy earth
remembering something
that has us clinging

we lift our noses
arching into morning (echo echoes here)

we ache
to smell the rise
of muddy earth
after the rain
we remember
we cling
and divine,

I remember wanting to see her naked
and then I remember how naked I felt
after that thought

& there you were

outside bounds
flesh blood & bones
you were shimmer skin poem
malleable universe
of infinite switches
tingle limbing

and then we have this idea that death
is finality because in this version of life
we are mad scramblers
the nautilus curled long lines
of hungry mouths
eating into the darknesses
of apathy and ignorance
and walled palaces
with plug-in-able garden
features such as
calming ocean sounds
heartbeats and high thread count sheets
while you count sheep
waiting to feed
what light gives you
a sense of salvation
or perpetuity

the martyr
to messiah annuity
only pays out
for a limited number
of years
so do we get busy dying
while trying
to be living freely
or is it juggler clown time
to be in chains again
are we bathtubbing the toaster
gangs with miles of rubber covered wire cord
plugging into where being lost is found, all
this according to the crippler wet nurse brigades
every facade a place to be shaved from whole
the soul says don't buy in
but we, poem and body, already know
it is too late to save
our thinnest beauty
so we loom the sky
and smile into places
where we think
no one looks too much
for the gold
of Rumpelstiltskin

and the children 
of the miller's daughters


August 31, 2017

that Summer when we knew tidal purity would only be ...................... a whispered myth if we had planned on holding it in our hands

a bubble mad vignette

( anti hero hidden face comic book bleeding in misty lace rising from a bowed head, a wanderer a-sitting down, alley bound, cobble stoned, honing destiny, drinking from a goat skin )

so we never understood tenacious
until we knew the clutch of the vines
we only realized their hardscrabble desire to be as we were, alive 
when Spring came along and they bled back into the green folds of May

wobble woozy what nots and the spots we take nostaligia to
getting inside the me inside the you, we spent the day outside
the reach of the Sun, going where it hides, riding calendar
shadows climbing walls, we often saw all the things we needed to
but only in some sort of disorder that made us prejudiced against
our inner sense of what was right, some of us chalked this up
to the onslaught of information streams, tickers and tvs everywhere
screen faced device platform seas of planted clicks and little frequencies
changing tides, teeming squeezes, teeming wheezing,

breezing in a flow of what words do spoken alone

our bellies full of arms, can we fall, can we fly, stones for eyes
pockets full of old maps we junked from previous times
we surrendered to the variants of what truth was then
when we observed ourselves
poisoned filled cats that indeed have nine lives
every when, when we decided that

we would be there
for each other

no matter what perception
those doors we kept
a knocking on
would give us


August 9, 2017

what happened to the anthrax scientist when sean spicer stole a refrigerator ... aka why the child in us seeks comfort instead of burying its head to wait out a nightmare

photo by Fausto Podavini ©

could they kill with a 45
and cause then another perfect storm
of incessant security need ...

would all this play out while
obfuscating the criminality
that led to a red handed
clown faced posse of robbers
getting into and accessing
all the halls of power
have to offer ... 

and there are legions
of their bandwagoneers
from sown apathy farms
civic small mindedness
giving blameology lessons
as what constitutes blessings
harvested from fields

of dissonance
and white noise ... 

they have many reapers
who are inclined to steal
that isn't nailed down

and it matters not 
whether we see them 
for they will steal 
a baby's breath 
to cheat death 
for their ideals ...

so we must fight
for ourselves
our family
and our next meal
the right to live
where Love does too
till to seed to flower
then fruited tree
and not just when
the cameras are on
perfect faces painted
told this is
the cost now
of being a
happy and free

soul ...


August 1, 2017

anew-ed, a nude soul, rendered you, me, our humanity

I focus on sounds
like the coffee
being made
am reminded
out here, readin' writin'
we are all

infinite insides
with things
we are, being
that which
we observe


nose knows
sight more
than eyes

how we lie
is what supplies
our paints, compass
easel and canvas
we do what demands us
to be still enough
to see our portrait by listening
to the scents
of popular versus instinctual
touch and taste

and when we make hasty
declarations of being, it softens us

dead diligent hearts hear hears-ted
and we again, are fooled by folly
forgetting, constructing universes to our liking
often destroys images we hold sacred or dear

so now back to the show
of hands, cards on table forth plot devised  
latent to manifest entanglements
we are now, later in the poem

we are viral possibilities, pleas pleased
so we read our lines and read again, words begin begging-ly
leading action to melt into the architecture of nothing

set and setting is
no vantage gained
without pain, we say silently
this is always true
perspectives gleaned
riding mostly amidst womb chaos 

are forays that can relay joy 
but we acknowledge
they can be so sharp
they're not felt
as entrance wounds
and just their exits
are what we frame 

the moving pictures
of you, me
fill little theaters
fingers spun dials
barker harking

almost county fair time
crackling frequencies
like an old radio
we occasionally
would listen to
while white noise
watching, hoppers
in the tall grass
late summer
on the rise


July 31, 2017

the cut forms of fallen sunlight when midsummer ............................. (for Jeanne Moreau)

Jeanne Moreau in 
'Elevator To The Gallows'

so in my mind satyr satyr
a later and later
and on to and on with
I have these conversations
these put-ons of imaginative leaning(s)
that lead me to think about,
in a way a poem might, what
role playing sex magic does to a soul

I am
inside a poem
scented happy by pines, deep deciduous
clutching weave
ache and arch
into hey baby, smile
let me tell you softly
I have bruised the mint
stirred it with cane sugar
and squeezed lemon
like you like
and like those cold plums
in will iam carlos williams' little tooth-ed vignette
we are and can be a driven slow
kissed neck
and breast
fineries fumbled
under a blanket 
in a backseat
we wear anything is possible
along with the rest of this world at large
a country road rolls on
beneath our wheels
awhile paying close attention
to flowers, bees, birds
on the sides of the road
we went about
finding ourselves
in order to be
lost inside
the kinds of mathematical
expression bending
time between
memory, and
any made up
curse word
thrown into the holiest
of intercourse(s)
we can make
sacred before
that which
births our deepest
belly laughs
laughs too
as we become
as right as
longing for Love, is
in the rain


July 30, 2017

the bridge generations

poet and daughter 
fully festival-ed in 
cooperstown, ny 
july 29, 2017

those that last viewed the analog world
in all its splendor and glory
before the story became entangled
within a digital place of places met
have, at their curry 

a slurry of voracious appetites kept
teeming neat and disorderly
tidy, constants, bonafide bite thrifty(s) through
kited mood, set and setting
getting high each time
we raise our awareness
to forested beyonds, clear meadows
to how we come alive with the percolates
of an evening's approach

we ate marrow
to curb our selfish inclinations
we rode time
home and heart
hand basket soul 

holding on in the
reeds, marshes
places where
the rain
gets in the 

we bleed need
we capture the scents of things
in mason jar parlance, wind and bent willow sometimes
pussy or otherwise red, white and curly May bees
some things won't be perfectly transcribable, we said
and that's where and when our bones wrote poems
fit with clocks
sin and sticky grit

heaven always waits
the words
always wade and
the you is whomever
you carried
to remember
why, this is the way we came

to know
to be
another poem
slipped into jazz and
lawn mower sounds
a summer day
says come
eat of me
I am 


July 29, 2017

A good walk spoiled, lantern lit, hungers hushed ............................. (I do poem to myself as I address the ball)

what kind of illusory precepts are we
what guiding lights, shadow velvet souls, are we
tell it holes rabbits run, fences, lines
tree spun days, slow exhale of time's tines
all the things we carry lean
Love, war, peace for our between ...

yes, what I remember mostly these days
about the 1980's is much the same
as I thought of the 1950's
when I was stumbling through
seeking my kicks and a you
in the 1980's I thought
eyed juxtaposition
of spirit and weather made
everything seem bleak

thought by thought 
taught to loosen
taut bleeding me,
move me inspired 
wound and unwound 
swinging my dark(s)
towards morning,

where fire made sense
despite my inclination to speak
nonsensically, because after all, I was
and mostly have been

in my own estimation of greatness
a for entertainment only purpose
a poet who holds things  

like the bottom numbers
must match the top circled sheets
I remember hearing this

paused in my back swing 
or before I start it, sounds 
and conversation
in the barber shop
when football season came along

became a little more interesting ... 

the gamble that Life
offers us to pursue
is never new
it is merely repeated
and is as true as
condensation on a glass
of cold beer
in the summertime ... 

this last Saturday
in July, blooms
cool and overcast
with nascent knives
of Autumn lurking

an errant shot 
blade and loam
finding a home
in the deep rust
of the Lady
in repose

and not likely
to caddy me 
much more ... 


July 24, 2017

La futura poesia di Eden

the ceremony begins

tapping staves 
taut animal skin sounds
palms down we were left 
to our quiet devise-mints  
we were sounds 
we were what nature 
refused to make 
a shining example of ...

we were found festering afoot 
branded by the trees 
with passing fleet remarks 
root cause ago slicken-ed spitball sent 
these wounds stuck with you, 
hardwood horse collar 
germ and project tile subtle 
until eventually they became 
part of the body simple 
you don't realize a design's perfection often until 
death begins to haunt generation 
after generation of thoughts 
like children bled 
away into quiet adulthood 
pied piper-ed 
we are wanting 
to embrace right now 
cow sacred to plant derived 
hive minded grace 
are we the virus the hybridized 
do we realize 
in time 
to emit 
we must sit 
with ourselves 
as part of something 
greater than our most fantastic alone 

the briar patch 
was 3D printed 
from recycled computer parts 
pools of mercury 
formed these pretty 
to look at stay far away from lakes 
we imagined forests 
we imagined farms 
we imagined rivers 
we imagined oceans 
we imagined animals 
we imagined weather 
and seasons and reasons 
why, why stays with 
a seeking soul 
red pill rabbit hole 
we owe explanations 
the self 
the poem 
a good heart 
and its home 


after our car broke down

 'The Nights Of The Cicadas'
alex andreyev ©

we spent the shards for immediacy, those regards 
then the nonchalance(s), ensconcements, inducements 
and slew of rents our heads were consumed with keeping 
the parts of us needed to be deemed sane, though 
what we did to live was laid out besides our insides  
side of the street, beat bones fleshy rhythms and exhales 
wheel spins, we lead, follow, experience through circumstance 
as need for reason dies and infant joy does indeed dance ...

we found these cicada ghost shells 
all along the alley 
as we walked home 
south of canal street 
with a rain 
just beginning 
to make 
our steps 
a little more 
aware of how 
where we are now 
wears us best 
laughing in baptisms 
and things we bleed 
to breathe with 


July 23, 2017

direct line divinity: a chat with self & not to say it would be eroding (when a soul is ever an athlete dying young ............................................. with apologies Mr. Housman)

did I remember to lock the door 
or better yet turn the oven off 
what other petty worries can I be a saddled you today 
I am not sure but I will distance myself from joy 
and remember all the things that could go wrong 
like how long can time be stretched when racked 
with negative possibilities, oh for the love of knees 
soles, fingers and palms 
in the raw earth when Spring 
can you sing of Love and special things 
what does make your heart sing 
when no one is around to hear 
your calls to the sky 
little kid again 
kite, let fly 
the string 
gathers further 
and you smile 
with your eyes closed 
imagining the keyholes 
to heaven are 
listening too as you do, to the faint 
ripple sounds of light fabric 
against a balsam wood frame 


July 20, 2017

Are we newsreel one acts, ways & means or are we loving beings?

art by Alicia Caudle ©

so we carry on, and on 
we take gene pool sides 
with main course 
diving for deep ends 
we feel we are guided 
and maybe from Mars 
and we are familially ritualized 
we comfort ourselves 
as cagey cannibal souls 
of almost 
we go through rapids 
and rewards 
falling school 
to flying highs 
we are calendars 
and cynical 
we recycle joys 
we surmise much 
we take to pleasing 
these days, 
ourselves and others 
we each presume 
of the rest 
life to life 
inhale to exhale 
we bone rattle throes 
we regale often 
as much as needed, really 
because who doesn't want 
to live forever 
a character 
roaming free 
in a play 
where the audience 
feeds the circus 
and the water 
is always wine 


July 19, 2017

we knew these scent paths well ...

Deuteronomy 32 : 1-2

" Give ear, O heavens, and I will speak,
and let the earth hear the words of my mouth.
May my teaching drop as the rain,
my speech distill as the dew,
like gentle rain upon the tender grass,
and like showers upon the herb. "

what a learned heart says : 
I do remember when we met 
hadn't thought about fate just yet 
but whenever I look back to feel 
the mind gives way and the soul doth kneel
I am not wise I am regurgitative 
I am spies like us with built-in 
modifications, including gyroscopic A.I. tiles 
oh look ... there lies the templed Hypatia, a patio again ...

you could see the smoke from miles away 
ugly fingers, breaching bent hooking beneath(s) 
the sky, lashed with book ashes and posie lament 
we looked at it with squinted regard 
and said our recessionals ... 

we said to ourselves 
we would have to remember 
by not remembering 
feeling this exit 
wound as deliverance 
from any personal evil 
coming to know 
thy own self 
the divine you, will do  
we believe when you let 
joy inside too 
these I believe(s)  
are all, cardinal 
bright burning red 
against bare budding bush 
when Spring, 
truths ...

we slew a thousand dragons, another thousand grew 
nothing like tsunamis in plain sight 
we fight why on the inside 
we're mostly the same 
instincts and desires 
to have and to hold 
to seed and let go 
the kingdoms 
of heaven 
the self lights 
we've within ...

we heard whistling, graveyards in full forfeiture proceedings 
they called to the passersby windows 
echo moaning alpha beta gamma delta epsilon (s) ... and on and on 
on and on we went erykah badu-ing our way through daily shifting sands 
algorithm-streets, there were beats we fell into, skinned living time era-ed birds and rain 
the longest kinds of knives, the brightly colored lies 
we can get caught wearing our souls with ... bones comply 
and what we have left 
at the ends of most poems 
are little bits of hope that 
our world doesn't pass 
itself goodbye 
language as eyes 
born ever wanting 
to be a nose 
bitten with 
a true religion ... 


July 17, 2017

his story, her story

I have heard you can lie a thousand times to God and not cry 
I wish sometimes I had those kinds of eyes, ones not easy to pry 
but therein lay the rub, human beings and their dub kingdoms with 
co-opted adopted principles to pauses, causes all filling tombs, sieves 

what have you got to give, Life and Love and the occasional rib 
do you dare yourself past myriad blowjob fantasies to gain a dib 
well the spawn rain explains much but only in loner, longer views 
we've need to bleed whilst in the drapery bones our souls do use 

(choral cattle chattel chatter 
splatter body fluid flew to it
stasis osmosis and a news cycle 
of constancy's redundancy and
charming chameleon futures)

we stand beneath 
frenzied fronds fray
reaching for the sky 
so we may 
catch the dates 
as they fall 
free, oddly wobbled 
and sometimes 
seeming even purposed 
with wind at night 


July 16, 2017

exhausted, we turned, looked silently, a poem between us spoke :

found on a Colorado adoption organization's webpage
photographer unattributed

we told ourselves there will be 
no bee sting therapy for awhile 
our arms and legs bore 
the marks and masks that grasp
painted pain's pleasurable rasp 
like burial mounds of red swollen why 
old cells are reborn and come to die 
for the cause, the clause Life insists 
on being enacted 
breath by breath 
ease of amble 
thoughts ajar 
as cages rattle 
when souls 
are squeezed in 
to these spaces 
where electrons went 
and we go whew to tra-la-la-ing while
here Schrödinger Schrödinger plays 
the eons, wind and carve 
eyes gaining wisdom 
nose, familiarity