April 27, 2015

#NaPoWriMo 2015 no.27

'The Storm', Pierre Auguste Cot 1880



yes, I'm always an idiot when I want to be...


adulterated wave mechanical(s)
I am my life 
in particle rays 
scattered in thoughts...

I may chase rainbows
but I prefer the beat 
of thunder and rain...

I bought into entryways 
all the time time Timetime time time
all time is irrelevant 
sated with now 
when I believe
something inside me 
can indeed
even if for 
a thought-flutter-briefest of moment 
transcend my temporary form...

my bones, soul, will, flesh, 
skin and the beckoning(s), 
my moments when 
I needn't reason 
wide angled 
approaching yet to be(s) 
in scenarios 
played out
inside me
reasoning 
particularities
of breathing 
in my infinity's rhythm...

so I'm
paying attention 
journey fare(d) 
I continued
to listen, 
bob weave moving: 

membrane bounce gelatin 
sub woofer jiggle hangs 
take the plasma auto-strada 
go get the stashed away(s) 
and freely given(s) 
the graffiti is greedy 
for rusty clothes...

my attitude is punk 
I'm sometimes wise 
I don't really care 
as much as you might
want me to
I'm a patented 
label tapped clawing 
of my soul's paper lions
and I am into 
the 1880's...


EJR ©

April 26, 2015

#NaPoWriMo 2015 no.26




mouthing the words "the Douve River estuary"


my son brought me home 
some sand from Omaha beach 
it is in a plastic water bottle 
on my desk shelf 
next to a clay pot and 
a magnet Mona Lisa...

I look at its grains 
brown to light tan, 
do ghosts have stains 
I think to myself and 
if they did have stains 
could they explain 
to me why the world 
squeezed itself this way 
terrible pain for beauty, power 
and ideologies, wolves 
seeking flesh 
in the tides...

where do we climb 
to kiss the sky 
that remembers 
only yesterday's 
good parts...

watching seasons 
and water buys us time 
we say to ourselves 
this heals all wounds 
we forget sometimes 
to mention...

some scars 
mean to keep 
repeating rituals 
watching rivers 
and rain 
turn mountains 
into sand 
at the sea...

EJR ©

April 25, 2015

#NaPoWriMo 2015 no.25


painting by Albert von Keller circa 1870's




she was a daughter of Lilith

a lady moses 
disappeared 
relative infinity 
while on location reporting

she was working the virgin birth myth angles
she was a daughter of Lilith and a documentarian

she heard 
the haints were ready 
to long pole her 
a flat bottomed boat 
across the wide river bend
as saints went marching in...

she saw 
hypnotized warriors 
turned bingo slaves 
dobbers and chips magnetized too
for easy pick up after the caller 
has stopped the game
names mattered not
as there were too many willing 
to cross over either side...

she began 
to be of the mind 
that she would never 
need a promised 
land per se...

so she took her eyes everywhere
and wrote everything down...

she wrote 
she would only find salvation 
when she stopped to discount everything 
and surrender any remaining 
what was and is to be...

modernity and the sneeze 
waged war with overcrowding
using petrol patrolling aerial-batics
contaminants and measures 
meant to supplant the 
promissory cycle 
of destinies 
being attainable things...

she thought, 
human things 
rings, ropes 
and wanting 
a somewhere 
between immortal 
and finite...

what they needed 
was rearranging 
not permanent lost 
teeming dreaming 
psychology jungles 
glass, steel and brick 
plastic disposable 
back to nature 
mad-dashery 
the toothed regale 
in private collections...

most humans 
she said to herself 
are a pared down 
cupboard-ing bared 
molecules wanting  
heavy clothes 
skin thin enough
impossible 
see through life here
amidst ambitions once 
algorithm randoms
strewn brokers 
pawning broken(s)...

little miss muffet 
and old mother hubbard 
run brothels now 
pimping beginnings 
at the kindergartens...

most maidens 
these days skip right
adult monotone
or are never seen 
past third 
or fourth grade...

food or fodder 
what is or is nothing, 
the matter baby with 
survival of the fittest 
always having savagery 
to rely on...

it would be reported  
that she was there solely 
looking for cause 
and troubles 
gaining knowledge 
through sacrifice...

would this be suffice 
for the rest of us 
to false righteously 
pass on by 
her washed up body
remark and blame 
not caring 
to acknowledge
we know her name...


EJR ©

April 23, 2015

#NaPoWriMo 2015 no.24

Edward Hopper, 'Early Sunday Morning' 1930 ©









America, as the weekend approaches, this poet knows...


the questions :

some meant to keep us occupied
most meant for us to learn by
a few meant to never stop being asked 
and ones all the rest were meant to become 
the more inane, time consuming and dumb...

as we progress more technologically precise
we narrow-mindedly slew inequity
with justifiable greed(s)
the ones we sneak from ourselves 
the ones we pinch from higher powers 
the ones we savor with our lower powers 
the ones we ask
of our systems 
of living
and the ones 
we whisper 
trying to be
selfish and selfless 
when silent
and begging 
an absolution 
of some kind 
tawdry or taut
on some level
something
we can define 
by culture, legacy
sacred houses 
and systemic deaths...

access and opportunity
maybe the semblances 
of a haunted humble
or compassion left behind
for the archivist...

special events 
composed with sentiment,  
nostalgia and theatrical 
gifted accidental chance
must squeeze, ease pain 
into a question or two...

seed the rain, forests and torrents 
we've always sought knowledge 
and reasons, motivations and what 
inspires us when in and out of control 
this is why certain times we hug while drunk
glued to rituals of some kind

questions questions questions questions
questions questions questions
questions questions
questions

I am dodger lodger heft 
beneath stolen weighted bereft 
most of my emotional feeling is
mesmerized by the evening news...

I seem to want to know how 
is this excessive consumption 
going to maintain its status-quo...

no thank you is the refrain
it keeps on raining explaining 
global warming as water taking charge
who is to blame, everyone today
the Earth, Moon and Sun too
this is succinct and just to say...

no story, these days 
is worth pictures 
without toil and blood 
at the base of monoliths
scraped skies architecturally 
smart, business wise...

a world that becomes 
wards and wardens
kids getting high 
on getting over someone else 
passing the leverage along...

another day another week another peek  
somewhere they plant a flag seeking
to make rules, setting the schools 
on fire with institutionalized young minds 
pushing agendas, pushing time 
to do list listing spilt spent compassion 
black market exhale varieties 
guilt sold in balloons 
at festivals for five dollars still
just in case you are ever caught
having a good time 
despite how bleak 
the future seems...

here, currently at my old dirty laptop
dog food lid finger key stroking mirror and porthole
all the wholly socially networked between(s) have...

every answer 
I've ever sought
and though 
great divine algorithms
would rather 
I lather myself 
in illusions 
and monotone flat-lines...

I might just short circuit 
and grift any singularity 
I can find so that I might not
became fraught with divisions 
so it can be known that the insides 
of my own heart and mind
were not denied entry into heaven 
for any lack of effort or device...

killing fields 
I've imagined
became plainly evident 
sponsors of sublime fear 
amassing modus operandi 
coming to eat my understanding
at the commercial breaks...

we are a one pill culture 
strung out on hazy vague vignettes
Huxley's eugenically spell cleansing
of a now makes you 
a larger swallowed easy...

sometimes the (satellite/cable/tv/internet)'s 
crippling metronomic 
arrested developments
are interfered with 
by the weather 

its daily afflictive
adulthood can  
breach my core
simple poem 
of pleasure 
and joy...

but heavy wind 
and weather 
are white noise 
and pixels 
little saviors
they make
my heart fill 
as a child might 
pocket a soul 
and minds-eye...

eager and anticipatingly
ready to let go 
of any need 
to know anything
in order to just play 
for awhile 
in the quiet 
of an early 
Sunday morning...

before a great river's city
gets too busy with
constant motion 
eyes and ears
forgetting the nose
has always been 
king of the senses...

we imagine, we 
ourselves, were up all night 
as well, stories to tell 
we pretend 
we just got back 
from church 
and are
still begging 
for some hairy dogs 
for our mojo back 
as we roam and rule 
our neighborhood's 
fleeting peaceful kingdoms 
we promised to be good...


EJR ©

#NaPoWriMo no.(wet clay)


photo by Edward Rinaldi ©



#oddwobblecirku #NaPoWriMo no.(wet clay)


                particulates
                                       
                                                 caught
        too                         
                                          
 wintry cold                                by the
                    
     today                                  sky


       brought clouds



EJR ©

#NaPoWriMo 2015 no.23

Stefan Lochner, Last Judgement, c. 1435 






why I admire and worship the super rich and their myriad triads, conspiracies and mythologies 
(aka an atlas shrugged parasite poem)

I do not aspire one iota to save this fucking world as 
presently constituted...

I keep imagining all its forms, misshapen to 
perfection...humanity, especially mine, as a whole on a 
sole, in a soul and sold as incapable derivative 
speculation, the delicate gambles about natural selection 
are why we make up holidays to suit and soothe us...

I enjoy soft serve Summer time 
self destructive stupidity 
and realizations of just how wide awake 
in America you have to be, to be alive for any length of 
time, prosperous beyond spirit and vine...

I am a random seeker for kicks, picking spectral wounds 
on my skin working the working class gin mills...and they 
all have a scent of their own...bad lighting and dilapidated 
backs of buildings where john lennon(s) turn harpies 
scavenging for heartbeats...

we used to watch in amazement when men went to the 
Moon...we had no heroes we needed to watch in person 
when the telescopes and microscopes said go forth to 
multiply, build a church and we will come to love 
being conquered wagers...

fruits of the virus are for thine is the 
kingdom of more proliferation...angst be for the morally 
stuck on should we or shouldn't we go fuck thee 
self, paint a label on your mind and sit on an cellar shelf...

someday, someone soon 
boondoggle bounty hunter 
might buy into perspective 
you bottle inside...
yet how can anyone ever know 
your seeds and blooms 
even the light of day 
in your eyes when 
you too often 
keep your laughter 
tied to beds in the dark...

never knowing is 
the great underbelly vagaries 
places to bleed wholly poured pure versions of you...

individuation...this is a nation of control freaks...
this world, this contaminate species is all about 
subterfuge and never ending surrenders...

you might get it some day and though murder and waste 
is not for everyone...not for most...not even for a few...the 
chosen ones wield this as love even blessing it for us too...

so indulge  
in hope 
answer their prayers
we can choose 
not to see sometimes, 
as we sometimes do, 
that they are simply 
much much
higher than me, 
much much
higher than you...



EJR ©

April 22, 2015

#NaPoWriMo 2015 no.22

'The Magic Circle', John William Waterhouse 1886



look, it's soup at the change of seasons again

what, I stammered incredulously, I didn't quite 
understand all you said, could you repeat yourself please, 
we do this all the time, though not as often at the behest 
of someone besides ourselves, are we to revere our elders 
and eat our young...?

words have meanings jumbled with intentions
roodles noodles baby vegetables thrown in...

loonie bird dodo and mynah 
clamor crow tuck winged wet 
this day is a cold Spring one 
and things are a messy shiver get 
I wait for the impervious, imperceptible 
lime green budding love of leaves...

I often miss this 
moment breaking free 
sounded like broken glass
here, Winter's carcass 
is calendrical cock rash 
a car crash 
a circular saying
thats stop you 
in your tracks 
with mortality...

this part dead world 
turns faces into places
makes me take stock 
of my life
and the locks on
my cask barrel potencies
my Shangri-La(s)
my pain(s) 
my hell(s) 
my heaven(s) too
of what of those 
I could tell
to you 
without first 
you too 
committing my sins 
by buying into 
my indulgences

the industrial world begs 
mountains, rivers and forests 
please feed me...
my clay fired ovens 
hunger combustion 
my iron mouths 
bellow out mortar 
and shell games 
my sense of modernity 
leaves me empty 
on the outside...

am I what stirs 
ideas to fruition
forbidden groves
treasure troves 
kept from masses
am I an eye
an articulate and limbless idea 
a lump of coal 
old trees hoping 
to be diamonds someday 
maybe my humanity 
is only meant 
to catch glimpses 
of time rusted full 
eyes closed
to how thirsty 
are my insides

we still feast gather for ritual 
as the wheel turns
to think freely
to notice sunlight 
clinging more 
at the end 
of a day, where
we might say...

look, it's soup 
at the change 
of seasons again


EJR ©

April 21, 2015

#NaPoWriMo 2015 no.21

image by Edward Rinaldi ©

I would then crawl the broken glass mandalas 
(this new me, this empty me)

I was an old fashioned 
young and selfish, 
the garden would claim

she said something like
"this is it"...and
there we were 
waving goodbye 
through a chain link fence 

the pine lined driveway 
was where we began 
it led to the pool house 
where everything we were
was now between us becoming 
nothing left to be said

we were just
two bodies, silent 
in waiting form 
wanting what
I thought 
we still had had

a blindness
in each other
an absolution 
a way 
a separation
anxious

or at least 
I was 
this way
crowded with 
lies to myself 
always swearing 
truth is unknown 
in times like these 

I became 
an animal mouth 
the beginnings 
of words 
the rhythm
of a breath 
music I had clearly hoped 
I would never have to dance to

my exhales 
became instruments
heavy bends and me 
windward-ly, I tried to beat clocks
leaning backwards
drift pulsed into the scars 
of Winter left on the fields 
ravenous sirens burning
me to bear witness

the Spring was 
calling to the land 
this always reminded me
to be waiting the wades
for exits and entrances
one never knew when 
they were ever going to be 
apart from a part of thee

gathered sticks were piled 
became early layman street signs
to plow, till and rake
painting aches in the loam
traffic lines for my lives 

I knew 
I was seedy
another young lover 
not recognizing
I had lost my bloom 
I was not 
nearly ready 
to turn over 
a new leaf 
not nearly ready 
to die 
and be born again
any time soon


EJR ©

April 19, 2015

#NaPoWriMo 2015 no.20

image by Edward Rinaldi ©



this is why I am...


stealing me
porous venal 

colloquial poison drinking poem catching nostalgic
paper delivery, for instance, modernity turns 
into, can't afford to retire adults 
I see everywhere stretched too thin 
kite hungered speculations. car doors repeating 
finding words only want my vulnerabilities

maybe wind will lift 
maybe it will carve 
maybe dig what is 
me, waiting for more

finished four words now five 
skip ballistics arm my senses
especially all my funny bones 
these terribly raw sensitive articulations 
big words piled on gleefully

my gunned nation 
under the thumb 
of dumb god 

praying


EJR ©

#NaPoWriMo 2015 no.19

Paul-Jacques-Aimé Baudry, 'Diana Reposing' , circa 1859




wolf surrender red near ruse flow


for instance here goes...

a poem 
it is only 
the mass 
of an exhale 

the pieces 
of me 
I imagine 
still moving
tuned, a bell,  
taut string 
and the why 
art says 
surrender 
to myself
I will 
and have 
always been 
me...


the poem 
am 
already 
inside you
the me 
waiting 
to have
more 
of you

put and ordered 
randomly caught 
momentary luck 
almost steals 
the after thoughts

scent 
drives 
memory 
further
lone roads 
open windows
at night seeking

but really though 
any horse 
will do 
in a poem
picture painted 
limbs for riding
home to too 
me or you 
we would 
both get through 
observer art
reader poem

EJR ©