September 14, 2016

ascertaining factuality when trusting hunch serves surrender the power to win a war of covet, crave and colloquial

and I sat cross criss sauce apple but later amended myself for the purpose of this introductory part of the poem to saying indian legged and listened to the flute music of a master in middle asia outside the little river city that once stood filthy hands pouring in commodity into manufactured goodies good goods with all the kinds of neighborhoods one have propped up and able to withstand successive generations of boom bust cycle and repeat with less intensity each time there became less and less clear ambitions for imperial war time salvations ...

I hear boxes and air brake releases 
from the post office two building down 
I'm in a building where sound billows 
in carom and crash over the brick stone 
and concrete along this nearly treeless 
part of 4th Street ...

the I am brigade-ists came parading with lists 
into town recently with their fair share of lair 
and lure and we all went down to where 
their wares wear upon the eyes and pockets ... 

it wasn't as if we intended 
to part with our gold 
outside our charms and charity ... 

art is raspy we heard it 
it is where the soul takes root 
without having expression 
to guide expression 
we the observers 
of the observer express 
in order to assimilate 
simulation algorithms 
how what is feeling beyond 
security comfort and new shoes ... 

the poem ended 
dead man walking 
gentle soul still 
surfing the sofas 
one poet will 
wash with this 
brand new loofah ...


September 13, 2016

a recycling wishing bird is bones and buttons

sews its song sounds 
when we ache 
with desire 
to feel or 
not to feel 

is this our best vulnerable face 
do we cede bleeding here 
to stave off our depletion 
does this save us 
our vulnerable core 
from more whoring ourselves 
completely to a comfortable cage 
of our own design 

at least this poet believes 
vine dying is epidemic 
and a direct correlation 
of modernity's strive 
its caucus red tide religions 

its supposing by decrees, degrees in tomes 
we need large kill-offs instead of homes
for some sort of balance mechanism 
ballast for the gigantic tanks of gas 
imagined divine purpose produces 
as an offshoot of imperialism's want 
never to die while eating the bodies 
but not chewing thorough-
ly as souls come and go 
dressed savory to sweet 
bitter, sour and between 
from the ones to the nines ...


September 11, 2016

eye parked electromagnetic radiation aka ................................................. why wombs are salty without lanterns

with an arc ark spark virus pan 
the seed forest full of pines dry 
in a hot summer bodes well 
for fire and then the reach humanity 
what reaches into me/we as if I/we am bleeding 
put the hard path in the way 
as if time knows each algorithm 
each change of tune 
deemed not crazy is crazy 
though some would say 
eye oui easily are only writing hackneyed gadfly-isms 
and the hunger gut circuses of survival that appear 

I like to put myself through 
every difficult pace I can 
in order to earn my humanity 
for this body is mere, a were form  
a thought or a poem 
given observation 
and contextual language 
to weave the occasional 
passersby leaning in...

what was righting 
the word again  
b\\room country swing 
swig a licious accordion velvet tails 
we sought comfort 
in uneasy at first glances 
prances upon the sabbats 
in song we belong here 
I thought we I thought me 
or at least the beast 
that resides inside my mind 
when the light, I shine with 
doesn't necessarily fit the dark ...


September 7, 2016

tree theater yarn and yaw : sway branch chronicles aka ............. how to transport your light through the dark ............................ Befana guided, amused

image by EJR 

"...when I stare long enough 
at the light bulbs overhead 
only one of which works 
sometimes I can ping leaves 
in the trees near you now
rustling whisking whisper soft 
to a moonless womb sky 
I think no not think I smell feel 
fall muddy knees palmed tides 
rise after rise seasons 
of soul in tithed bones 
each articulation  
and gesture 
reminds me 
of your name 
when playing your billows 
of kind knives and carve
on through wind and eon..." 

I gave her my throat 
she gave me entireties 
of life in ritual murmuring(s), 
from ancient rain 
to the morning dew 
already setting up camp 
outside her window

she had candles lit 
and was singing to herself 
while twirling rapt 
wrapping herself 
in an unfurled bolt 
of pretty fabric 

she sang :

"...yes I do love 
to imagine the smell 
of his pine forests 
with the dappled sentinels 
of hardwoods 
there for council 
of trees..."

tumble alice 
and hare

I remember Winter came 
and the winds drew their rakes 
and breaths from the North 
rawly squeezing angled light 
we would play grand long 
puppet and shadow theater 
for a few precious moments 
when the hearth was always 
a-roaring and sweet clove 
and nutmeg spiced the fruit pies 
we gladly traded our eyes 
for noses then 
when Winter came

the invite 
the accept 
the moment of inertia 
the exit velocity of love 
and the non-brambling comforts fed thee 
in a world that is desperate 
in its stubbornly clung non believe(s) 

I flit and spit bubble 
the lid askew and ask you 
what have you tonight 
when the moon veil avails 
a maddening glee 
of bark and circumstance 
to dance in the joys 
of the Mudville nine 
and county fairs

I met her, 
she was some dulcet eyed 
cabaret the movie extra, 
drew me away 
from the neon come on(s) 
of ten penny's alley 
and into a dark misted waiting 
spread like poems waiting 
over slicked cobbled stones 

she sang stories 
said I made her feel
 I never mention she steals my breath
or that I never minded gasping for a bit 
when bitten such as this 

I was grateful 
for entry and womb 
I say there are many curled 
into tales to regale here, 
she laughs, says listen 
to the tombstones they're whistling back 
at you in a glide language 
of spirit chambering-a-ling-ling-ing
they want you telephoned booth-ed
bring more food next time 
for the elders take back 
to feed their sanctuaries 
where they stoke humanity's 
inner mounting flames 
carrying little else 
of any use 
or matter to them...

and then the crickle-crackle spun overtures begin 
to the tunes in the piles of old records in the corner 
she says they turn her to ribbons and angular undone
and because this is exactly the kind of ache  
to be felt ghost glow soul to bone

 I left little numerical sequences 
in the hoarfrost and around the house when Winter came ... 
little poems sometimes too when she strode the kitchen on a 
stretch when Winter came and really roared 
and the windows steamed up 
diffused artful slag angel Sun 
as it gave way to Holly 
and the bare arms 
of a Winters' night 
in the southern mountain 
reaches of the Boreals ...

she says come and eat now
while I stare out the window 
looking at the trees 
past the barn's yard 
where the chickens 
dart for her attention 

you know darling as I am 
drinking this coffee you poured
from that blue enamel pot
I became aware a ware 
of when Winter comes
and cardinals are set afire 
against barren berry bushes 
what hushes us 
in rushed light 
what sounds whispers 
clasp us with, what dreams 
like a lone seed 
wanting to be a forest
to bird migration song 
I sometimes imagine 
that I can hear  
snowy weather sing 
looking out a warm
kitchen window 
with you

"...velveteen rabbit knows you'
 and always loves to hear you laugh..."

 I wore red silk around my eyes and bared my throat long ago 
and apple to fall again I do to wear your imperceptible(s) 
turning to the undersides of things kindly 
with Mother may I 
deliberately taking stock in passages of time 
when lacing infinity to the colors 
we express when feeling 
human and divine, 
Lord she says and 
the smell of lemon seed oil 
is ever present, thumb thimble 
nimble sages spun loom wheeling the willing 
to find where flow wolves live to love 
she taught me how to bypass 
thievingfingertips the grip was part kung fu 
part falling as rain 
belief a lad insane I remember playing bowie 
somewhere too 
staying up late on Friday night
when a yard sale salty rides 
on a Saturday weighted when we could 

an old rusty nail and belly lint carried with what a palm sweat 
can get one needs served well within pail and toll...

magic is si cig am wave evaw bubble elbbub spit tips 
weave me loom-er I 
hear laughter in the dulcet sweep 
shadows along the stores 
and pantries waiting...

floor skirt and broom 
singing her own 
song always...

know lattice dendrite water's jacobian ladder structures and 
said viscosity sew eye mist herd two became binary code and away the algorithm spent sped and fed into each other...

ugly sticking the craw fisheries the frenzy of storms in painted 
insides of eyelids no need for a head language poem bellows 
lord and stupid by gait and strung bell approach of parcel and 
parting ways with numbing fuckeriesthe raw pieces of me fever for the the morning dew and that you stretching spine and lovelies pounce pan pace with stories of glorious follies that bleakened most outlooks should I lose sight of where I was...

bi-cellular like the stomach lining 
they call to the ancient lore temples 
through telomere breakdown language 
and this is often mistaken 
as cicada-esque hissing buzz noise 
from high tension wires 
strung in angry lace 
over the landscape(s)  
in the fields 
of electromagnetic dissonance 
spectral carbuncles appear 
where desire for control 
supersedes chaise lounge chaos 
and infinity 

why are you troubled darling 
she asks and trembling 
a 'watership down' feeling of dread 
I answer 
I don't know 
and it is in this embrace 
I place my humanity 
hell in hand-baskets and using luck 
to find a fisherman's wife 
who knows her way 
through woods 
wombs and decay 

and quick to laugh she is, 
she says, "when rabbits leap brooms 
and the deepest wells bloom 
right there you're your own damn self ..."


August 29, 2016

hone in

Navigation Without Numbers (1957) by Wynn Bullock ©

tracing my fingers  
in a crawl 
toward your spine

you weave
spit bubble
hearth held
teeth and leaves
an imperceptibly sharp
and thin meniscus divide
you ride undertows
flows, surrenders
and though Summer still
you bell sugar
to iron bleeding spun
exhales, milkweed pods
parasol paintings
wearing eyes
becoming noses
coloring to know
all fours
prattle paper poems
along my forest floor



pine staminate
author unknown

 eventually a
s curves 
torque melody 
working rhythm labor 
to reward music 
sown alive 
while a world 
burns around them 
they are 
whorled chance 
leap and fall 

when there is a dangerous drive afoot 
laced sky to root worm ant winter 
a rind spine tine fine gesticulation 
when I can tell, linger, bring myself 
to a kelp sway frenzy, dreaming 
articulate glows and bones 
of this smell of a mythical you 
on the other side of ash and promise 

I said to poem, Tantalus, the egg eater 
needs to meet one who washes ashore 
tide and yolk with fragile shells 
the soul inside has a beautiful hue 
didn't you think so 
didn't you ever wonder 
why your sun was 
a hidden 
wrapped need for 
a fertile dared dark 
a maybe someday 
knowing life 
in spark birth rituals
like a forest pine 

poem says, why not get to the point 
this is a silk precipice 
cake and ale regale 
the right now 
how you want all  
her drumming goes 
hands on the chalice  
wheel blade and broom ...


August 25, 2016

I do not fear much when bottom feeding my soul ............................. aka navigating the genesis claimant seas

art by Michael Hutter ©

what lies beyond ignoring 
what power lies within me 
to give in to tawdry bits 
of sentiment and pleasures 
that I may wear as masquerade, 
parading poem after poem 
until my bones become 
homes to worms...

this modern world 
full of false narratives 
and slight of hand
depends my friends 
on your mechanically derived lives 
it has need for your surrender 
to keep its gears a-whirring 
its blood-end spokes and teeth 
with their ever pressing hunger 
is without cause or salvation 
and chains you to 
a wheel you then heel to 
pretense-d with divine commands...

I say demand of yourself 
what hands and wings you know, 
what claws and fangs 
do and will grow 
to salve and anoint one's self 
with a proper crown and beggar tools... 

I may keep 
my mind full 
of foolish 
and sentimental things 
but only to hide 
from you what 
makes me sing 
key after key 
into each locked door 
and when past 
your glam station wicked 
oh world 
of false piety 
who covets 
this universe 
I know for sure
this beautiful place was 
never yours 
end to end or 
in the beginning...


August 21, 2016

throw ponies and hosiery thieves

Laundry Hanging in Wash Alley, Genoa by Unknown Artist

how found do we feel sometimes 
when we see something 
we may have missed 
that was right in front 
of our eyes the (w)hole time
when we went looking 
for pieces of our divine  
to fall from the sky 
or rise as rain 
when dew 

poem and I call  
this collection 
the nose 
and give 
petal spit wishes 
around the intentions 
calendars, clocks 
and seasons have 
life after life 
on the line 


August 1, 2016

chameleon old school neophyte poet ............. ( a quadrille ? )

eyed you 
wound jester 
crackled blued 
side Earth show 
and afterbirth ...

tomb renewals
carved approvals 
painted rates 
caved futures 
vinyl once-d
hit upon 
deep rabbit holed 
wobbles ...

where poem soul goes  
wandering offerings 
finding things 
loving shadows 
coveting shiny ... 


July 28, 2016

The Dinner Theater of Medea Moonshine ........................................ On Poem Island Lost Socks and Cyclops

Odysseus Fighting with the Beggar
Lovis Corinth - 1903

<each gaze to the darkened stage read like
   playbill-menus for us behind the curtain>

the orders 
were wandering 
wondered ordeals 
cyclical ritual feasts 
at which I was 
a banquet server 
a ripe and sometimes 
randy beggar Robin Starveling ...

on over a rover clover clay dug red 
and green and red again 
velvet loom looming 
I was told 
play the prey fallen prey 
a groom once on pace perhaps ... 

snails leave trails 
that glisten listening 
to you steeping 
swimmingly carefree 
in your own sweet tea 
pools and reflection ...

I would spy water 
glasses thresh pulsed 
diets tied to 
billow spread life 
what's the 
mattering splattered 
over surmising 
any surprise each new 
murmuring audience held ...

I would go ribald Tybalt 
to Mercutio o'er 
their tables lit 
w/candor to coy sexy 
language-d as intent 

(and in an aside) 

most incidental 
or personal telephone 
booth to text 
poems of a future 
not yet dreamed of 
would cast attention 
away from us 
into this den 
of smitten with mostly 
their own direction(s) 
and it was this misdirection 
that was the subterfuge needed 
to get into what their succulence 
held and we had hoped to pluck  ...

because we knew 
every once or twice 
we would catch them looking 
and steal their eyes 
by selling them 
on feeding our noses 
their ever ever wishing 
for more frequent greater visions ... 

and when spoken 
especially gleefully 
in said conditions  
time doth mesmerize 
their ability to reason 
and in this light 
we did advantage 
of every Eden 
we could ... 

et voilĂ  :

si vous voulez voir plus
alors vous devez
payer pour entrer ici voila 

this act written 
to the you 
understood and portrayed 
as played on this 
a sense 
of reaping repeatedly 
what has been tilled 
sown grown harvested 
and gone turn again ...

we hear crickets 
they are beginning 
to inherit 
the reins outside 
of this new normal 
this weird weather Wednesday 
Friday frinday Tuesday Maundy 
maudlin manics with mirrored light 
settling in on a pattern for the evening ...

sew needle pulling thread 
I am fucking around with 
fucking with something 
I don't often do 
and it is quite possible 
it can or will end badly ... 

or be seen as wise 

should I survive or even thrive 
after said cause and effect 
dog and pony show ...

this is a handy plot device 
no matter what part 
of the space and game show 
you want to send 
your imagined loyal army 
of lady robot sous chefs to 
who by the way of inference 
from description can handle knives 
and your time's management ...

they're fleshed accordingly 
a tonality hushed fingers to lips 
whisper traipse you've entered 
into the role playing 
part of the programming 
so let us seek shadow riders 
reed breathers thinkers 
and the bitten with 
under water until 
the Moon says 
come play and be 
with me for awhile ...

midsummer's slide 
toward Autumn 
with Pandora 
is nearing 
innuendo crescendo 
cue the timpanis  
would you please 
for having suspended 
belief, we are 
serving the audience 
their own roan thin 
sliced sentimental once ago(s) ...
an entire audience's 
eyes poached with pears 
and figs in port wine ...

what delight it is for us to see
all of what traded humanity 
has in store for these pleasing moments 
we thieve or think we should keep to eat ... 

as when to start 
dear audience did 
believing  in us and 
the tales we spoke
of becoming 
their very own 
dessert this evening ...

or legacy 
we stated, was an 
inner sight per 
and the cost 
of flight 
was what forever night 
of theirs meant, 
we fancied ...