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
desperate
divine
human


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
desperate
and divine,
human

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
whims
choices

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
anymore


EJR ©

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


EJR ©

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
compartmentalized
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
everything
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 ...


EJR ©

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

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


though

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



EJR ©

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


EJR ©

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 

imagination 
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 



EJR ©

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
sideways

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

and not likely
to caddy me 
much more ... 


EJR ©

July 24, 2017

La futura poesia di Eden


the ceremony begins

tapping staves 
clicking 
deepening 
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 

EJR ©

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 


EJR ©

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 

EJR ©

July 20, 2017

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

art by Alicia Caudle ©
alteredbits.com/alicia-caudle-art.php


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 
backstage 

EJR ©

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 ... 

EJR ©

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 
haphazardly 
free, oddly wobbled 
and sometimes 
seeming even purposed 
with wind at night 

EJR ©

July 16, 2017

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

found on a Colorado adoption organization's webpage
lookwhatthecatbroughtin.org
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 


EJR ©

July 5, 2017

what we ravaged of ourselves in the reeds ...


time and again we bent 
lent what is to what could be 
all our if only if only if onlys 
the sirens and harpies 
bore children 
of the trolls 
they roll called halls 
filled with stained notebooks and doodles 
most were composition black 
we lacked perspective 
and we were young so we leaned 
guiding light inside to out 
and turned then, a smile shouts 
who are you when eating your own soul to survive 

the stolen pieces of myself: 
a shell game fanaticism 
of a driven, by lost purpose, mind 
who is a product of what gives 
a slave to the sieves 
and funnel wombs 
event horizon-ed 
deviant intent 
the mutation 
of course, is 
always why 

I write 
I rite 
here from there 
where I used to be 
future and luxury 
of knowing 
not to know 

EJR ©

July 4, 2017

And to label someone as miscreant based on predicate massaged generational corporate culture ... misses the point on divisive social contextualism ...

Hieronymus-Bosch, 'A-Violent-Forcing-Of-The-Frog'



mass hysteria 
mass hypnosis 
mass times velocity 
mass controls 
we amass roles 
titles and rites ...

rights we deign 
we are empty 
we are set 
with algorithms 
kings and queens ...

happened 
upon now 
the mod look 
is back in ...

kingdom of heaven 
underworld salvation 
motherland 
father time 
the milkweed is bending 
and beginning to flower 
it reminds one 
sweet nascent summer 
pollen heavy redolent 
drapery clock works 
an if but then rodents 
needing us we needing them ...

the garbage problem 
of our naked ape species 
never went away 
and now its art 
to bane to art again 
ad nauseam 

rose pose rose 
thorns and horns 
the sumac 
is blushing 
womb petting traffic 
we laugh sick 
word is 
insurance is expensive 
so we get ready 
for the Rumpelstiltskin clauses and all that makes us wonder 
awfully in awe still and or are our gills not working yet/ the water 
that rained from space you placed an additional sequencing 
into the bell jars and away we went 
looky-looking seeking 
rabbit holes 
and destiny 
on the corner ...

it was 
way past midnight 
right about when 
Humpty Dumpty was 
peaking, falling 
we were flying we said 
because then our stories made 
the bruises seem important enough to remember 
why it is we came this way 
another end 
in poem ...


EJR ©

June 20, 2017

When writing a Joe Hollander poem ...



give me the artifice and the daydreams : 
what I am when poem 
what in me bleeds 
mostly at night 
when the dew 
takes inventory 
of every story 
telling or told ...    

(this is a vague recollection of observation 
a filling in with fuzzy truth though I feel it to 
be an elucidation for us 
to fall into 
at least a well 
and sometimes 
good enough to drown 
joy and sorrows 
between these 
parentheses 
for example 
culling and cunning 
share the same tailor)
-
-
two 10mg V's, one trumpet joint 
and four margaritas later 
I'm stealing crystal ashtrays 
from the dark Beverwyck 
green glass and brass 
stuffing 'em in a long coat 
then clanging-ly stumbling up Lark 
towards the Q ... 

oh and to snapshot 
the proof of ransom's need 
the sweet corn 
is approaching knee high length 
that's what the tomato divas said 
to end the poem with anyways 
Fourth of July 
references 
Julius Caesar 
colloquialisms 
and all that jazz ...

EJR ©

June 14, 2017

lycanthropy and the Moon dancing phone booths of the Autumns of our lives .............. ( main tining my direct line divine )



do we ever understand place until we are gone from it 
in every absence that envelopes us, we are glow worms 
for the past drives the future, passing the present often 
for instance today I am off to work where 
I'll spend ten hours feet to the grounding of a daily it, moving 
my will to body in tiny grand command ratios 
basked tasked to tasked rasped and salved 
destinies on my mind, I am whispering link rhythms 
p-awning pieces of my wonder 
tying the found door saloon missives 
of my (dis)order in order to record Love, Life laughing 

(for the loss of Ann)

pains are processes 
birth canals do start the death rattles 
we complete the nude wholly spirit with music
we remember our breaths in, a then when 
we enter what here we recognize 
as they cloth wrap our bodies 
to burn back 
to ash and 
stardust 
and we leave 
this place 
too, it seems we are all 
purring Schrödinger's cats, Death 
wading waiting weighting 
measures of approximation
and proclamation 
fixing the places 
rain gets in 
when we are 
only souls, coming 
and going 

(can a tale be a yet to be, sometimes even told, before you see)

and yes how I have always enjoyed 
her tale of hierophantic hermeticism : 

<the cost variances of each life's melting season swam 
while we bathed in salts to get to the bleeding sooner 
as crayons need the hive mind teeming 
so colors run to and from black and white>

she says Boreal creatures 
exquisitely paint 
smiles as happened upon(s) 
the In utero blessings 
in hindsight grow 
to even know 
we fatten our repose 
as the Sun waves high 
and especially when, July 
and August (be)come 
wry spies 
of where 
Autumn lies

yellowing bits, bitten and bridled too 
the edge walkers have wings 
the ends of their broad leaves 
tip and curl, they are sugar and iron 
and they sing, they are
beginning a pilgrimage 
so that even the pines 
will know to bid adieu 
to those days 
of heat and seethe 
bugs, beetles and belief 
time when mealy bits of flies 
land in daily breads and soups 
all that whirs with life 
and waiters don't seem to catch 
or venture to know 
Goldie Hawn was in 
Peter Sellers bowl 
there to remind 
his character 
and we too that 
before the frost gets ya 
and time eats gourds again 
a warm willow Hestia 
sweeps the corners for friends 
so we can remember 
all the why(s) 
we came to Love 
and carry ourselves 
palms up to the sky 
with clutched memories 
of those who've gone on 
another Life departed 
down low or up high ...


EJR ©