March 3, 2015

eating this fantasy poem, ass first...

illustration by Marcus Gheeraerts the Elder
 from Flemish fable collection:'De warachtighe fabulen der dieren' (1567)

eating this fantasy poem, ass first...

tease small back...
finger trace tongue fever 
spine the limbs articulated...
and 'cause I do savor 
lingering gingerly 
and intoxicated 
with equations 
out of balance 
I start with
her funky
parts first...

this way 
her slow to roaring 
locomotive ghost glyph...
her Doppler curve sounds 
stick to me, mesmerized 
dug into, branded red or blue...

I say to 
and chorus
I'm lost 
the dream

what time did she 
just whisper to me 
for more of what I 
seem to be stained with...

can you tell me?

or is this where 
another fantasy 
wears the end 
of the poem again?


to square root in you...

"egg and wing, arching clasp"
by EJR ©

to square root in you

my core,
at times 
worn thin 
waiting for 
a cage

you seem to 
forsake nothing 
revel in why bones 
are a soul's craven 
skin, flesh and fire 

you wear 
your rhythm 
as attire 
slow burn coal 
iron stove hearth
and cyclical heat 
to cold oscillations
searching earthen 
ancestors for recollection

your monuments 
from brick to mortar 
fiefdom fed 
to primordial 
chaos and forests
what most desire 
is parsed with...

our humanity is
by journey
I suppose 
most true 
by what 
wind does 
to you

no greater 
or loved
could I 
find to know
the finite parts 
of my conscious 
seeking a forever too 
shared or otherwise 
imagined as real 
at least, one time
factored by two 
being held 
close enough 
to be seen 
as one


February 27, 2015

background noise...

background noise 

we all eventually 
become shadow humans
spill tidal stories 
what just happened
what souls are tied with 
collecting joy writhes 
in decay's myriad thrives 

rage and flesh 
velvet glove 

pieces we want 
pieces we barter 
pieces we bargain 
to almost broken 
pieces of us 
pieces of those 
and that too
pieces abandoned 
pieces near complete 
pieces where we whore will
along entire streets with certainty  
pieces of what we learn 
is already behind us 
piece by piece 
pieces of
ghosts, wind 
and absence

your reason 
is reason enough 
caught afterglow 
particle iris cameras 
wide angled bones 
catch and blinks 
staring, tilling 
any remnant night  

wicker basket 
reed marsh low tide
pre dawn sacrifice 
we tell ourselves
we once knew 
what the gods knew...

and this 
is how 
I would 
rather lose
my way


February 23, 2015

this poem has parts, hearts, lungs and etcetera(s)...

Lawndale Public Housing
West side of Chicago
( June, 1951, CHA archives )


this poem has parts, hearts, lungs and etcetera(s)

publicly housed vignette-ification words 
(in animal familiar adoption ritual song)

it's always 
some beautiful stray 
that gets you 
you're singing 
stealing little pleasures
to find where
a when
didn't mean
time knew 
where to count 
against you

"...those cats 
and dogs 
were old souls 
sent to remind 
those stationed 
here for awhile 
to find where 
they're worn 
most comfortably thinned..."

tight tied together
leaning brick 
and mortar 
space age apart meant
bared to rocks carry 
your dole mule stubborn
into a living space 
find your between 
the cracks
and brigade 
veined inside
voyeur to de-sensitized
vanity by way
of consumption(s)
great and small 

the chains 
laughter was a
funeral balance
kept dreaming 
from getting 
too high

outside the windows
it was barracks looking 
nondescript just about 
prison walls 
this is where
the poor folks live
with their sidewalks
and parking spots 
designated yearly 
freshly painted lines 
that promised 
most likely 
was and is
going to be 
just beyond 
their reach

(coda on the collar)

they were 
near enough
where they could be
at least, aware 
of a semblance
of meaning 

almost was king
being the taste
of forever, here

in a land
peopled by 
those with families, 
those leftover caravans 
and those who 
want to be 
of the rest
of the world 
like me


February 22, 2015

still eyeing the king of the modern human senses...

image by Robert Fludd
- Utriusque cosmi maioris scilicet et minoris […] historia,
tomus II (1619), tractatus I, sectio I, liber X,
De triplici animae in corpore visione

still eyeing the king of the modern human senses

we smelted 
raw pieces 
selfish pieces 
excesses, stowaways 
shouldn't haves

we wanted to see 
the heart of each matter 
we wanted to feel them feel 
as we did 
breathing and begging
our clenched desperate 
dug in the sand 
our bargaining of humanity 
yoke fire 
journeying rain 
for love 
and reason

eyes are 
a desert 
at night 

nose always
smiles this dark
flaring wide 
and slow with
an ease 
of sly 

this crown 
is not necessarily 
human beings 
want to be ruled 
with truth 
in their minds


the nose life passage key...

image by EJR ©

the nose life passage key 

destiny determinate 
gambling most times 
can also sometimes 
be exemplified by
an especially insistent 
hard Winter slurry 
finger covet clutched 
embraced ice holding
onto old souls 
valley worn mountains 
and rivers dammed with ice 

the air is choked 
pent up intention, 
here is a set 
of variables met 
where madness seeks 
to vine where it can
we are starving 
to bleed ourselves 
into the Sun again

Spring is going to be expensive this year 
price warrant-less searching 
cavities and perspectives 
session mandate memory as allocated
elliptical membrane cell theory gravity 
outcome manipulation 
willingness to play
dark knight recluse syndrome 
loving ladies in the lake 
wanting them continually 

to birth me 
blade wheel spun 
wet till clay-ing time
in blurs, unfurls 
my thought processes 
become plants 
ever open wounded roots
bloom hungry why 
harvest thrive is
calendar theft expression
clock mastery for words
I have written 
and spoken 
to give my eyes 
something to do
other than to fixate
on fucking some you 
and being in some other 
place and thread and loom 
never able to recall 
where we have been 
without smelling 
something of a kind 
of scent turned map first 
while we keep 
out the light


February 20, 2015

vitamin D today as the sun higher climbs into me...

Courtesy of Alexander Gray Associates:
'Centered' (2002), Joan Semmel ©

vitamin D today as the sun higher climbs into me

centering impossible to determine things 
often drives the eyes to mad rendering
scenting pool liquid soul marrow
at the bottom of the pot, clocks
slow stir atop fire to an up close

we let go of need 
often warmed with
last Winter stacked stilled
gathered and burning 
for us to keep
moving through the lens 
and what our sense of self is

the flight goes on scheduled 
despite fighting arctic eddy hair 
whispering prattle teeth and rake 
powder snow 
poems in mares tails 
fine themselves across my
very own throat-ed bare 
raw and ready 
for Spring landscapes...

I had been wishing for fireballs 
to become one
of these moments 
pieces, poems piercing 
as if stolen coal aglow rowed
over the night sky 
for days now, wishing...

last night one appeared
bled brilliant blue nudity 
carved my artful corpuscle-d dark 
the knife of time plunging deep 
into the terribly cold air...


February 19, 2015

the work/ blade chalice chant...

(Vision fantástica/Asmodea)
'Fantastic Vision', 1819-1823
Francisco Goya
Museo del Prado (Madrid)

the work/ blade chalice chant 

warm tide the quickening 
you spend your frozen fingers 
listening to your starved quiet 
knives watch suns climb higher
fever eagerly beneath sometimes

a reign of absent 
huddle hearth desert
coming to an end
days are weighed 
with what 
shadows wear 
where the wind
got inside 
their elegant decay 

the bones need flesh 
now and forever too 

you work 


February 17, 2015

upstairs padre's always been a big building absentee landlord...

manipulated photo by EJR ©

upstairs padre's always been a big building absentee landlord

(in this river city too, 
goddess says, 
steal into me 
because the poems 
have to wait 
until they're due)

last night the cab stand looked like it was in a field of 
masonic children/ I was drunk with bourbon and 
heady lager/ I took leave from the poems into the
bars/ they were filled with crisp jacketed 
fraternities and legions of their hangers-on/ 
remnant song parades and reasons for kept 
charades/ brownstones, quiet storefronts, churches 
and conclusions included foregone steeple chasing 
the paintability of blood between seams/ don't 
forget sir, they sew tales onto your life's story when 
you're gone, the barman says, as I head out into 
the din, dither and yellow sodium sorrow of modern 
street lighting/ the alleys offered solace in the 
dark/ places where I could lark to myself these 
vignettes and fantasies I have of her big asses/ all 
that I had in mind to peruse for awhile before 
morning began calling me home as I ambled with a 
sort of back and forth recitation of other poems and 
songs that didn't quite belong to my fingers yet...


February 12, 2015

running milk white stag beastly...

'two nudes in the forest', 1939, Frida Kahlo ©

running milk white stag beastly 

I am here 
in the northeastern united states, 
preying and being preyed upon 
by anti human forces 
rising and falling, wave to crest all in sought 

I'm sitting here after work or paid service, 
whatever you are comfortable calling 
the massaged modern rat race game 
I am passing the buck 
hoping I don't get caught 
with the bill 

I careen my ears into 
the forced air groan, the background modern 
heating an old house...

my life is hidden pieces
what assails me 
while whispering 
winter is endless this year/

this year of seasoning womb parades/ 
black velvet without lights
high and drunk on ego, weed, 
wine and whatever else 
you brought over
to share

you say charade by feel, 
I say by scent, you say, 
let's taste tomorrow already, 
I say nothing, and hope 
I can find my way back 
from the somewhere 
I am between clawing myself 
and rooting into 
those thoughts of you
I never could 
escape from


February 9, 2015

fornacalia curiae...

'Woman Baking Bread', 1854, Jean-François Millet
Kröller-Müller Museum, Otterlo.

fornacalia curiae

"today I rise 
hearth, bread 
and able 

a chambered sky 
wants me 
warm and 

gauze pale filamentous elemental squint curtains 
thrown open snow bound again/ where for art thou 
slow cranked turn of a moment/ be it febrile 
dreams or mushroom tea/ these manic Mondays 
are awash in the white certainty of the northerlies 

tomorrow knows what you can stab, steal and store 
away/ your clutched vest proximity/ your pieces of 
yesterday, what you are still willing to bleed today/ 
so, what are you going to stab, steal and store away

stacked black sack
vinyl and brandy again 
Monday winter is my friend 
shovel here shovel there 
inside a mind knows elation and fear 
places near and far away from where 
there once were remnant fires 
runes in the haphazard accidental way 
ashes cover things like it does in a snowstorm 
all white and gray insistent pushing aside 
plowed roadways provoking and poking 
the caged animal crypts

I imagine water always wanted to play 
with matches/ while I always imagine myself 
teasing death by running with scissors 
my mouth full of marbles, my mind full of poems
with titles such as 'where the fuck is Spring' 


February 6, 2015

Lupercalia, Mardi Gras and your constant need for explanation...

'Painter Working, Reflection', 1957, Lucian Freud ©

Lupercalia, Mardi Gras and your constant need for explanation

write the poem and
fuck the people 

so it's Friday night 
and drunk is a given 
clothing the loose shoulder 
and forgetting what is right/ 

I'll eat, like a baby after this, 
all primal desire and a drive for more/ 
just because humanity's nuances 
become filtered clarity 
doesn't mean charity forgets 
the giver can get mean/

we were young once/ 
the brandy and snap roar 
of a fire gives me will against 
a thousand razors 
winter is 
what death 
strings onto 
the outside 

low angled suns, 
dare my ears 
surrender too/ 

I'm staring off 
into time as distance 
most scents are left 
wanting bodies to explore 
other than this quiet desert cold


January 27, 2015

transported by wine and rum...

"Friendship of Don Quixote" by Octavio Ocampo ©

transported by wine and rum

so yes, I am drunk writing this
does it ever matter for my poems
most of my humanity is rife with cartoonish 
cartographical resurrection cynicisms 
and can be counted on for fulcrum metaphorical 
two dimensional duty in a variety of plot-lines 
including the calendars inside
each of the parades of fools I fall into

maps, I decided
as Cervantes had said 
(this obviously is a device lie) 
are a Don Quixote insurrection 
they steal nothing 
and placid angle 
my time 

your character exhales 
became legion 
tales told they are 
where we were when 
we eyed kingdoms 
as womb thirsty returns

you revise 
devise matinee serials 
sought after quills 
image shills
bank on loyalty 
to innocence lost 
and a willingness
to pay to remember

here is where 
my human ripe lives
each of my bent fragile desires 
somewhere beneath simmer
wading bubbles, spits 
and seasons 

bit bridled iron is a long con 
progress and modernity 
pretend to use satire 
as a way of understanding 
place and quantifiable causes 
why lust is compelling 
enough to sometimes not want 
to see the rest of the world

so now 
I sit weary 
and worn 
past midnight 
there are 
cold gales outside 
and it is still 
trying to snow 
weather was 
always more faith 
than science 
I believed

just as my soul 
wears the hat 
that brought me here 
spyglass-ing hems 
and horizons for words
treasure seeker white noise 
between high tides and lows 
sweet chariots and shadows 

as for the barrels 
we keep things in 
they know 
stories store
who we are
here to there 
and where 
we want 
to begin


January 22, 2015

making love remember the tonics and sins...

advertisement from 1880

making love remember the tonics and sins

just down the street 
was where she hid 
in place 
all the flavors  
and traumas 
of her childhood

she wanted me 
to help her bury these 
old apothecary bottles 
behind the lattice wood and 
newspaper insulation 

the sub-wall was exposed
would I help her put up 
a new dry wall then 
spackle, tape and paint 
the bottles behind it 

would I make it look like 
no one could notice 
how full under the skin
she was of what she emptied 
into that dusty glass
cork and wax sealed
her potions and elixirs
what had fixed her 
forever stealing into pain 
to pause it 
to place handles upon it
to still it 
to kill it 
or at least know 
where it finally hid
the slow burn 
of her living tomb

the old saltbox house 
was a farmhands 
from long ago 
it was where 
she grew up 
and remained 

she went to great lengths 
not to show what had been 
inside this house and her
near enough ago 
for her to long 
for it to be gone from view 


January 21, 2015

robert burns wrote poems about witches...

"Tam O'Shanter and the Witches"
an illustration to the poem of Robert Burns,
by John Faed 1892

robert burns wrote poems about witches...

of nannies dancing
and the paying 
handsomely to
which winsome wench 
is said to
leave your soul 
the stone hints
your humanity 
uses to traverse 
the night safely 
through its thrilling 
near danger and
abandonment, lust
is a tidal purity 
much like time 
rhythm and chance
and has many forms
longing for home again

your enchanted see
she dances roil 
courts toil and trouble 
love's easy laughter
rubble to
bubbling spit 
and yes. you forget 
she courts every desire 
of a here ever after

what shadow do you 
cast iron lid slid sit
upon the pot of you 
this life is currently 
swimming without 
a set stroke atop
a fire slow clock turning
what builds morning
light breathless stilled 
to your exhales crawling
from a dark 
and cold place 

he wrote
nannies womb 
was limbs and
songs ready 
to burn your life 
through what it
could awaken 
and be taken 
apart and put
back together with 

and your soul keeps 
digging how her groove 
wears you