July 31, 2015

I watch the spiders...

photo by EJR ©

I watch the spiders 

they are near 
the spinach and onions 
they weave from the edges 
of the planting boxes...

tunnelers, sates 
and orbital web spinners
snare and repeat, 
quick as a flash, 
fly hungry turns 
fast into dinner 
wrapped for later...

there is a fated 
and capitulate beauty 
strung above them 
a dapple gloaming light holds
the certainty of sorrow...

the maple leaf's thirst 
nearing August 
in upstate New York...

in places where rivers 
and mountains meet 
and not just above 
the Tappan Zee
this sorrow leans 
with us
into the Sun, foretells 
of sweet cyclical bleed 
luring our eyes 
with pretty burn marks 
as scent imperceptibly disappears 
into a 'morrow desert Winter...

algorithms calculate 
need, seed 
and season
I am just here 
to observe 
on occasion...


July 28, 2015

the gymnopilus junonius suite ...

photo by Tony Wills ©

   the gymnopilus junonius suite 

there I was 

strolling through gardens 
trees, ponds, berries, 
ornamentals, high hedges, 
gnomes and statues 
that seemed to glow...
Carrara white moonlight bowed 
string playing after burn memory 
the way they kept their gaze, said to me
listen poet, melody is but one path here, strewn 
about, so go find your own seedy bloomed almost(s)...
harbor notes 
there were 
broken soapstone 
pedestal pieces 
curling like fingers
guiding me to a bench 
where I watched Artemis bathe 
next to a babble and little fall 
of a stream, time-slow tonguing 
an old mountain wanting 
to ride rivers to the sea...
here I am 
sitting back 
listening with
my nose in the air 
eyes closed
kissing the rain...

I am a basket 
of need in reeds 
wading through 
what empties me
low to high tided-ly
the insides 
and outsides 
of things


July 26, 2015

billowy and hackneyed...

'it was the sound of their feet' 
painting by Aleah Chapin ©

billowy and hackneyed 

is the way 
my poems start 
a slow mesmerize 
my soul in bellow 
tarantella of near accident  
moving to anticipate 
counting the gates 
finding which ones 
are for my sates...

a poem's eyes 
are lured 
with scent lipid destiny, 
a gelatinous wiggle 
of understanding
and fleeting permanence...

it is music  
in modulation 
crest then trough 
sequence bridled 
and bitten 
reins rained in reigns 
in some sort of impatience 
of forever instantaneous
onto the next stanza please...

between base skims 
and simple 
currents, pools 
and tides, is where 
my poems come
to get lucky 
with their fatalistic ribald 
the bait and hook 
the pull of chance...

all there is to be
taken and ridden 
every way to have 
broken wire first...

I am mostly 
writing about those 
finishing behind me, hidden  
inside memories 
and self-centered 

I paint with words 
to fantasize every sense 
of beauty I can come to know 
in this world where 
I believe, words seek 
to know peddled life...

words that seek 
to come on and stain 
to become a cause 

I got poems that glow crone
rocking chairs underbelly thick forest floor...
you dream in congeal portaged portals...
I make do with re-purposing lust...
anomalies and hominy beans a-simmering...
shimmering in the steamy air outside...
while inside refrigeration takes humidity away...
the maiden-maids have their day...

because, I got poems that glow crone...


July 25, 2015

at the drive-ins...

Josephine Baker circa 1920's

at the drive-ins
we stayed 
for the second feature
it was an american film noir 
an entertaining enough 
louis malle rip-off...
the bible's adam came back 
a bill evans fan 
wanted to dress 
like fats waller 
play slink bop sad
fingers bent 
crooked to sound 
he came into being 
dark skin necessity 
under constant Sun 
near rivers and other 
places rain tames thirst...
at first, I imagine 
he arose to catch 
security and tomorrow
climbed, tippy-toed 
dipped and hid
got smart enough 
to declare, he did
turning opportunity 
into repeatable circumstances...

permanent shelter, 
tools and dogma 
soon followed by
forgetful jazz 
clocks and calendars
having a jesus handle 
on runaway infinity
wishing sometimes 
he were, asleep 
at the wheel...
most life, paints itself 
myth and form, you
near warm wobble womb 
a center mass 
of still burning 
magnetic iron core...

this pale blue dot 
water and everything 
everywhere, here
as none of us 
can predict why 
or when bones catch 
a soul and start to breathe
wearing weather as skin
walking and thinking again...
CODA: (Miles said play the rests)

now-a-days we focus 
on tactile titillation(s)
two dimensional emotional
ghost memory almost(s)
false premise property 
and ownership 
we react 
edit our thoughts 
here, where 
the poem ends 
staring at you 
wondering where 
your held quiet goes 
knowing to listen in...

July 22, 2015

what the devil in me may care...

'The Knight Errand'
by John Everett Millais, 1870

what the devil in me may care

this poem is strictly written 
in terms of where am I 

(secretion cell 
hive mind)

may I aspire, 
higher bones, 
flesh and intentions...

to be or not to be 
a unique or 
patterned individual...

anything but myself sometimes... 


I really love playing my childhood over and over
in traveling parlor tricks 
role gaming around 
all the names I have for 
fermented grapes and grains...

I distill my insides 
pretending there must be 
a reason order is in disorder...

I build fantasies 
into dogma cities 
on rivers, I then hen weight 
guilt, reflexing my way 
through intellectual idolatry...

the continents and countries 
on my walls all have 
legion-ed allegiants being parts 
and whole(s) 
of successive 
time(s) recorded 
in waves, I draw 
maps to understand 
where I might be...

I say I want to stop, no start, 
no stop start again stop plead insanity 
I mean not to be so destructive 
propping up my id and ego 
like weeds popping up on the roadside 
lock-stepping silhouettes 
of birth and reach in dead starlight... 

my pockets are full of mouths
my windows are rolled down
my holes are wholly interested 
in what I used to be 
not where I am going to be
my need is 
my holy interest 
in what I see...

to bleed 
for me...


July 16, 2015

anybody ever search for the music of their permanent vacation...?

'Male Timenaut'
an illustration by Paula Braconnot ©

anybody ever search for the music of their permanent vacation...? 
(hint, you most likely don't have to)


this music can bend your fingers, make them crooked to 
sound...it can play the taut skin drums of your here and 
now...make low mumble base notes and rhythms...become 
melodiously stealthy in the grass, waiting on every mother 
of Moses to come along...to put you in a basket with reeds 
and song...

no one was ever meant to see a soul inhabiting new 
life...just before the next fibrous rung nautilus strings of 
birth, death and repeat...this way we would be beyond any 
travesty of a life in an anguished pre-discovery of a sometimes 
loveless existence...


the brochures mentioned nothing about particular habits 
one might want to make themselves aware of...and in 
particular the keeping a soul's stone weight in its pockets 
when going for a swim seemed rather odd/ though I 
suppose one doesn't mind splinters from becoming aware 
of where wearing wooden shoes takes one to/ pollen  
frayed being left outside time and time again wants in/ 
you bring yourself inside to dry as well only to have you 
invading grain and split edges too for the sake of losing
the eyes inside the loosening of a clock's moorings...

the concierge said it was customary to just 
wear thicker socks and double them up, grinning and 
bearing it, you would be led to believe there was an 
underlying meaning to most of the things, you could hold 
in your hands and heart in one lifetime...


and because this poem ends with either or 
neither you or I, liking or disliking the rough hewn 
displays, gesticulations and spawn-tide-wither forms given 
over to repeatable humanity in the cycles of rain...we 
become some sort of pitter-patter patterned-wittism...we 
spit the conversation bubbles and boil-steamed our glass 
houses, mimicking the gathered nostalgic come-ons and 
trinket peddlers...the neon signs know, a soul needs 
memories to glow its bones with, while traveling along on 
vacation between cells, 'selves and declaration...


July 14, 2015

a destroying angel...

'Amanita abrupta'
found in Wayne National Forest,
Athens Co., Ohio, USA ,
a photo by Dan Molter ©

a destroying angel 

she wondered 
if I was too heather-ed 
a tethered and tendered 
upon thee moment 
of anvil to hammer nigh

she looked out the window
and began to recite 
herself with improvisation...

"... the rain will come 
for few days in a row 
a climbed cloud 
to sea again 
therapeutic spawn
crawled all in(s) 
arrested by kingdom fungi 
will you doth rise 
and breathe as we...?"

"...can you be, 
plant and animal 
nutritive wonderment 
and toxic courier 
will you accept 
being born deep rooted 
into a womb-treed land 
as where your seed stands...?"

"...can you know 
where shade and light 
play games of seasons 
between the fight 
of maples, oaks 
and pines..."

"...will you mindfully
cry for us angels...?", 

she asks...

"...with our beautiful skins 
veils, textures 
and surprise...
can you deny 
us, your thrones 
and altars...?"


on Earth, we are many, damned...

'Christus in de Limbus', circa 1575
Follower of Hieronymus Bosch

       on Earth, we are many, damned...

part 1
(chorused still lives, decomposed recompensed faces)

we're gremlin-esque, secret 
and not so secret parishioners
of a sacred 'Atlas shrugged' 
schadenfreude inevitability 
a functionality 
of lowest common 
denominating divine...

a tillable scent 
of emotional need
so rife and ripe 
throughout the eons 
of a thirsty human history 
that thought and every life 
no matter how bright 
could quickly find 
shadows and erode...

this is where
we start to ride
where the children 
of Herculaneum
sought shelter 
and died...

we sight night shades 
to parse meanings ad nauseam 
attempting to mend all the fences 
with white spectrum mouth wash
some pretty words, maybe flowers, sweets 
and tiny soft peddled disorientation(s)...

our iris-ed acts of near humanity 
were almost always an accident
they were unbalanced bird-soars  
our leaps in the dark off a building
sounded like a sacks of flour
hitting an unseen pavement
many stories below
where that poem abruptly ended...

part 2
(a continuance of parlor legerdemain with so many vices)

tales and lore
there are many 
humans that still revere 
their every perched 
and pedestal-ed 
glorious thing...

we shot at these 
with deep magazine bb guns 
pretending our lives 
depended on this,
our tablature hymnal
and rituals...

we wanted to keep 
others under
knock them down 
control the things 
our bones in this life 
had so far failed to achieve...

bellow, wail and hum 
we low mutter-ed 
a theater of tricks-or-treats
as April's crawl back 
to the light 
doth fool some 

we grieve 
an infernal eternity
we make believe 
we're at church 
all the time 
praying, preying 
and playing 
every game 
we can rig, where
no one deserves 
a happy fate more 
than we do here...


July 11, 2015

the shotgun phone booth calling card...

'Still Life of a Dead Hare, Partridges, and Other Birds in a Niche'
Jan Weenix, circa 1675

the shotgun phone booth calling card

reach poet reach 
run steadfast leaning 
into deft pause, run 
rabbit ears up 
on the dew

each and every 
soul has a language 
a penchant guttural mark 
and salvation tool

time spent gathering provisional sacred(s)
early warning systems, built-ins, sign posts 
hitches, bound things, found things 
declarations and lost fingers...digit eyes 

I said, "what was that...?" 

you said, "I only heard you..."

"semantics", I muttered 

beneath my breath
there are many poems 
B-movies wading yesterday's afterglow 

"shh...", I said, 

"...I am hunting your soft fur,
perhaps even lace 
and a nub legged 
smooth-rounded, memento 
to remember you by..."


July 9, 2015

performance art can be deadly...

'Candaules, King of Lydia, Shews his Wife by Stealth to Gyges,
One of his Ministers, as She Goes to Bed'
by William Etty, 1830

throughout history 
Herodotus said to thee 
when a vagina doth ascend 
especially with ability and talent 
the fourth wall kingdoms 
come a tumbling down

we do not have to rise 
said the magi 
at the feast 
of their slaughters 
we gave thou seed 
you gave us daughters


July 8, 2015

aah, it is raining outside too, shrewd Lady...

vintage erotic postcard circa late 1800's

aah, it is raining outside too, shrewd Lady... 

(plot device corner rhythm)

Petruchio was on his way 
from made hay, carrying pigs 
to his peasant life 
with Katherine today...

a mottled white bird 
perched a rejoiceful song 
on the sill of her finery 
and outstretched finger...

her breathy exhales 
an ardent window 
and the entirety 
of a world having waited
intently leaning in 
pined to her sate 
and saint kettle whistles...

(the onlooker chorus)

we tended to memory 
like flocks behind 
stockade fencing
our facades painting
the faded faces 
we wrapped around  
all the inside(s) 
of ourselves with...

we closed our eyes 
and wished a
flaring nostril-wide 
tried to catch a scent 
enough to taste 
a tomorrow with you 
in the rain again...

(the melody staged)

she has me 
hand south-ing 
my ordinal bones 
my cardinal sins 
all my why(s) 
and whims 


she says 
tossing to me 
something silky,

"wear me 
and catch hold 
my scent, keep
turning toward me
turning toward me
as that cat in the
poem in the back 
of your top 
dresser drawer..."


the poem ahead...

the poem ahead

I never tried to assimilate 
pointing out my need
at least in the manner 
that she suggested 
I might want to with...

instead I foraged 
this slow stumbling 
circuitous path kneaded 
to rise, line by line...

bent and needed 
preying on poetry 
prayers preen pockets 
in the dark 
fingers fumbling 
through hair...

articulate props
these silhouettes 
of cities
are rumpled clothes 
in the dark 
what we had become
when an outside 
went all in 
district red...

no, I never left 
the suggestive unsaid, 
instead I wanted 
you to know 
my eyes knew too 
why you came here 
wanting to do
wanting to give 
wanting to live 
in the moment
wanting ever wanting...


July 7, 2015

an x-ray poem of that which might or might not be...

1950's film noir/ erotic art star, Bonnie Logan...

an x-ray poem of that which might or might not be...

I've chamber made
lonely ass portraits 
wives and daughters 
rain hungry water(s) 
who went about 
cavorting as ale maidens 
when they could get away 
with such delightful vice

this poem is for that woman 
who when wielding herself raw and ready
becomes a whisper turned tender ferocity

my bones, her bones: 
we were flesh once too
(an empty canvas, souls 
and noble gases, 
what passes us unseen)

what passes us unseen 
meaning to mean 
something to her or I 
I have a we 
in my head, does she...?

I am hiding myself 
in her brushstrokes 
here where horses 
are leaping over 
saddle fenced clouds...

she frame-tilts a sky 
twins the sun into perfect spires 
tells tolled tales of power to know 
belly skims a brim full of shadows 
and pieces of human stories 
to put back together...

destiny, she says, often calls, art too 
why, they ask, do I look back 
over my life as time passed 
as if I knew the question 
I have in mind 
has already 
missed a moment 
a scent, I might have wanted 
to hold onto, a little while longer...?

this is where artists, poets, 
strummers, steppers, tinkerers, 
dancers, acrobats, clown-ring-leaders, 
seers, preachers, ciphers, 
innocents, the guilty, the lovers, 
the fearful, the joyful 
and their dreams will coincide...

where they're ideas, 
wordless collides 
leaving peculiar fireworks 
for the particle physicists 
to unhide...

they have their fantastic machines
crawling the tides a closer fine 
to the whole 
of what a human soul 
needs to know... 

am I or is she 
always going to be 
seeking causeways 
between memory, 
decay, gases 
and new bones 
between our souls, 
this or any depot 
of destinations 
because my guess 
is what we see 
is always going to be
this something 
like my name...
that she might 
or might not
want to know 
on the other side 
of that doorway...