addendum careening the rabbit hole junk drawer philosophy of hiding your sharps...

 art by Rene Magritte ©

spelunking santa singing bowled cold satan with saints of saturnalia

I see in Nazca lines

in tonic wines

in cocas and

Goddess flora

in a cola syrup

Germanic tribesman

beneath the great pines

stealing at an empty velvet

a Winter’s night

lifting skirted star shine

feeding a mushroom high

I see this welcoming everyone in

a way past crumble smiles of empires

a welcoming us to the occupied mind

a welcoming us to river gutted time and

the binds we find designed chains for

whispers

mediation, meditation, modernized

menial, mundane, morose

mean, median, mode

more, mania, manual

mode, median, mean

morose, mundane, menial

modernized, mediation, meditation

wishes

yes, we ride your bus

we feel the weight

of your world perspective

we hearken to barker as fools

in seas of humanity

we comfortably widen our eyes

to a blind bleed

we are Oedipus

we are Antigone

yes, you are on our shoulders

sometimes, we feel mortality

in our feet, pulling us down

we hear you encourage

us to blame everything

and nothing

staying in a misty stupor

inside pastoral blank paged

drunken homogenized

Charles Ponzi architectural gravy

the gravities

of our every 

indiscretion

withholds desire

to tongue portal

our remains

we live in the strange domains

of bend our knees

bow our heads

slurry handle the mud

slake the salts in rows

label them by powers

of preservation

and survival

know each earthen bane

that calls our name in quiet

rake formed and formless humanity

never forget the cradle

while at the grave

while striving for things

in and out of ringed common

worships and idolatries

watch the curbside swell

in our skeletal unwrap

see why the artists

must lie to love the truth

comb the oceans

burn with radiation

in the Sun’s encroach

be on the look out

crawling Braille

in the wet sand

for what Pandora’s

double helix fascination

had to do with answering and

asking the riddled corpses

for directions

our reverence for exits and

genetic obsolescence

is part organic machinery,

part plastic halo and 

part heart sometimes 

wired to feel sounds 

of communicating spirits

but never understanding them

despite our penchant

for writing in caves

with yellow #2 ‘s  

trying to understand how

eventually at the end

of nearly every song, 

story and poem

a simliar harmony

can be found

we are

trace minerals

waiting on Winter

for easy rain

knowing what matters

is only how much

light we’re willing

to bring

hand to mouth

then womb again

we are

the outside too

waiting on Winter

bearing arms

spines and 

all the perches 

of chances

all that we seed

to cover the need 

to begin the show again

EJR ©