December 31, 2012

for all of you who read this blog this year, I thank thee especially the hunters,the Moons,the winds,the feathers and the mosses...

photo by Esha Samajpati ©

Mr. Geisel, I presume, you know I get high on your rhythms too

one more for what seems
to be another Saturday night
I was 2012
I was Bartholomew Cubbins'
500 odd hat-ted poems
I did dare myself to do something
beside fall down, fielding
bright poppy clown faces
oily brown stained thrift shop
plaid holiday cheese balls
I do know my old
is a moldy polyester fluency  
in slight flare legs and
a high white belt
I have rank and filed this away
for my Pagilacci malodorous
transition into blind fashion’s war
of tastes versus necessity

I am ready for you, 2013
I am holding fast to the undertows
to the edges of my humanity’s
crumb-letting trickles
to all the horded slow
lorded lines of distribution

single file please
the disembodied
chorus sings
knees are better suited
for your ends
so try to pluck
the poems they sing
like old feathers and
weathered scabs
you never left alone

I love hands free symphonies
I love the washed away noise
of the Oceans’ tidal purity 
telling me to go when society
in a pants demanded reach
starts to long for more
public phone booths
and mail boxes
starts to pine for faith 
in and of itself to return
to be something
outside the anonymous
cries of its cities and
spare electrical burn
littering the country-sides

hand held bobs
weaves above waves
head bowed plumbed
seeking tiny tethers
heres and nows
wanting digestible bites
bolus captured gold
shorter attention spans
traversing bridge commands
views and containers
our evil is
every small integral
deciding it is
worth riding and
deriding ourselves home

I want my creative expression
to never have to pretend
to know much of anything
except being caught kited ears
tuned forked enthrallment, seeded high

never having to know anything
past the cries of wolves, wind,
wombs and Winter in boughs
of old rivers slicing heaven
to fall at each moment

to know patience, perched right
wearing all my shapes amidst
the asymmetrical calls of my
letters, languages, poems for everything
that I've wanted to say



  1. Way to go amigo. Great year-ender -- SMA

  2. To every day fresh expression! - my toast, Edward