January 17, 2013

for all the folks that love rivers...





sometimes, in Albany, you can hear, Giovanni Da Verranzzano, speak Spanish, when wooing your daughters, at the bequest of the French Crown

you did not see the Luperci
as they were staring at passages
like sudden healthy heart attacks
falling space debris and rabies
turning into mob deranged rage
as if they were
making up paragraph
after paragraph of paramours
yet to be arranged
to fill the pantaloons

I think they will say
very soon after being put on
they wanted more floor time
more ways windows
could become doors
more ways mouth to mouth
could become removal of will
worn like jewels
for the eyes to carry
to all the states
that have lowered
the stakes of expectations
with a promise
of ripe

here, at the end
of the ocean’s reach
on the stake-clock-carve
of what has become
known as the Hudson River
we tell time
like stems of flowers
we plant each year
for festival purpose
we stretch into arches
find the right handle and hilt
we stab ancient silt
permeate the ground
we shoot the sky full
of the power
of reflective vaginas

this a very old, new Dutch city in America
and as it does every late April crawling May
when the snows have receded
and the Sun bleeds back up high
wooden shoe fertility maidens
sweep and mop and pull desire up
from tulips to the streets, cobble stone edging
the garden full of shiny velvet exhortations
while limping atrophies
of Winter’s dormancy
slowly give in to their charms

this is a Beltane, day into night party
a ceremony to proclaim 
what roots past the pomp
and circumcised stance
Protestants and Catholics
share, around here
as high holy function

it would be fiction not to say
that this is one of them
drinking towns 
that the spirits flow
heavy enough to ensure
everyone's loosened inhibitions
everyone's folded empty
spilling into someone
or someone's pocket of joy
we always remember
what it is like to be wanted
in the springtime 
beyond valley fog
and ghost chants
when a captain’s log 
can hear you
reciting poetry
into the clouds
when you leave
the window, open             

"...pantalones arrugados
las ciudades, en la planta
ciudades saben que vamos
sus habitaciones se han construido
comemos las razones
y hacemos el amor
a las formas, en un útero oscuro
alcanzando, pirámide a las estrellas
navegamos últimos
rostros de identificación
cuando hay que correr
en una semilla
a sangrar rito..."

EJR ©

2 comments:

  1. Moving away from my love of your last stanzas, the fourth is wonderful x

    ReplyDelete
  2. very much appreciated...I am grateful to know your eyes look this way...

    ReplyDelete