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 ©