market bones to march hare...

photo by Edward Rinaldi ©

the new times poetry came

in newspaper jargon

spilled secrets

downed the hallway

from a drunken

dining room table

cigarette smoke

and beer swore

by crude joke

with pent up release

winging ways weighing

the least upfront cost

barker hearkened 

on every corner fare

you don’t have to be

pedaled, peddled or puddled

as an imperceptibly slow

drip effect of poison

grinds your roar

into the machine

this is your constancy

your clocks, locks

and tumblers

being spun

every observation you have

every poem combination

every asynchronous call

to the story 

of your perspective

how the outsides of things

fit you in huddled masses

you dare your eyes

lie there wishing

to be a nose

fishing for a scent

of everything

and infinity

to paint

with words

the thoughts you place a now in

are kingdoms, phyla, classes,

orders, families, genera and species

you are rote

instinctual

and punctually

written when going

by your own inner workings

I too

you say

can be

dynastic rust

an affection willed

by starvation of self

chanting 

mashed 

threshed

to your madness

by the time you get to

the classified personal

you say in any form

be hung or pocketed

I am

a simple

core iron

a lust for gold

sold pieces

of soul

by silver

no matter the known

each life is a curry

of limbs that go

step by step

mortared and pestled

into a sentence

or conversation

balanced between

delicate fine grains

and rough hewn gleans

all you seek to feel

first revealing

sight only covets

while scent invigorates

where you place yourself

when becoming still

while emptying

ink to paper angels

chew through the pulp

of your dreams

demons too get stuck

in places

wanting you

to read into

the arresting smells

your day as memory

keeps looking for

EJR ©