April 10, 2014

NaPoWriMo 2014 #'s 5 through 10 (a long tone poem)






Another ballad of Eduardo Fortunato


    I use the poem to see the floors, ceilings are moorings wearing me too thin, I am bowsprit leaning into false bravado clever, I imagine there is a gallantry consumed by leaping into the abyss, I tie up recorded minutes, I swear by dust covering, I slow grind to forget, I write the self out of view from the new parts of old skin, bone and clay, any waded birth rained, any deep channeled currents and imperfections, any impermanence circled, all the eons spent remembering not to pause, as if any of us might have been more than merely a yesterday ago

    here’s another, a let’s start all over again cause/ because I want to fuck your poetry, your words, I want to silent-purpose your trembles, sharp egg paper your shells/ game valence your empty/ fill burst your kited membranes/ till into your undertow slaves and ritual kabuki…

    I want to breathe in a knave to knight to king of the earth and sky moment/ I want to be full/ feeding on your indicator lights, setting the table, opening the windows and setting fire to the absolutes of the fantasies I have of this world

    I spin an old RCA Red Seal 78 thick vinyl/ imaginary paper wall scratched raw, humid Toscanini, I am phrasing a you inside me, a pulpit, I pimp it, cause it to be something alive outside of echo chambered nautilus turned exit wounds/ I leave parts of me behind/ shrapnel fertile, beneath the southerlies/ I am keeping myself by eating a kept hallucination of you/ we become misty sound/ this fantasy I have of every tomorrow/ you, in the palm of my hand (kneading rise into needing wants, wands and wanes)

the Moon ( I want her, badly )

   late push/ pull wobble/ teetering geometry
craned neck observations

   I whisper things I want to do to her/ what I want her to carve me with/ bones and blades, portal star maps, red shifted spines/ folding me into your blues too/ eases and creases/ free always chooses/ coming or going/ between all at once and slow dispersal

   what am I willing to bargain life for/ what am I willing to see sold/ is my every death going to end up microbial or macro-cosmic/ does clock time stay at the end of someone’s ugly stick/ does fishing with hope beneath the dreams of skins tip our hands blindly, as we search for bones/ what is the common madness here…

it is

    I am caught coveting/ metallic in the Sun shined/ will I be something that asks/ or a soul starved for any piece of beauty I can dance stolen for/ a seed, subscription and slow tiny dying(s)
 
   time happens, to be made up, all at once, by observation, it is thin lined/ time has deep surface wounds and windows and is widely expanding today into tomorrow while re-writing yesterday/ I am also waiting to be/ made up countenances from jewel quiet nights, all at once/ I skim sustenance from what makes my thoughts fly when falling/ eating and feeding mysteries, meniscuses and menageries/ calling the shapes and forms between my theater marquee and the opened teller window, my poems

behind which
are doors
I smooth broken
glass by tide, ass and ride (poems)
donkey and steed
don Quixote and lady Godiva
put baskets in the reeds
while I backwards saddle
another old river town

   distance, it seems, happens when night ignores where it came from/ stamping my humanity’s reaction into weather letters and a language of desperate to understand itself as seen by modernity/ I am a literal now/ a raw and guttural species/ I speak in tonal velvet(s) as I kill myself slow enough so as not to have you notice my disappearance/ I am written in the cries of crumbles, cracks, concrete and rust/ I am steeled by stolen currencies/ black market histories, erode me into horizons and back-lighting, silhouettes and trees, miles ahead of please or be pleased

   I scry, lying with my decay, proclaim it news, by saying, I’m okay with rot, look at what shiny things I have still got to trade you…

  “…trading palms for promises…”

   I hand myself every fortune and escape by poem/ skeletal ink/ emotions, secretions and the wind/ blood stains relationships/ go all the way/ cross my hearts through pocketing things/ my soul knows sown eternities are inside every almost…I call an imaginary front desk…order late bar service/ rendezvous with my lonely thoughts…not a you in the melt of night, to twine with…only a me, not yet drunk enough, to keep the dawn away


  the pitchmen and swoon


for rapture by women

I bought
an allotment
of circumstantial light
and lotteries

I eat the right poison
to reach heaven consumed
I risk life blind white
for colors that smell
as if they once were sounds

alkaloids and dollars
chalk lined outcomes
possible redemption
versus dirt nap drip mined

minor and major trespasses
accumulate along the way
tribulation and trial
by here and now
may be erased eradicated
may become fertile
may become erogenous
solvent with wind again
without any I, having to pass through
the sticky rivers of writhe-worms
the wren wading of humanity
as a shoreline, beaks open
hungry to hear
an oar fish talisman
being bitten, smitten
lanced and poured
its chance taken
by bleeding little deaths
into why we count lives
to lie by time

barker-ed world

gaslight hearkened
seeded taproot indulgences, if ye will
rings around trees are the many insides of your soul
they can be counted on, courted for an analogy
fly-wheeled, quick-silvered with social gadgetry
enticements, wagers, thicker barks
and high angle limbs


detecting the curve

evidence of ash is…
the past rehashed
recollected by soft edging
jigsaw puzzle fashioned
persuasions

“…some of me
might be missing
a piece or two
some of me
are you I see
mystery eights
that might be the key
as I dream
of gold panned sluice
winning by astronomical ticket validation…”

some poems

(are joys thought lost forever
like the parts of my humanity
coming back to me
for another go around)

EJR ©


1 comment:

  1. What a stream, Edvard,..many aspects of escaping in the poems...inspiring as always..observing what is that we all looking for...love about missing pieces of ourselves...never satisfying poet - it's fate....still maybe the answer inside...not when the 'toy' -broken one...

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