beneath the sumacs...

beneath the sumacs...

it was a cloud clung cool 
Memorial Monday morning
and this old mechanical satyr 
having been relegated to
dime store ride...


I decided to spoil a good walk 
new hat, new shirt, same old balls, 
sticks and bag to keep them in...

this past Winter I began 
to realize my whole life 
was being told to shut up...

intervals
go re-imagine self
go on rambling elsewhere
go ranting about some other drunk
some other here and now 
someone other than 
being beside myself...

willing myself onto 
somebody else
some other fantasy 
pushing dissolve
willing one's self 
further than ever before
again and again and again
as many times to a now
as a now can be counted on to count itself in...

...do I want why
I keep watching 
myself buying in
bending away from light
in order to avoid
any direct eye contact
drinking in the pieces
of my alone 
this afternoon 
past morning 
or any coming night
-
-
intervallo-un altro posto intervallo, va
-
-
agendas and poems
are wisdom(s)
they constantly beg
to be written
and re-written...

each is a song is
a breath is
another word maybe
each breath is
a song is
a lung that fills
a lung that spills
another word
to save me...

we are willing ourselves 
into thought experimentation
what if chains
and changeling
algorithms 
have places 
in our family albums...

we try and detect
rotational random
when sex is possible...
limbs, legs, dark pools,
more wants and articulations
ambulatory pre-requisites
oiled on canvas, a still life
garland-ing everything 
in mythologies...

May for instance
is sumptuous
a socked seeping
into of underworlds 
and underbrush...

in its southern reaches
the Boreal forest is
embarrassingly rich
with a growing light
coming to ripen shadow 
a green rooftop right away

I watch you lick your fingers 
and lips, crawl on knees
a sugary plied easing
your sensing 
of smell
and seasons 

your eyes squeezing
into mid to late Spring
a bitten more
pleasured rote
pressuring what varies
swing hinging
your hand to organelles...

your tarantellas mask
that you have been 
following water
down mountains
loose garment-ed clay
you bathe 
a sluiced immutable
a tongued whisper
listening to 
what is reasoning
when white and purple flowers
beneath the sumac trees
steal into you...
-
-
intervallo-non così stupendo
-
-
is time harried here
do you stop to see 
the hiking trail...?

is it as a place 
where portage is 
your portal gains
your landscapes 
and history 
this old river city 
rides the horse 
with human hair
once is now again 
and bones wear crowns 
my friend...

undergrounds,
and undertows
catch hold of me
the undercurrents 
I see, understand
where there are 
billows, throes 
and bellows
humans will build 
to the sky like trees 
collecting their things 
in jars while warring 
wearing weather constantly...

I have heard we are born 
many, many times 
while each having 
only a single name 
for an eternity
I suppose 
it's sewn 
inside toes, 
probably polished 
and shiny 
call-burnish stoned 
each life we remember 
to carry our very own 
Jacob Marley iron core...

yes, I too
am a whore 
for salt...

 oceans
 know rain 
never strays 
too far from 
the sea's reign 
o'er cycles 
of human souls 
this explains...why 

I stop and smell flowers more often as I get old

EJR ©