turning a wrought and wooden wheel press...

turning a wrought and wooden wheel press



what she didn't say, was that her eyes had fangs that at 
first looked as if they were nasturtium blossoms...

the thrashing continued out of view, I coiffed my bones 
in a long hairshirt, candle in hand and took to a quaff of 
iron rich amontillado on my descent

I could no longer look to linger in the feeding frenzy 
modern human civilization had become...call me what 
ye will, a loner, a stoner wading the psychedelics, 
mostly hooked on mystical what-ifs, enlightened shit or 
the stuff we discover as kids in the attics of our 
venerable relatives when shipped out to be a-visiting 
during summer break...

am I saint want-to-be and sinner wholly, yes I believe 
in not believing in too much lest I forget how to smell 
you after the rain, will this scent explain to me why wet 
clay and a spun wheel make what your fingers did 
tracingly, seem still to be, a part of me and my 
mind...are we vessels meant to hold more than merely 
memories we have completed, with scenarios made up 
to feel something outside the perspective(s) we may or 
may not have gained upon observation and interlude 
coinciding with random acknowledging of where the 
electrons are at any given moment... 

I tend towards low art 
as pattern-less theory adherence 
for the spaces between 
my being happenstantially aware 
and painlessly ignorant...

I watch the fallen leaves leave 
a sweet smell of death 
in their slow curl 
to crisp paper poem...
grasses here, where 
four seasons square the circle 
are root ready soldiers 
on the front lines of seasons...
they tenaciously stand 
and fight to gain the sun 
even on cloudy days 
tannin(s) blighted, bleeding in...
things we felt compelled to want 
by wantonly wanting into it
because we think we are 
on the outside of something 
we've been missing 
each time we've taken a look...

do you sink or swim 
when having tail strings clipped 
can you catch a breath 
trailing in the wakes 
and measures of this life's 
undercarriage things...

are we domicile key masters 
are traveling sorrows and joys
in league with what our teeth 
can chew tumbling...

do we have kin 
who might recognize us 
in our dark passages...
with technology 
and the dead 
are we in front 
of electromagnetic pocket doors 
being made to perceive whether 
we are being let in by accident 
and/or choice...
are we only the sum 
of digits and binary code...
are we algorithms needing bones...
are we what stuff souls gather 
to be inside the ride...
what passes as a future passed off 
as the present just past 
a last exhale...
yours or mine 
maybe a shadow 
maybe a shine...

we like wearing our monsters, 
we make way to where the air 
is dappled with dust 
slant angled light-riders 
low room high window...
too small for easy transmission 
though we know from where this poem's end 
basements thirst sunshine too...
October is funerary ripe, siphoning 
what slow blood is left in our bodies...
end of poem sees just how filled 
are our casks of capture certain 
and sweet pale amber wine...
where a cell has telling features 
of what birds do come Winter time...

EJR ©