December 19, 2015

it does not matter that this poem's electrons are mostly unobserved...

it does not matter that this poem's electrons are mostly unobserved

echo echinacea panacea or what reel to reel dark 
puppetry reveals when the house lights suddenly come 
on mid-scene...

it was a Yule murder by knife, passion played hate, 
fierce pierced creases in the skin wearing where a spirit 
gets inside your time ritual adherence, rattle and 
chained pretenses of patterned universes observed...

fable iron tire on down the road 
ambulatory trying tying dying to life 
as a gathering humankind blissfully 
going on missing its imperceptibly 
important pieces...

<tissue samples also went missing, no cell irregularities 
could be produced as evidence to modernity's complicity 
in the killing off of earthly life, from the inside, comfort 
and blindness warmed rules of logic>

these ballasts 
you are born with 
are pawned slowly 
and assuredly
it would seem 
they are meant 
to become future(s) 
and arcade pleasures
substitute vagaries 
and bone thieves 
current cages 
for all our souls  
whose wings 
are promised 
in a next life...

they are told 
they may want to use 
the quarters 
they spend 
for an end, 
fed with mushrooms 
by a fire with much wine
perhaps even then 
they will be more wisely
attuned than before, to those poorer 
than they or just maybe, 
like me they will cling 
to a stubborn clothed collection 
of survival ration-al-ization(s)
things that say yes, there will always be
some other selfish endeavor 
we think, we must possess...

some taste 
some thing, we must have 
in order to burn 
in the essence 
of the last breaths 
Autumn takes 
looming the dark
in her subtle 
disappearing act...

<you heard singing in ash and whisper>

"...Look Ma, bon non hands, I've leapt from my own 



  1. If I could give my identity, my energy, my purpose a label, it would be this: "echo echinacea panacea."

    That opening stanza makes me think of an X-rated movie theater as a metaphor. People hiding in their dark rooms, but then someone flips the light on. Yikes. Scary, eh? Great line breaks.

    Do we, or do we not, want to be "mmm/id-seen"? What's in our center? ---Our sexy parts, our guts, our souls. We do, but we also really, really don't.

    "it was a Yule murder by knife, passion played hate" ... Again, with the "you lay," (which is sexual to me) ... it's like being stabbed with a gut-punch to your nether-regions, so to speak. Being eroticized, maybe in an unwelcome way. But still, you can't help it. Great word bending with "passion play."

    "where a spirit
    gets inside your time ritual adherence" ... Terrifying, isn't it?

    "as a gathering humankind blissfully
    going on missing its imperceptibly
    important pieces." ... Thank goodness, I think. Really, the worst thing in the world is to be understood.

    "these ballasts
    you are born with
    are pawned slowly
    and assuredly
    it would seem
    they are meant
    to become future(s)
    and arcade pleasures" ... If you only knew. Brain "ballasts" are the worst curse.

    "bone thieves" ... Ha. That section makes me think of demons stealing souls, but not really, just borrowing maybe. These are men who are saved spiritually, but they struggle with sexual sin. So their "bones" are "stolen" and put in cages. This is probably about the grip of pornography on pretty much all men. I honestly think it's the worst for Godly men because of their struggles with guilt and feeling like they have to be "better" than "regular" men.

    "the quarters
    they spend
    for an end" ... This is like an arcade for grown men. Again, a metaphor for paying for sex (even if just visual) in some way. The "end" is a woman's "end," and the "mushroom" is a man's ...

    "to those poorer
    than they" ... I can't tell you how overjoyed I was when reading this last night; not many people, even writers, know to use "they" rather than "them."

    That last stanza is killer ... as is your set-apart closing line. "No hands" and "de-vices" ... this has to do with trying to break the masturbation cycle/addiction.

    Still okay with me commenting? :) I'll stop whenever you want.

    1. Again thank you for taking the time to comment as you
      have...I do not have many conscious thoughts when
      writing...and this piece came about quite quickly last
      night, after a long day on my feet in the swells and tides
      of food service pleasantries...though, I must admit there
      was a kernel/core inspiration for the poem and I did
      give, what I thought was clever enough hint in my
      closing line...I could have subtitled the piece...Mea'n
      Fo'mhair..."Look (Ma, bon)..."

      (also there was a viscious stabbing death a few miles
      from me the other night, full of long held slight and
      retribution...this is what served as the catalyst or
      initiation of song)

      I very much enjoy what others see in these
      they are as much divination/scrying as they are
      construction...and as for the proper use of "they"...I
      wasn't really sure but linguistically, to me, it sounded
      and felt better, when spoken aloud, than other syntaxical seem a pretty keen observer of human
      inclination/archetypal Joseph Campbell mythos...I do
      try to lens every piece through what I imagine the
      Goddess is...


    2. You've sent me off on a wonderful research trip.