December 22, 2015

today, I'm leaping, your many brightly packaged abysses...



today, I'm leaping, your many brightly packaged abysses...

in the southern reaches 
of the North American continent's 
Boreal forests with their old nubby shale, 
granite and clay covered mountains...
the temperatures are seemingly 
lost by way of season...

modern reason is 
too often an unkind mistress...
it places bargained for comfort 
and cages disguised as privileges and 
rights above our higher aspirations...

and even though we live to live 
securely now...taking care 
to ensure those of us with the most 
keep the lion's share of honey...

this chase has become 
what we are 
it is our order 
as a managed, to be... 
resources...allocation 
and its processes 
are the repeated poems 
of our manifest destiny...

they are cadenced 
healthy dosage-d fear 
this helps the medicine 
go down, a tonic embalming 
a churn and chum 
of the ho, ho, 
ohm and hum...

their jingle went something like this...

"if you think this life is, a tastes great dope, 
just wait for us to take the rest of your shine 
all the chicanery is to bind you to a hope 
in a tomorrow never meant as wine..."


meanwhile there are those 
who say mankind's rapidly 
progressing technologically 
advancing teeming population 
is a purposefully unwieldy mob...

a push, pull and turn the knob...
flippers and levers 
what have you to sever 
in the sliver-ing promises 
cascading as good will 
in a snow globe-d-leaning-back 
into the wobble world...


simply put there are 
too many of us 
on this planet...
and with nary 
a single means 
as to putting 
our Humpty-Dumpty 
pieces back together again...
we're just surfing the hanging on(s) now 
threadbare champagne-ing it...

(seventy degrees Fahrenheit late December for crissakes...)

my approach to this
is but one of many 
rain to southerlies laden 
Christmas eves, 
it is a mix 
of eulogy 
and birth right rituals 
trimmed from when I wish 
we still worship-ped trees...

there is always 
an ease, a serenity 
of discovery when 
rabbit hole fishing 
for every end 
to spend on thyself...

toxic giving, accumulative gleam(s), 
humanity mirroring this 
our modern mantra, 
over and over, more ways 
to entomb life 
despite moments when 
the joyful rivulets 
of bird songs be a-mixing 
with aggregate archetypal scent 
in a damp soothing ooze 
of warm matted leaf mud...

'tis certainly odd weather 
for this time of year...
making this mantra 
an easy to see mantra beneath 
how we bleed...a mantra of, for you 
to be true to me you must be true to the you, 
see you as, and despite predicate volleys 
of survival and the revival skins 
I stretch over my old soul's current bones...
I, only, have to outlast you...
to get back inside, the cycles 
and churches of trees...

any roots, real or imagined, 
are found, bent desperate knees...
I'll crawl all the broken 
and cut glass of what 
shadows forge and pass 
just to steal back the light 
I need to eat my infinity with...

so merry thee 
ye who have desire
distilled in their soul 
for this we drink in 
each burning bright 
on these nights, 
when we have 
warm hearts, 
a-roared together 
turning back 
to the Sun

EJR ©

7 comments:

  1. What is the point of a kind mistress? It sounds like this one (with her "bright // lights") smokes dope with you and then sticks you in a cage. Every man's dream, I'd think.

    AND, to top // it // off, she's a doe-sage. Can this chick GET any cooler?

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  2. The part about crawling the broken is my favorite. And the way you slipped in lonely walks of exploration when you hyphenated "worship-ped." Plants and air. They see straight into me. How could you not worship them?

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  3. I also love the closing. Are we turning back to the Sun? Or are we turning our backs to the Sun?

    I only speak in paradox. I can't communicate with anyone who thinks he knows what he thinks or knows, or what he's trying to convey. Puzzles are the only // kind // of clarity I'm interested in.

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    Replies
    1. Firstly, thank you and welcome to the fun-house, the nut-house, the green-house, the house that Baba Yaga tends to in the middle of our inner primordial forests...I only lens these pieces and write just to feel, sometimes...I know nothing of meaning, save for what it means to hear the poem sing or play its melody...words often follow this surrender to lead the way, with their certainty of direction...they say to themselves, there is always music played between rain and wind to spawn into all our visages, bones, articulations, ambulation stories and home(s)...

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    2. Poets typically hate me because I care far more about how words sound together when they're, you know, getting kinky in a mirror-play linguistic coat closet.

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    3. It doesn't matter all that much what they mean, other than our momentary inventions. Words are swingers. They can't stand it when they're tied down by definitions.

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