January 19, 2016

what poem said was

what poem said was 

" play the angles in surrenders, 
let never-ender(s) be when cloven-hooved 
such as deer, clear across meadow(s), 
glen edge peer at you... 

curious about 
the bramble and forest 
its curtained a-waiting, 
the bent heads, listening to you, 
as well as what listens to you, listening too, 
to what listens to and for shapes, doors, 
scent-less bones, souls' foray-tones, 
and what can be honed, in the shadows 
when Winter theatrically regales 
wax mooned in magic..."

-        -
-        -

<meanwhile, you're drunk, realizing, that a movie is playing>

The film is called...

'church old holiday cinema' 

wealth pursuance 
ribbon blood social 
cranny to kite string 
life as an on-the-go 
incremental certain 
conflicted with 
something or another...

slow siphoning 
days go by 
you count 
by calendar
and calls, you worship 
any and all
blissfully ignorant folly 
you find yourself 
leaping into 
in order to pretend 
you can see 
the patterns 
they give names to
in the chaos...

for purity and science, eventually 
maybe even today, you might say 
you have faith enough to believe 
your free will is a dangerous thing...

and then, when given reins 
and director's chair 
beauty dares you further 
into rabbit holes...

this is the intermission, go pee now

upside down umbrellas 
you want, rains
from market or house 
of wares, stare 
at them still, do you 
wet and cold 
head to toe 
lips almost blue...

mercantilism was 
centrally banked human's
begged beginning(s) 
measuring control...

stuck around 
just to see, our
ghosts and dreams 
get through until 
all the credits rolled...



  1. Your accompanying photography/artwork is so fascinating.

    "ribbon blood social" ... I love this.

    "you find yourself
    leaping into
    in order to pretend
    you can see
    the patterns" ... Yeah. I'm sure you're right.

    My very favorite part is "go pee now."

    I really like this too:
    "mercantilism was
    centrally banked human's
    begged beginning(s)"

  2. Thank You and indeed I may bleed trumpet and violin parts but sometimes it becomes music, though mostly it is what may stick, for a bit, upon the walls, Rorschach butterflied that(s), which are the what(s) and words of salt and iron ages, in my cupped palms, being thrown...