'Saint Wolfgang and the Devil' painting by Michael Pacher sometime between 1471-1475 |
la novello vino
(da parti di vitigni che salgono dalle rive del Lago di Garda)
this poem prefers to live in
a little alpine house universe...
what portal blood
do they serve
at that cafe
at the edge
of this galaxy's
super massive black hole...?
pretty girl avatars staring
starting the culling of stars
in fiery crash landings and what
boom and bust cycles afford us
glancing at our watches
when we pray to ourselves
in our churches...
they are built sentinel hallow(s)
best along treetops, midwinter-ed
where we say
they are silhouetted against
our best approximation of god
in a canopy of artificial lighting...
yellow sodium sorrows borrow
by burrowing through tomorrow
all for petty little bits of further into
what says in us we need to go here...
before seasons cyclically shake us away
like a wet dog after a summer plunge
into the reed-ed shallows
of a great mountain lake...
the feeling is viral contamination
we have expected this
nothing is more real now
we once had everything and now
third party systems are needed
to feed masses of asses
into a calibrated zoological society
of greedy mouths kept beyond
every horizon's reach of eyes
nose knows beauty
has a purposeful stink
and is reaped
in warm loam fingers
a dug into slaked sown
what do we want
where do we want it
when is soon enough
for we are dying
to begin again...
enigmatic humanity
clocks and calendars
wait us out
to them we are
a page turning disease
witch planet host
are we at most
basket-ing hope
wading demise by lies
we've painted the pictures
we saw leaning over water
to admire our reflection(s)
along the way
to these point(s)
of no return...
(where every event is a human spread membrane dimensional with shuffled subatomic spaces that electrons and poisoned cats vacated long ago...)
we take turns/all lies surmise what would surprise us with
completion/we gather and pocket every temporary joy we can
fashion into what's mine while making it safely home
across the universe
a scratchy am radio signal
wavers on, caught here in my ears
it sounds like a baseball game
somebody losing to the Yankees
there is I suppose, a separate universe all alone
where somebody is always losing to the Yankees
and what a horrible thought that is
I'd rather be Babe Ruth's piano
drowning having never
played Mozart
or Satie...
(there must have been an unseen trip-light for I suddenly heard and saw a hood-bearded holographic ancient face tell me there is no sanctuary)
but there was a snack lounge with comfortable chairs down the way(s) a bit should I go on, there were televisions too...there were no books though but I could write some should I be interested in staying around to collect as many stories of my species as I can...
I would be considered a backward compatible vanguard security measure for the annulment of any future having sentient beings and soul filled bodies to lay hands upon tomb structure and anatomically correct womb dolls with which we bore out scenarios of replenishment and genetic extraction from unlikely sources...
code strand ignorance was a radio station we were
most fond of...tuning into "manu-mar-fab" food stuffs morning show(s)...
we were tubed enough
for an eternity
we thought tasted pastes
were made for just in case...
I miss big palate light bodied red wines
I kept saying to myself imagining a round stone hearth and
oven with a haphazard face of found tile and glazed lace...
the smell of burning hardwood and yeasty rise
crust is a must and patient yet we'd have to be to feast with
warm bubbled torn into, rivulets of steam rising we're
blackened figures against a roaring mouth of fire, stemware
wobble swirl of an aged hearty Bardolino Superiore...
on this lakeside
in particular
within the foothills
of the great European jagged peaks
are villages where remembrances of sweet days
linger and bridge into when Earth wasn't over-populated
and divided into warring teeming masses...
by now I am afraid we no longer have ideas
on how we might get back
to where we once were burgeoning
in thriving(ly) connected gardens
across each universe in season...
if one is to distill
the essence
of the individual
wait out spawn
and grind guile
and ease into
believing each breath
could it be
we have to see
what one is birthing
the very last thought
we have preceding death...
how is nostalgia not dead
when you ruminate
while burning notes
by candle light
in a small iron cauldron...?
how is this divination
no longer recognized
as a form of communication
to those beings without bodies
who might have been here before...?
we decided to collect, catalog
and categorize everything
as being connected to
a higher power we've created
this has been why we meant
for some of you to be chattel
for a very select few humans...
there were neon no wear(s)
we had enough vision
to pawn for some life's
last millisecond
of a scent driven
and real tangible
love or some other facsimile
we felt would be worthy
of filling our last memory
coda poem:
stringing yarn
the thread bare soul
kneads bones, waits
in an odd lean bowl
on a counter
by the window
both it and I
are watching it snow
wondering if daylight
was pushing an agenda
of lattice and boules
before this beast
artfully articulates
our arterial need
and wanting
for us to feel
desire coursing through
another spirit filled body
struck with our arrow
and stilled...
we mounted
the stag's head
after an Earth year
of desiccation by
piss, vinegar
and wind
the Sun
did the rest
we just had to find
the right slice
of burlwood as
above the mantle
has stood empty
long enough...
Artemis is
ever hungry
and a young lady again...
EJR ©
Ha. That "buttface" art is hilarious.
ReplyDeleteLove this:
"yellow sodium sorrows borrow
by burrowing through tomorrow
all for petty little bits of further into
what says in us we need to go here"
Ooh. This too:
"enigmatic humanity
clocks and calendars
wait us out"
This is my fave: "I would be considered a backward compatible vanguard security measure"
"by now I am afraid we no longer have ideas" ... Me too.
"Artemis is
ever hungry
and a young lady again" ... As she should be. All is well again.