la novello vino

'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 ©