March 10, 2016

a soul's proximity to marrow has this sense of seeing more scent...(she wore tippled triple faces of Eve)


poet and daughter a decade ago




sweetly intoxicating 
yes buy the sleeve 
this is but I flying high 
sly skimming danger am attracted 
to a you I have in mind
and a you above ground 
in syndicate indications...

yes, the blessed weapons needed 
for the front door entrance exams 
are my vulnerable intelligence 
and every mis-propriety...

my ear is pressed into your belly 
soft peach-y fuzzy hair 
your navel has intentions too 
do you teach ticklish by tiny measure(s) 
I wonder by humming this poem 
as if it were a flag 
on the Moon caught 
by celluloid in 
just the right lighting... 

there is a place where I go 
and have this pine tree 
and heather 
by the sea memory 
of a fog cast day 
getting there 
permits me 
one act 
of impunity 
for that given moment 
of imagination's inherent 
pleasure and pain...

who but you 
knew I'd go there too 
when given choice, chance 
and the chicanery 
of my wanton articulation 
between spell and seasoning...

after discovering you are alive 
and on one of this life's many paths
it might be best for you to relieve 
any undue pressurizations that feed calamity...

for example: from side bubbling 
or ballooning to blow out 
found eventually, a roadside attractive
rubber-necking broken down
please keep a keen eye 
on tread wear and mileage 
those two are bent with time 
and wish to help you 
weave your story, can you
pretend glory is gory  
and remind yourself 
factuality only holds 
pieces of you 
real bleeding 
is an artful empty anyways...

and from pulpit to puppetry, love me  
is always going to be a weapon too
it begins to sin when we pull demons 
from barrels of oily fish just to have 
them speak their names while wishing 
we could be nourishing the multitudes 
is it crude to think we can save everyone 
from themselves, delusional maybe, poem says, not c rude...

the angels are mostly right 
day say humans are wet clay(s)...
would have been happier 
if left in the reeds 
though maternal needs 
are very often misdiagnosed 
with caring principles 
instead of knives that lead 
replete with sounds, sights 
and the other delights 
spirit invents, in 
and out of bones...

EJR ©

22 comments:

  1. I love her.
    LOVE HER.

    Is that your daughter? Those lips, my goodness.

    And you're working on my very favorite boy haircut --- when it's short enough to just reach its arms straight forward for whatever's right in front of it.

    I feel the same about the poem. Easily one of my favorites.

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  2. Did you ever build her a treehouse?

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  3. My dad built me one, and I've been trying to rebuild it ever since I accidentally grew up. No windows. Just three walls, open air, covered in wisteria nose-mist.

    As with living-room tents, the collapse will come before long. However, the window's momentarily lifted in case nose, poem, or gear should like to sniff it. The fiddle gadget access point is up there.

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  4. well that certainly piques one's interest...at least in rowing a scull til dawn or finding out how they put a whole of cheese in that can of whiz...

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    Replies
    1. whole wheel spoke took the rook often too but only to castle a dream or two

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    2. Not that you asked, but the rook is my favorite piece. Probably mostly because I like the way the word sounds.

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    3. Well not even I know that. But you boys do like to pee in bottles and such.

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    4. sew your brain doesn't have an off switch either...i use bread ties as rapunzel hair sometimes and pretend to rappel down inside the poem...seems it is best for you to speak here, on the wet sands of anonymity, i get it but it does make one ever curious...

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    5. It is best for me not to speak.

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    6. Happy St. Patrick's Day. It's my favorite holiday.

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    7. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U7MVBl7MIBQ

      https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aB-FLxglSOA

      both sirens to me...

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    8. I love them, by the way. Thank you, for sharing any music you can spare.

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  5. I'll have to try your bread tie trick. I can't actually "write poems" because I'm afraid. Because then what? I get all my goo out there and find myself // hungrier and more animalistic than ever, only to have to step back from the blood pus and guts letters just to have to stuff myself back into my human body? Well, it's just too much work. That's why I prefer to act like a manic dumb-ass than to reveal the poetry in my bones that only glows when I DON'T write it.

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    Replies
    1. that was a good poem, very good...

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    2. so i see you are a reaction-arian, a quick lift, duck and cover verbiage artist...you work off of others, their good and bad, in order to wield the power of the throttle of your own brain/heart/consciousness magma chamber...perhaps you are innately balancing your inner transistor versus capacitor

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  6. My mouth is like a full beer tap that refills itself as it goes. The weight ensures that I'm impossible to turn off and I run with such ferocity that you are almost always drunk in my presence, feeling simultaneously relieved when I leave and yet desperate to get me back. In other words, I have a magnetic personality that exhausts and envigorates us both (if you're my friend), which is the perfect cover for feeling suicidal most of the time. If I'm making you smile, I'm not dying.

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  7. I was speaking of your writing style...

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  8. I know. I was changing the subject because you're touching on a raw nerve.

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  9. there's talisman talent there...regardless...no need for raw nerves...Popsicles are nice treats...

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  10. Buona notte, miss frenzy of talons and pillows...

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    Replies
    1. Sweet dreams, Ice Cream Man. We shall see tomorrow who Dawn determines we shall be. (This is rather like 50 First Dates.)

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