April 12, 2016

conversations with a muse preserved in specimen cloud glass jars ...#NaPoWriMo2016




I don't know what I like better the tin ceiling or the pre
raphaelite imagery interspersed throughout the baked
background of your misty page theater...well done...as they
might say in the comic and or movie "Kingsman"...early on I
noticed you broke rules of grammar to eat the inside out of
meaning(s)...now I know why...some times your humanity
depends on watching courage claimed with a fortitude outside
your own sphere of power and influence...

meanwhile back at the
ranch, bell hop adorned wing-ed monkeys be darn-ed to argyle
socks and plus fours...I am wearing knicker knocker knacker
knew...come now missy...you doth remind me of my husker du
period...cereal on the dorm room foyer floor and 
plastic bottle over the doorknob security system...

I kept gorp in early eighties mylar coffee bags...re-usable fingers
pruning my mind tethered to what the f*cks and I once had a
toy box I slept in...pine lacquered and decoupaged in Bozo the
Clown bright colored noise...I also once climbed 
a crumbly cliff in penny loafers while 
carrying wine in bag and wearing a tweed jacket 
with leather professor elbow patches...

we turned to Atari and played Galaga and that horrible pixel
deformed E.T. game...Eliot get me the flock out of here was
more like it...So Cal in the 80's can you imagine...the front lines
of the culture wars and thirsty minions waiting in generational
hibernation siege technique...

bare minion minimum wage to guitar burning fountain cloned
water parents remanded to bubble puppet shows as roadside
attractive death carnival america the best at being the best at
being the best of bested being...best...be...b...

this is where in the fantasy if I were in an improv class
with you I would turn to you so very off cue of course
and in one motion grab you into a whirled
three or four steps of a tango-esque Mambo dance
while exclaiming loudly with my whorling
algebra of emotions in my hand gestures
that you drive trees to want to be paper sometimes...

inside my mind 
is an aqueduct
and ricochet 
rabbit hole agrarian 
composed primarily 
of once before 
and future glittering 
moves under the auspices 
of an EDM and trip hop 
nominated president 
of a right now...

souls are palmed sometimes 
warmed in earnest loam 
I dig into you, find 
you are eating placenta hearts, lungs
stomachs, livers, kidneys
and poems 
you writhe 
wing beat to song 
butterfly wings 
are once a year dress 
you tell me to call
you A chic E
Asheekie
ash eek a kash a 
a key to what locks ya
what fits every question
in almost(s) and maybe(s)
babies bebe are
reed whet horn leather wide
a barber's chair waiting line-up
while the back room was
a gourd hollow portal joint with
a tacked up felt surplus blanket for a door...

and when given a need for, it is 
best to store at least one friend
somewhere, anywhere you can...

this is the what if Chernobyl
happened in the US
and they didn't tell anyone
scenario poem-let...

we rolled up and down
the old abandoned
store aisles
geiger count purring
while greying ourselves
in dusty light as
the afternoon kept
trying to greet us

can goods
are still good
I pocketed a can
of hormel something
and it was
not even dented
part of background
now, like me

there is this song
by melanie martinez
it is on thumbs up radio
she is a trip
I imagine
you're it
calling me
your alphabet boy
for writing about biting
you made me taste empty
in my mouth...

and you might want or 
have to rule the world 
wielding the when known(s)
and what cull(s)
courtly words
courtesies and
role reversal
pygmalian-ism(s)
only then can
life after death
or at least
a substantially wiped
away culture
be properly
gauged of interest
in these most current
of markets  

oh one more thing
your sweeping architecture
makes me want to eat
your organs when you die
I'll spread a blanket
over piled high Autumn leaves
there will be a cake
 on a glass
covered pedestal
help yourself
ghost soak some
in limoncello
think of why
amalfi and sorrento
were days we held with
our daughters dearly

EJR ©

9 comments:

  1. Lord this is incredible piece of work!!!

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  2. Thanks for taking me on this ride! Free will's maddening fractures -- beat generation revisited!

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  3. Admiring the intense phrasing and imaginative response to the fantasy prompt ~ I specially dig this part:

    souls are palmed sometimes
    warmed in earnest loam
    I dig into you, find
    you are eating placenta hearts, lungs
    stomachs, livers, kidneys
    and poems
    you writhe
    wing beat to song
    butterfly wings

    ReplyDelete
  4. This is so visceral. Love this bit:
    "I pocketed a can
    of hormel something
    and it was
    not even dented
    part of background
    now, like me"

    ReplyDelete
  5. I love the title and photo. Also the improv-class stanza, and the last stanza ... especially this:

    "your sweeping architecture
    makes me want to eat
    your organs when you die"

    ReplyDelete
  6. I kept finding little nuggets I wanted to quote but this comment would be as long as the poem, I imagine. SoCal in the 80's--been there.

    ReplyDelete
  7. The blend of past in a dystopian rave, the Chernobyl fantasies, a glow in the dark horror... I feel I dance with skeletons. Great work

    ReplyDelete
  8. "early on I
    noticed you broke rules of grammar to eat the inside out of
    meaning(s)"

    Yes!

    ReplyDelete