May 3, 2016

and her cat's name was Always Louie Lamore Bicentennial


'Walk to paradise garden' , 1946
W Eugene Smith © 





and we went about an endless summer 
of parks, parades and drive in movies 
with superhero-esque admiration 
for the veneer of things ... 

she swore her memories to 
comic book science 
in leather bound 
recipes and ritual ...

purring is intoxicating 
distraction gaining traction 
where my inaction led 
to webbed intervals 
of chance choice knife and sieve ...

what are we to do now 
mud-monster-base-board-er-icks 
were invading down unseen 
corridor yippee skippee cowboys 
the minority european kind 
always wore white hats
brown to red to yellow skin 
thinly prevailed 
in fleeting sometimes 
most of us wore black hats  
and were the bad guys 
in the background ...

story science we needed seeded 
to our eugenic gentile fabric 
of landscaped feudal charms 
and left overs from the civil war ...

each town had its own crown 
vignette to cause and decorate 
their main street with ...

we admired our life here  
when it came to arming 
the almost imperceptible will 
to always be, a wild west ...

this vestige was 
ancient lore's game 
lawless plunder 
in the name 
of tame cycle benevolence ...

the lure is : 
host toasted gifting 
of the historical 
record keepers 
far and wide 
manning 
and womb-manning 
the origin lighthouses 
and libraries 
we plumbed 
along the sea ...

--------------------------------

in this chapter life 
we skated the pond 
by oakwood avenue 
near the entrance 
of frear park 
at the fountain 
and round-a-bout 

there was a music here 
a what the twentieth century
would continue to bring 
in the ever changing faces 
of marionette-d stir pot-itis 
colliding with the seasons 
along old route 40 ...

most of us are unaware 
of any continuous vibratory 
symphony ever painting the future ...

this was a 
rutted horse path 
a probably once  
an overheard 
did you smell me 
suddenly appear 
or was it grace 
and iris storms ...

you sheltered me 
on the shores 
of the hudson 
where the locks 
hid the rain 
in the tumbling 
of stories, sky 
and mountain 
passing by ... 

and i haven't thought twice 
about not giving in 
rice and beans 
in my pocket 
on the ready 
if a wedding 
were to begin 
on my way past 
where i am now 

you see 
poem and eye 
always seem 
to be knowing 
any next chapter 
is a cliff hanger 
issue displayed 
double cover 
special edition 
at the news stand 


EJR © 

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