I think of myself as having always been artifice alone ....................................................................................... ..................................the paper wasp rose anthologies

I say to poem, 

"Poem, I'm knot sure it was the candy 
or the flipping to trippy downbeat 
smooth android dream skating ...

here I hear 
my own repudiation 
life pursuit 
happiness 
what was that 
left out left lone 
weird wildernesses 
urbanely decayed 
in bey bay baby bebe 
hey call her Tuesday 
and Friday as well 
you want to tell her 
things about the way 
the universe speaks to you 
through sexual union
she's listening 
glistening too you hope 
by the time you role play 
as Moses 
to the fresh water 
in the reeds 
wanting a drink 

ghost tow truck operator 
hooking ethereal realms 
where women go while 
they sleep peeping 
their little bo staves  

to be a bitten bit 
we humans leaned 
wee into where it
was we, who are not 
supposed to be 
and voila there goes 
the neighborhood 
in some sort 
of dish we hadn't smelled before 
and yes it does sells us on engorge" 

------------------------
poem says to me, 

"Edward, I got to get out of here within thirty seconds 
or motion detective alarms go searching 
the entrails of my exhales 
for pieces of eight 
to graft onto my soul 
in silver lined laced moonlight 
the garden hanging suspended 
time stills you say paint 
and tears come looking 
to pay the bill after desert  

who owns these colonized islands 
where we are so fascinating 
to each other as citizens 
denizens spun clay begins 
in the digital continents 
of an increasingly artificially intelligent world 
you ought try this line 
my darling you are spa lovely tonight 
the bath and bubbly tonic warm light 
of candle and the grab of shadows dollop-ing 
themselves on and off 
iris petals scattered earthen 
to forest pole 
north to south 
go grotto stone 
house cast iron 
claw foot tub built 
around shifting 
sensationalism(s) outside 
where walls 
we wear 
may be 
what we think of
washing each other's hair 
and don't forget Edward 
this is your birth land 
and your soul is 
like the shad estuary 
part of east central upstate NY's 
rappelling into canyon tomorrow 
you are quite comforted singing 
sixteen tons, ernie ford's versions 
forlornly praising yesteryear 
nostalgic for the beauty 
of the trade skill 
and labor movements 
and how they made America 
what it could be 
in your eyes Edward, 
people and poets 
people as poets 
people poets

but 

it is so clear to me now 
you all only love to live 
with your heads 
so far up your asses 
taken with con ed 
adult like classes 
at your local 
uvula high school"


EJR ©