May 12, 2016

this strung lights of a life was best .................................................. on an old fashioned view master ......................................................

photo by Edward Rinaldi

there were dozens 
of little paper wheels
gather petal pictures 
with jagged slots 
for catching 
and turning 
anything you wanted 
into 3 am somewhere 

I left the window open 
set my alarm for 245 
just in case I fell asleep 
while writing these poems 
I built a small fire 
for the patio place 
threw in some pine cones 
and sage leaves 
scratched my skin 
with white birch bark 
rolled and twined 
bitten with you 
and your dug into hue 

I sang myself into
empty valence shells 
each of them, a hell 
I painted 
on the insides 
of my eyelids 
to remind me 
to torture myself 
with a bare 
and raw ideology
of when I  went 
looking for you 
and knew you 
weren't there 

when do we pure 
ourselves into 
the slide 
of time 
we call aging 
I mean at what point 
in the climb-towering 
of our awareness 
or consciousness 
do we begin 
to rot and fall 

pistil, stamen 
we named ethyl esters 
after the muses 
and imbibed 
eating hearts out 
with an every so often 
taken acid trip 
carboxyl grouping 
the mentoring 
of old galvanized trash cans 
we used to burn paper in ...

when we were kids 
we watched the embers 
crawl the thick evenings of May 
calling the forms 
limbic pentameter 
and all the colors 
past normal we said
were re-configured molecular-ly 
to a sub atomically driven scent 

we went off 
remembering when 
from here on after 
3am stargazer 
lilies would 
be sent 

a room awash in them 
filamental, that soul 
we are conscious of 
is a rental life 
of ownership 
we are potential 
poet petulant potent 
a flower to ripe

each one 
of us 
a nose 
still in
someone's wake 

to the islands 
and through 
oracle palm 
& broken nail 
we threw pottery 
against rocks 
that stuck out 
like mad fingers 
reaching for 
the parts of us 
in shards or dressed  
to bless in tribute 
the Aegean sea 
as it swept away 
our legs 
and arms 

in every dream 
it would seem 
I sought her 
fought with an
idea of her 
gilded lily 
or scone, was she 
bone thrifty 
thirsty on all fours 
blood to rusted iron 
well sprung salt pours
supposedly she was 
the daughter 
of Eve 
& Lilith 
and looked 
nothing at all 
like Adam, because 
I think God got it right 
this time when He
left alone 
all the unwritten 
voyeur tomes 

Sunday school 
would never be 
the same, if 
two Mothers 
went sharing more 
than nurturing 
and new baby names
with each other 

this was too darn hot 
not to leave alone  
He thought 

not every womb 
need a Father 
to tend it 
so He spent 
some days 
of the week
copping seeds 
and fertile magic 
began sowing 
what humans 
will reach for 
inside one another 

a garden 
with all the  
answers grown 
in stains



  1. The scenery you paint is of a night without answers... but maybe it's just the questions that matters. That's why we gaze at stars isn't it?

    1. Astute, you got it ... my internal eternity answers question-clothe my soul ... thank you

  2. Such raw and intense images here, brilliant write.

    1. Gratitude ... as you know ... Ho un cuore sanguinante grezza ... !

  3. Yes indeed. The reason we gaze at stars - seeking among the unknown for something known and familiar. Reaching to other humans for what we need. Great lines in this.
    a garden
    with all the
    answers grown
    I just so like this ending.
    in stains

    1. Aww(blushes) ... nice to hear comments as such ... many thanks !

  4. The most experimental yet great writings I have ever read.

    I think the more we gaze at the stars the further we can take our minds to a whole unknown galaxies and go beyond the cosmos.

    Beautiful and awesome! writing my friend. :)

    1. INsid
      what bread
      we fed the cats
      soaked with milk
      graveyard stew
      marrow bleach
      and the beaches are over run
      with jellies
      little bags to collect samples in
      and re-runs of destroying public property
      if only to satisfy some family court appointed therapist
      one time around sixth grade
      I never ran over
      another mail box
      for as long as I lived ...


      thank you for stopping by ...

  5. Ah - a night of wonderment waiting for that magic hour 3:00 am it is said the veil is very thin at that hour and the stars their brightest. Searching the universe for trails of truth...the dream beads guide the way from one plane of existence to another. In every dream I would see her yet, she couldn't be found. I know a bit about dreams and I often see him in my dreams so close yet so far away from where I wonder? Sometimes while gazing at those stars we see the darkness within ourselves and perhaps, that is what drives us towards the light. Just pondering here.

    1. You ... are a very keen ponderer ... kudos

  6. 3 am is not the hour of the wolf, more the hour of the werewolf. Having clarity at that hour, having focus, is a task often that embraces failure. I'm too near divers big cities to see many stars; the night sky just looks freckled, rather than choked with stars. I wonder what percentage of stars are just ghostly reflections of planets long dead?

    1. Yesss! Once I found out that an inordinate amount of starlight was from foundries, ancient and dead as it arrived at my eyes ... I could only think of stars as tombstones and ever since then I have been a graveyard wish-er, whistling my chances of seeing something come alive ...

  7. I am sound asleep by that time, smiles ~ Love the lush, passion and ardor of your words ~ I am enamored with flower parts, flowers and that ending, wow ~

  8. Love this, especially:
    "I sang myself into
    empty valence shells
    each of them, a hell
    I painted"

  9. I like the reference to Eve, Lilith and God. Closed beautifully.

  10. star gazing.............running with your words.

  11. "that soul we are conscious of is a rental life regardless of ownership"
    Oh how true.