January 2, 2017

before books become dangerous (again)

The Course of Empire Destruction
Thomas Cole, 1836

we live in a time 
when most forget 
how to read 
losing a feeling 
of needing control 
or needing to drive 
in order to pretend 
you don't know 
that life is enjoying the ride 
leaving little theatrical(s) 
in the warm odd places 
inside of you that 
the light doesn't often seek

and it smells like beans and bacon 
(a couple of soup starter jars from last year, opened into this po(e)t) 

the fauns knew too ancient mammals 
swam from the seas up swollen rivers 
when Winter time, moaning something 
about Jonah, Sigmund and monsters 

 She knew 
to watch for joy(s) 
She grew mushrooms 
on found downed birch logs 
shiitake mostly 
went to NYC to barter with 
a Korean sage 
had a spore bank 
liked the the Appalachian ginseng 
this went on for seasons 
though eventually even wild crafted goods 
became little gold rushes 
people go mad with want 

Winter storms make me want to cook bubble & spit shit 
sixteens ton poem bars jars with mason or snap fit lids 
savory eats 2 candied sweets 
beats are not symptoms 
they are mostly ring tones now 
bones on the outside of cows 
head bobbing kingdoms 
well well well 
three holes ground 
what can tell 
me tolls found 
to be high 
tithe not tides 
so while I am enjoying the loose slangy cling 
of modernity
 it is all organic chaos masquerading as free will sometimes 
because lets face it we dance anyways sing to ourselves anyways 
because let's face it we cannot sometimes relate or calculate 
those places we see ourselves in the dark 
when Winter blows 
and nothing grows 
but ideas ...


EJR  ©

1 comment:

  1. The world has been boiled down to half measures, blurbs and the blurry fast-cuts of superhero movies. Lately I've been fed up with the finger tapping madness of what they now call being social. And I don't quite know why I write...when I know deep down there is no audience. Strange you should mention it...I'm growing oyster mushrooms in my kitchen too.