February 8, 2017

walk through me ................................................................................................................... (the spotted mottled life, a lady macbeth-esque poem one supposes)






I am
chock full o'nuts 
I am
my favorite coffee 
I have given weight 
to Peruvian flake 
as a stimulant tool 
I am a consumptive lab rat 
I am ... that ...

news reactive reign dancer 
feign lancer for information overlords 
have you as me a we to steal into divinity 
hoping we're processed, seeded 
bleed vine and grace leaf and place 
what pace is your tomb 
what countenance 
is your bloom ...

I am the wind 
and fire and
sometimes I ply 
heard of techniques 
I am
shepherd and husband to the rain 
the lions as the gales explain 
have always eaten the lambs 
and they are especially fond of those 
soft ears that don't realize how pliable 
not feeling before thinking makes you ...

you can stink of corpses 
phone booth to intentions 
did I mention being in fields of blue children 
and chrysanthemums I am penny candy again 
in crinkle paper bags ... did I mention 
I am sure glad we brought that old wicker basket 
because you understood the brood of fungi 
in clock, calendar and forest 
and I, well I am just a fun guy 
 with learned eyes 
bent in an always and forever lent 
for purposing fortune upon others 
wanting to be ... a nose 
that knows eyes 
cannot always see ... 

I am Moses 
in the reeds 
and You 
well You 
are bliss 
and light 
shadow 
and fight 
velvet bell 
and what hell is when ... 
yes 
you are what I miss 
when alone 
poem says 
I always 
speak in 
the conversation 
of my self
my soul crawling 
the bone yards 
over and over again ...

this poem is mostly 
the sounds of being me 
I am trumpet and drum 
hunger and thumb 
I am like water, filling 
my cup in mirror mirror 
land in hand 
with my glandular pursuit 
of what my soul costs 
to be here 
and now ... 

as poem says 
"fino a quando ci incontriamo di nuovo ...
 oh bei tesori" 

EJR ©

2 comments:

  1. "what pace is your tomb <--- This really halted me.
    what countenance
    is your bloom" <--- I really need to figure this out.

    "I am
    shepherd and husband to the rain" ... Gorgeous. What am I wife to? Wind and water, not the falling kind though.

    "I always
    speak in //
    the conversation
    of my self" <--- I have taken to only having these talks with myself internally. I don't know what to think anymore. Should I fully go inside, or should I share myself? Neither feels right. That tomb, though, ... that feels right.

    "this poem is mostly
    the sounds of being me" ... This is when I know I'm not a poet. When nothing I write sounds like me. I'm only being me when I'm writing in paragraphs. I only write poems to fit in, but I don't. I'm a reader of poems. Not a writer of poems. Can't that be good enough?

    "I am trumpet and drum
    hunger and thumb
    I am like water" <--- Oh my. So gorgeous. I like that "drum hunger" might be a thing. Hungry for drums. Hungry for emptiness. Hungry for being empty enough to then be filled. Hungry for Dr. Ums. Hungry for Dr. U Ms. You Miss. You miss. It doesn't matter. I am like water. Doesn't it feel like nothing else matters as long as this is true?

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