here the poem says mothball everything, tell no one
america, scared of ka, is going to nest, next line blessed
while the rest of god here, is an illusion
comfort by sleeping however, is not ...
so I believe I'm called a lunatic to keep reason from being my friend ...
words need bleeding, me in the weeds by the roadside, watching
bent quiet crept, waiting bouquet traveling at leisurely rates of speed
I spy weathered signs, yesteryear(s), clear views of nature getting through
to where I once was ago, the flower petals are clock dial hands,
turns of the sky not having control over
any of my eye movements, scent wants me lost
in ramparts of color dollop womb-if-ication
I think spring and summer thunderstorms ...
it must be a new moon, my eggs are breaking
and my balls are stuck in a vice world at large of humpty forever
some follow a king, some the horses,
still others listen, pay the fare and play
it is if we wanted to see the ship
and captain go down wearing hole Life
as a black tie affair ...
nicean 325 pagan politics disguised
ravenous cats, christendom ...
damn mother of constantine stole the library of alexandria ...
after fact-ers proctor examinations of gullibility
they are half book rulers, schmooze-lers,
they use novelty vomit to feign concern ...
they wham you into liking cable television, internet
and low quality digital feeds for music ...
poem says fuck'em, give me kettle drumming
and crossbow salvation-ists, deadheading
zombie flower peddlers, anytime
the dream of when
nine foot tall marionettes
they were thick piano wired
to the tree, we used pulleys
and ox yoke chestnut collars
we gave hollers for dollars
through megaphones
into microphones
they write poems
we are contacted, contracted
to relay them as penance for not believing in magic
a time or two when we hadn't known
what to do simple grace was to stare
mirror mirror nearer the face
bowsprit and buttress
we gave the harpies
and gargoyles a chance
to harmonize 'and to our surprise
they reprise-d human foibles perfectly
we called around a fire story time,
all the glories
of days we had
at go and stay
in the mountains, camp ...
we spread ourselves aurally thin
and fit into speakers
we had positioned above
and behind the audience
licorice lovers always lagged behind
they like the changelings
and morality zoetrope-s
some of us kept stones
in our pockets
dark skipping
what dreams
we remember ourselves
precipice-d desire
mental illness
as causative deformation 'reverse engineering
special circumstances that fence the killing of the soul
articulate limbs
broken shells, skin
names I call myself
when about to fall asleep
dreaming again
of endless mouths
to feed into why
we move coffins
lid to slid 'off the cuff
with remarkable lies
we hold as holy, pearl diving
a midnight we hold dear
calling us home
I bind thee, poem says
to your freedom, to your madness
to your quiet discernment
and I am personal logic,
an illness of cures too, it seems ...
EJR ©
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