in tonal varieties, bearing down upon thee-isms

take me in, take me home the poem speaks doubles 
spoken token broken bits of me I seek 
comma to karma, a chameleon revealing alien 
secretion-all-relationships between encoding 
we part ways and the bones are the days 
we decorated as countenances 
I hear one of Huldra's Nymphs play 
this same song, a maestro in the rain 
bleeding skin, tissue paper carnations 
falling off her like dyed barely dried 
sales pitches for the eyes 
discounted like Easter egg coloring kits 
I bought the night before Beltane ... 

the stanza here 
is dedicated to the city style minds of America, Rome, and Babylon: 
Persopolis, Tenochtitlan , Timbuktu and Nineveh 
never recovered from the losses 
of indicator species 
frogs and bees man 
frogs and fucking bees 
tiny robots to pollinate 
metal in the air to dare the clouds 
and perhaps shape the future 
long enough to escape 
with enough of us and stuff 
to start this all over again 
we are a gullible species, aren't we

"somewhere in outer space 

where God has prepared a place 

for those that trust Him and Obey" 

* ( a part of a sunday school song from my childhood)

this is the music playing 
when amplified progress desires 
soft tissue ambassadors 
to the soul 
survival/will want bones to be Senate 
sex organs and brain 
to share the mouthpiece/leadership role 
they'd also like to do this thing truncated-ly 

twang is slang sound 
midnight escaping into the daylight 
must be late December or June 
somewhere again 

I ask myself how does everyone fit inside my mind 
do the voices take turns switching the switches 
and dreaming of riches to shower 
those I've un-comforted along my ways 
not so fast past TV night you see 
nothing changes blames witches 
because the churning of culture 
only seems to 
want Lilith 
kicked out 
for demanding 
what was rightfully Hers 

I swear the allegiance codes change every day 
and to drive these roads at night 
well let's just say, irksome is a pleasant gadfly 
not I as I ran into an old woman with a window 
for a stomach 
and the future 
on the very ends 
of her pursed lips 
why do I think of candy 
when impending doom approaches 
play games with the words to change the mood 
doom odom modo mood or something like that 
dramatic segue into closing credits 
scenes of barber chairs and milky white linens 
ruffling in a sunny wind 
while pinned to the line 
by maidens in long dresses 
a long shot is tracking 
the audience grasps 
we, principles and puppeteers 
behind the curtains 
rift the drifting 
of story 
into a smiling dark 
poem has grown to know 
when the endings begin 
where wombs carry to term 
the weight of our sins


EJR ©