June 7, 2017

following harmonics : the glass tidal lore in old windows wanting to be waterfalls and pieces of poems ............................................... the children of Humpty Dumpty and short haired Rapunzel



I listened intently to what I thought was my heart 
found I should've eaten that song breathing in 
the looping architecture of madness, when I could 

she jangles keys 
please and knees 
into the lift 
of what being 
embodies 
when so driven 
to live for love 
you work 
four-letter gums 
you wield what works 
and coffee has always 
had the after midnight shift 

I once had 
all my marbles 
they've spun 
and guttered 
along ways 
to the here 
this poem-let 
seems to get stuck in, too

now I imagine rabbit holes and mirror garb 
the windows open and some neck swaying 
lean into me music playing 
I want more 
'tis all distractions 
meanwhile label-less anti-party wall adornments 
miraculously appear 
though each set of eyes 
sees a different pattern 
was told that the idea of order 
would wear off 
eventually 

faceless cabals divvy up 
commoditized material Earth 
to build their golden steps replete 
w/ soma-esque opioids: religions, 
all the way to the heavens 
from which they came...
and 
do not forsake 
aggrandizement of truth 
from the fringes 
for in these hinterlands, 
the mothers 
of every barker-ed enticement, 
consume you emotionally 

some poison for questionable 
benefit of all clauses 
supposedly hard-wired 
suckle us comfortably 
so slow so as not to notice 
death or at least 
the caged paralysis 

information overload 
wet-nurse shard 
drives naked hunter more 
what we never comprehend 
starves us, fed this way ...

eventually old map maker soul 
rolls bones, stoning corners 
each time death nears 
I fold paper too 
wanting 
to find 
some 
thing 


helped myself 
seek roots again 
gently removing tomato plants 
from little plastic housing 
digging soil 
clearing gnarl 
and rocks 
made the holes 
where the Sun goes

full of eggs 
over turned loam 
larval almost(s) 
Sun angles in 
noon tine-d moving 
boil slowly 
early birth sequencing 
ends of pitched forks

we never seemed to raise our voices again 
after that night, our songs, caught like kites 
in a mad sudden wind, trailing off 
whistles and howls

She wore a slippery crown 
was shapeless between forms 
there were many voices 
clamoring to be bowsprit 
what I get here, herding heard 
is stained by Love near what 
of me forever wears 

we went about 
the daily grind 
slip noose shouldering the load 
how would we drag the sky 
to the well tonight 
we thought 
thirsty w/ more 

when you watch death 
eye cornering us, misty ramparts 
the boneless declarations of soul 
are seen as scent holding us to memory and a life


she kisses things 
with her eyes 
limbs behind blinks 
between the observations 
were fingers where 
she held wombs 
she went about 
trees and grasses 
when in Summer 

so we gathered provisions 
along the snaked dust 
we did what we could 
eyes peeled, wary to trust 
as chances came, decisions

are all thoughts variations 
of original want of love 
do we observe asymmetric(s) 
as numbers in arrays 
2 form pattern choices 
velvet embraces made 
places eyes went 
following nose 

I choose to find nothing 
I dumb down ever seeking eyes 
cede the world to my nose to smell indifference 
its white picket fenced lies 

I heard being alive is Love 
but what of death I thought 
is there awareness after, where 
the conscious mind 
has brought me along 
for the ride 
being on the go 
glove and shovel ready 


EJR ©

6 comments:

  1. "and coffee has always
    had the after midnight shift"

    Amen to that.

    "I once had
    all my marbles"

    I somehow doubt that.

    This is one of my favorite lines:
    "she jangles keys" ... But I like that it could mean different things. Hotel room keys? Car keys? Keys to her heart? Lockbox? Or is she offering to scratch up your paint job?

    ReplyDelete
  2. "the windows open and some neck swaying
    lean into me music playing
    I want more"

    Music is the only safe thing to lean into.

    ReplyDelete
  3. "each time death nears
    I fold paper too" ... I love this.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Also this:

    "we never seemed to raise our voices again
    after that night, our songs, caught like kites
    in a mad sudden wind"

    ReplyDelete
  5. Gorgeous:

    "she kisses things
    with her eyes
    limbs behind blinks"

    What a powerful, thought-provoking ending. I think there is more love in death when there was not enough in life ... and I think an artist does not offer love so much in life because it hinders the work and invites the breaking of stone humans are d o intent on delivering. Silent sorrow and loss are the shovel and naked, calloused hand. A glove is not actually an option.

    ReplyDelete
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    ReplyDelete