lycanthropy and the Moon dancing phone booths of the Autumns of our lives .............. ( main tining my direct line divine )

do we ever understand place until we are gone from it 
in every absence that envelopes us, we are glow worms 
for the past drives the future, passing the present often 
for instance today I am off to work where 
I'll spend ten hours feet to the grounding of a daily it, moving 
my will to body in tiny grand command ratios 
basked tasked to tasked rasped and salved 
destinies on my mind, I am whispering link rhythms 
p-awning pieces of my wonder 
tying the found door saloon missives 
of my (dis)order in order to record Love, Life laughing 

(for the loss of Ann)

pains are processes 
birth canals do start the death rattles 
we complete the nude wholly spirit with music
we remember our breaths in, a then when 
we enter what here we recognize 
as they cloth wrap our bodies 
to burn back 
to ash and 
stardust 
and we leave 
this place 
too, it seems we are all 
purring Schrödinger's cats, Death 
wading waiting weighting 
measures of approximation
and proclamation 
fixing the places 
rain gets in 
when we are 
only souls, coming 
and going 

(can a tale be a yet to be, sometimes even told, before you see)

and yes how I have always enjoyed 
her tale of hierophantic hermeticism : 

<the cost variances of each life's melting season swam 
while we bathed in salts to get to the bleeding sooner 
as crayons need the hive mind teeming 
so colors run to and from black and white>

she says Boreal creatures 
exquisitely paint 
smiles as happened upon(s) 
the In utero blessings 
in hindsight grow 
to even know 
we fatten our repose 
as the Sun waves high 
and especially when, July 
and August (be)come 
wry spies 
of where 
Autumn lies

yellowing bits, bitten and bridled too 
the edge walkers have wings 
the ends of their broad leaves 
tip and curl, they are sugar and iron 
and they sing, they are
beginning a pilgrimage 
so that even the pines 
will know to bid adieu 
to those days 
of heat and seethe 
bugs, beetles and belief 
time when mealy bits of flies 
land in daily breads and soups 
all that whirs with life 
and waiters don't seem to catch 
or venture to know 
Goldie Hawn was in 
Peter Sellers bowl 
there to remind 
his character 
and we too that 
before the frost gets ya 
and time eats gourds again 
a warm willow Hestia 
sweeps the corners for friends 
so we can remember 
all the why(s) 
we came to Love 
and carry ourselves 
palms up to the sky 
with clutched memories 
of those who've gone on 
another Life departed 
down low or up high ...


EJR ©