bouclejour Jan 12
do you remember

how it feels

to lie with a woman 

and hold her

as close in your heart

as she is in your arms

whose arms were those

whose heart was that

what woman

the things you unraveled from yourself 

without a thought

in club bathrooms and

green fields and

***** carpet floors

you cannot put those back

the way they were

you cannot 

turn the lights back out

no one ever tells you that

no one ever tells you child

be careful
what you pull on 

be careful

where you look
  Aug 2017 bouclejour
Nat Lipstadt
for Harlon Rivers

the river potion,
the river portent,
the river potent

it is all of these and not one

he is bank sided,
observing the false idols,
the image mirrored
in the glass of the river

transfigured molecularly
he becomes something ferried frothily, forcefully

as if a twig
or a small thing of human manufacture,
an object tossed up airborne-repeatedly

his poetry:
the clash of particles at the many junctions
of objects and water, eddies and the currents,
ceaselessly circumnavigating,  
searching revisionary pathways

but randomized,
prisoner of the flows,
servant to the wind's directives and the
earths magnetic indivisible undulating waves

this life,
its unsteady gait, 
the irreverent wavering of drunkenness
resultant from potent potions,
portents of inopportune position

in him,
my own histories, 
my poetic recordings
also become
water borne,
replayed back for me,
for erasure, censure, closure
and rededication

this River
is a tapestry,
a torn map,
drawn on broken shards
of slivered water,
living with all the others

but we,
are the untitled,
are the un-entitled,
and he is the

Oct. 20, 2016

harlon is one of the best poets here
if you are new to his writing, be sure to tell him honestly what you think...

his work can be found under  
Uncover him, and discover yourself within


Harlon Rivers:
my personal call sign, Poseidon
Poseidon was very fitting with Harlon River,
due to the symbolic nature of the water in their names.
I have only read few of this gentleman's work,
But I can assure you his work is very much a gift to the audience,
And like Poseidon that gift is fire to humanity.
Dawn of  Lighten
and of course<*****/
bouclejour Mar 2017
when I am barely there,
awake nearly and turn
back in toward sleep
all yellow-black,

and when my brain twitches
in the yellow-black motes and
it’s Sunday morning
in the place
where my brain is choosing

in that place my brain it will
through the globe and scheme of all things;

wheel and vector the whereabouts
of where about you might be
in its

(little globe
     little scheme)

and just there below sleep it will


about your smell,
there where it seeps up--

it will pivot
                  about you,          still
for you are--                  still
the music

and the fulcrum. still

                                  of my sleep

bouclejour Mar 2017
Those three words
of a sudden
pounded in my ears,
and echoed searing through my vessels;
They tumbled all
the way
to find within my breast
a rusted, sleeping drum:
My entire body rang
like a pinched nerve
with that familiar crystalline magnetic
that weaves the restless dreams of skyward eyes,
and drags our seizing hearts into the night,
that floods the weary’s lungs with scent of rain,
and ***** the ears of midnight wolves to give them pause.
You woke me, and I kissed you hard and warm;
I thanked you, for I didn’t know
If my eyes would ever see again.
bouclejour Jan 2017
I took some time
alone in line
to color in
the edge of him
your yellow skin
you’d cough and drool
and hang your head
your face was red
my tongue is lead
we’d play in dirt
and make it work
I stained your shirt
you pushed your tongue
around the edge
I stole your sun
you broke my head
bouclejour Jan 2017
I came home exhausted and road weary and
tried my key in the door but it wouldn’t turn.

The locks had changed.
I noticed then
that the trim around the windows was green instead of yellow.
Through the glass
I saw the rooms scattered with unfamiliar furniture.

I wondered if I was dreaming but I wasn’t.
I had, in fact, just awoken from a sleep of many years.

I knew then that I would never come home again.

So it was with her.
bouclejour Jan 2017
Sit and harden
To bitter nothing;
No iterations of mind whirring and clicking
No wealth of intangibles;
Gone all,
All fled to the wind from soft palms,
docile soft assumptions that beauty
needed no steady clasp
No earthly grasp to guide it
To guide you
To strengthen bone to bone and
Sinew to tolls taken,
To hearts weighed and tongues tested

Sat you, boy, with
Circumspect observations
And abstract explanations
For your strength released to the wind
And your beauty to loamy seas

O ***,
You are no ***,
Just a fool boy
A fossil frozen
A nose turnt up at dry grace
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