"hinterlands" poems
We crossed over
into the hinterlands,
burned trails
to unnamed
watering holes,
those dingy places,
where we
lifted our hands
backwards,
tilted our heads upwards
to the gods
& drank copiously.
There was no law,
only disorder, but
nobody ever got in our way,
so we continued with impunity
to play wildly.
In altered states,
we mated
with unknown devils
who ****** us dry,
left us crying as
broken down dogs,
barking at the moon
& swearing oaths,
promises of silence,
what happens
south of the border,
stayed south of the border.
And it did.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
After a hard days fight,
we were taken prisoner
by the grays.
It was way out in the hinterlands,
on the edge of tomorrow,
in the Battle of Sorrows
when they took us in.
Light was failing,
it was nearing night
when they brought us
in for interrogation.
Of course,
despite their methods,
we told them nothing,
nothing that would reveal anything
about the secret weapon,
the star-killer machine
that would be
the end of life
as we know it.
Besides, it's silly
to give the enemy
such valuable information,
information like that could turn the tide,
could destroy the whole universe,
make losers out of all of us.
I hope our side keeps it hidden.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.*
just your atypical pedantry,
a translator's subscript comment -
who's richard rojcewicz's...
regarding what?
heidegger...
das volk,
and the three derivatives -
volkhaft (populist),
volklich (communal)
und?
völkisch (folkish) -
i'm starting to suspect that
i'm tapping in the all things folk....
unconsciously, favoring folk
music...
see, us central europeans,
we bunch together and share
the most odd similarities -
i never thought that the song
herr mannelig could be translated
from Swedish - as it was
translated into German...
then again... Vikings founded Kiev...
and all these loan-words
of Germanic origin in Polish...
the only Anglo loan-word
that i know of, is, weekend...
hence, das volk, people -
by the way... German has "too many"
definite articles,
and only one ein - or eine -
is that the same rule as in Ęnglish?
i.e. N
in an example,
rather than in a counter example?
two vowels adjacent in separate
word, sitting across from the grand
chasm of... a spacing itch?
but look at German, i never get it...
DAS DIE DER...
is there an aesthetic difference,
and only an aesthetic difference
to mind?
bewildering...
if there is such a thing as a western
civilization...
that sometime
pompous obnoxiousness,
fair enough... no problem:
but learn to hide it,
feel it, rather then feed it...
it's not a question of a civilization,
but more...
an answer to what is less
civilization, and more... a chore...
just like western women,
notably the english women
call motherhood a, "job"...
it's a... wait... a job?
doubt was big in classic philosophy
of the Cartesian schematic...
so no one knows that
the French existentialists
brought in negation,
as the driving force to replace
doubt?
who the hell sees doubt
these days?
either the know it alles -
or the hush-hush crowd...
motherhood is a... job?
well... then i guess, being a man...
western civilization,
by that standard of logic...
can't be anything more...
than a.... ******* chore!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
The grass was clear in the moist of the ruins moat
Twas dawn and all this hike, not even a city I could sight
The plains were sheer as the white satin coat I've seen
Clash, a clustering view from mountains down to hills
Shaking knees as I rise to pick up my bed of sheets
Then the breeze swept as I shivered to its grasping chills
Distant peeks; unbridled stallions are troubled free
The sunray spots the verge and brightens the darkest end
At lost in the moment, a nature's sage of imagery blends
A brown wren swiftly glides upon to rest at my tent
In the midst of the day like rain in June and blooms of May
Swans, Geese and white petals dancing to a bluish bay
Solitary to be, but with the rivers overflowing symphonies
We'd sing hymns to delight in an afternoon galore
A steadfast rhythm clinging as I walk with God alone
Euphoric army of billows cascading, a purple-orange scene
As I idle in the view of fields depicting a justful liberty
To smile and remember someone cared with all is please
Singing crickets and fireflies we're all a friend of mine
At eve I rolled endlessly, frolicking at the midnight meadow
Casting joys and crowns as the moon beams a silver line
To the hinterlands, life's a breeze and everybody twas at ease
An escapade I was wanting to get lost from life's reality
Meeting pauper's, gazing wonders, then we'd all fall asleep
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 12:11 AM UTC
*je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
Have not chatted in awhile,
me rutted in NYC,
a city of constant tear down
and sometimes flashy urban human
renewal...
While you,
you getting on with life,
growing up, growing down,
buying clothes for a new school season,
or growing children,
or boxing up now grandchildren memories of memories...
falling in love, writing poetry all about it...
You,
in Nepal, Malaysia, India,
Seattle, Portland, and the Florida's panhandle,
the US Midwest sainted hinterlands,
the South, that makes one love water,
water that has travelled from the faraway,
island continent of professorial Australia,
Did I forget the Philippines?
worse sin committed,
is that in
your poetry
I have not toe dipped,
quite the long erstwhile,
after loving it with
obsession devotion...
so just a Saturday afternoon
note penned just to you
and you alone...
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
So by way of apology,
craft a poem for you exclusive,
more than each word, letter,
every syllable, tongue tasted
for conjuctivity,
breadth and thus discovered
notes of red soil, raspberry, lemon,
even a hint of sweet masquerading as a
salty kindness in our veins,
our unique vintage of connectivity
Your hand to my lips raised,
grasped twice, by mine both,
slow lifting with stature, affection and respect,
kiss it and whisper just enough for
we two to hear...
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
even this seems weakly insufficient,
but care taken nowadays,
a new economy of words,
write less, think more, and
give up the truly deserved words only
as a mark of my fondness and respect
these come on no schedule,
often months in the making,
so forgive-me-not my unsweetened silences,
accept them with easy knowing that
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
the summer man wintered in discontent,
his journey now disrupted by forces exogenous,
stealing his vision, jailing him in between
walls of indecision, knocking down
his own twin towers,
but carelessly not making provision
to tell you well and often enough
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)*
Sept. 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
she stood outside the apartment
finger halfway up her nose
scratching with her free hand
a **** loosely encased
in patchy, ***** blue jeans
ratty sneakers with holes where
her toes and dignity poked through
usually a whiner, a brayer
a donkey among gently purring cats
calling down thunder and racket
like a motorcycle tearing circles through a lamp shop
today, of all days, she swayed
silently
in loose waltz time
to soft piano of a long-dead Frenchman
curling down from speakers
mounted in windows
across the street
her misshapen hips and flexing calf muscles
lifting her up in a rude en pointe
somehow made elegant
by a quiet ballad, a soothing moment
on a hot August morning
in Main Street
of the hinterlands.
2/12/2015
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
Sojourn at the hinterlands of a fog casket
awoken to be suffocated
put to sleep to dream
within a dream the nightmare of a mother's fear
depression is so easy to slink in
so wary of all those palpable sins
like being yourself -
awoken to be suffocated
put to sleep to dream
with a dream the nightmare of a mother's fear
where pink haired ladies
talk about my dissonance
within a dream about the nightmare of my mothers
self punishment -
for birthing me
questioning if it was the right decision
if I was born to suffer
this fate
so i wake in the land of dead people
who's limbs fall apart
as they're names are called out by the concierge
to my voice as whisper
to my courage bubbling underneath
a mother fearful of coming close
forgiveness is a blessing
and the tears flow
out of the eyes of a child onto the cheeks of a woman
who's life was molested by other peoples sanctions
a woman who stood tall for the voice of others children and elders
who encouraged chance meetings to be themselves via magazine clippings
and a mother afraid to come close
and a child still living the actions of a ghost looming at her with wide eyed slanders of " you ****** up , you piece of ****
you **** up at everything"
it's difficult to look it's like watching someone be strung up
naked
tied to posts
and the spaces between their fingers sliced
their yoni sliced
their ******* sliced
their heart beating wide eyed screaming
silenced.
My mother
who birthed me
whom i respect
for all of her showings
no matter how ****** up
strung up
and the vision is blinding.
and we're both crying
but i don't tell her
because it's lunch time
and she's ****** up again.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
the farmgirl with the green flecks in her anime eyes
is snoozing in her van. it's afternoon and she's lost her ruby slippers. she knows not where.
she charms the water fleas with her clean teeth.
she gropes through the ampules of her ample ***** where her heart is like a fox and hound.
in a glass forest. the otherwise, warm porridge is the cruel gruel of her next poem.
she gnaws on the nape of her next unborn. the naked rube of her snipe hunt
on a night with no moon.
she doesn't mind either.
her kites fly, un-flummoxed in the effulgent. unchained in the Quixote of our windmills. distilled
by charcoal fences. a net of screens, nimbly deployed across the hinterlands
of our possibilities.
now " who could that be ? "
agnes is calling and i know she just wants her computer fixed.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Blackbirds backwards
and your solid foil to my boiling yawn
is remembered
I’ll always love you my dude
even though it’s mostly memory now
we travelled odd eighties early nineties
hinterlands
full of clear stupidities and hidden
immutable truths
but I’ll always hold
ridiculous dry heated cricket pitches,
run dark *** and loose joints
as what drove us
“What should we do today?”
“I dunno”
Jun 18, 2021
Jun 18, 2021 at 6:09 PM UTC
when i cordoned you off
with Gorilla Tape and lilac vine
once i was done attaching encrypted files
of pearls upon that sultry salt of your inner-thighs
once i’d borrowed bonds
off my favorite banker’s portfolio
so i could waste myself in their earned interest
ratios
of blood bourne by centuries of
hapless gathering oppression
so i could use them in mosaics of swollen sand
that i could lay
like sea-glass shards under your
ebbing feet as useless parchments
i swallowed you in all your swollen spasms of fragile oblivion
until that bottom of this tongue lept amidst surfacing juices
obliterating and obligating all that ever decayed amidst obelisks
your whispers
(hatched from your
breathy endorphins)
shook me into
mine own
desperate shudders
astride our gathering humidity
and i gathered in
your needle-nosed
plier
eyes
-rust encrusted grey
incisors-
wrought from melted andirons
mixed with slug
trodden
soils
of hinterlands i was
never
to penetrate
as if i ever slammed
you
with yore spinning flails
into night’s emerging chasm
of charcoal sprinkled
with inner-orange peels
and their attempts toward
all that is illuminating, wistful, brief, and
precious—
i am your son, i am birthed from your sal i vations. i am twisting, still, amidst these rudiments of brine...
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 2:20 AM UTC
Spurious words and spinning wheels
grasping the unmade road
crossing streams of deserted hinterlands
sparing no weakness
Plenty in the fork of the day
shining down like twilight
whittling down the breeze of night
and smashing up the stars
Meandering past the lazy groves
grain in corsets
musk in roses
pushing the littlest hearts
and raising their eyes to the sky
a glimpse and a glimmer
sparkle of the waters
and we were unshackled
lost
In more ways than one
you whispered in the tiniest hours
and I heard the edges of your echoes
resounding slowly and gradually
rebounding for more
filling the universe.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 10:16 AM UTC
There it went, right with summer
into the hinterlands, and the snow kissed peaks
I chased it like cigarette smoke after my last one
I longed for it as the a glass of water in the deserts;
I've noticed how quickly it goes from 6 to 12
when I want just a little bit more time
How love goes to complacency in a
single blink of an eye;
It's the days that drag on that get to me
When the only warmth I'm feeling is
the street lamps as I'm roaming
Insomnia is calling, and she's got my name;
My souls reflecting in the mirror what's
been gone for so **** long
My child like ecstasies
My deepest desires of love are
all gone
If you could find it for me, I happen
to have a silver dollar
Perhaps if that's your price
you could go on the hunt;
Where do you go, once you've lost the scent
That carries you on home?
Where do you go, when the arms of yesterday
are no longer embracing?
When strangers are stone
When your mind is blank
to avoid all the pain
Where do you go?
I've a got a silver dollar, if that's your price
per chance could you give me some advice?
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
humid temperance in your tussled hair
you are fair to begin with
a more wholesome lust-
my ***** could pray too.
you give this
gravitas -
while withholding a miracle of aftermaths.
you're spot on.
manifest this for me...
bring out the outcasts of your hinterlands and small tokens.
bring out your fists so that i may comfort them
with too warm kisses.
let me languish in your paradox
swollen with joy
totally into it,
let me love you like like like like daybreak mending.
i'll size you up
on a pedestal
and catch
you
like a lover.
try me.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 11:29 AM UTC
Conifer-covered hillside
in the hinterlands
of this sleepy town
on a warm day
in this mid-June
The unspoilt soil
neither grieves
nor revels
and there's no revelation in that-
just what you see.
It's just what you see.
The quivering quakeys
can't hack it even when they cackle-
an attempt to unravel the shackles of
their incomplete alchemy-
cause it's never enough
one laugh is never enough.
The high's always flanked
by a sunrise so rank
as to wrinkle the brows
of the loudest and proudest-
the laughers and criers, or livers and die-rs
Just give me the bliss of the birds
and a big lidless urn to retire my fire
when the work week expires
when I finally can see even truth holds some lies
and when the sun sets too low to appraise the horizon,
I'll fly.
I'll just fly.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
I watch, at the
prairie of time
the unfurling of nature
the dissertation
of saints
and in the hinterlands
a bare cry of
entrance
barred into the heavens
whispers of the world
residues
of fate and light
and devils
grieving for their
sacrifices
and slipping
into the worlds of men
the partakes in
grey barriers
and lossy colours
periphery
the ancient coliseum
the warface of dread
and acquittals of
memories
moments in time
spinning on the axle
grappling onto thoughts
and endless flows.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 10:38 AM UTC
Not knowing where I am going
I am lost in an forgotten hinterland
I used to have such direction
But now I have absolutely none.
Wondering in this place
I am lost in Outer space
Surrounded by cloud
Like cotton wool
As all my lists
Dissolve into the mist
I look north, east ,south and west
No land marks valleys or peaks
As I sniff a little heather
And become as lite as a feather
Somewhere in my stomach
I feel an empty passage
But I take a gentle breath as
Something says nothing is urgent
I am cushioned by the cosiness
of the spongy undergrowth
As I Feel myself grow I delve
Into the peaty marshes bellow
Lost in this sleepy land
I can not help but enjoy
The forgotten Hinterland
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
In hidden hinterlands of space
Betwixt the whirring spheres
Are marvels time cannot erase
With the bludgeon of her years
In stars’ cascade one sees clear
Nature’s hand, so accurate
The creations of her mind
Like pearls immense, immaculate
The majesty of multitudes
Is embodied in the expanse
Its bodies waltz and pirouette
In celestial romance
Walking cross the Milky Way
We could see on and on forever
Into an infinity of untrod realms
Untouched by man’s endeavor
For want of it the cosmic mystery
We may never fully grasp
But such ignorance is bliss to me
It’s enough to be in nature’s clasp
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 11:41 PM UTC
A veil of light and ashen grey
invites me to peer in to stranger day
fluttering and beckoning
behind it what is happening?
a smorgasboard of molten colour
winks at me, summons me near
I become swept up, in hurricane
that rolls and waves across the plane
of one reality in to another
'Tis here I feel my spirit brew
imbued with bright, celestial hue
deep in hinterlands of enchanting joy
where I ravish these pleasures coy
too overwhelmed to fight, resist
the very light with which I'm kissed
from famished eyes I am engorged
my tender spirit enlarged
on trajectory of bliss
On horizon, magic gestates
Leaves my spirit insatiate
Adorned by sparks phantasms brood
Lifting like hot air balloon my mood
Between chasm of magic and reality
Goes visions with conviviality
Enchanting the mind with true force
Summoned from natures magic purse
Which sprinkles havoc on normality
Forms of Beauty riddle my eye
With their heavenly symmetry
Godesseses of divinest shine
Beam soul-deep, from theirs to mine
Behind the veil of usual routine
Lies awesome truth with golden sheen
Nourishing the spirits belly
To magical shores the spirit ferried
Enamoured of most lucid of dreams
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 5:07 AM UTC
the sacred Isle ruled the waves
then plundered and looted from Benin to China
from Egypt to Greece they took and even Rayleigh craved
Men, women, artifacts, gold silver, diamonds
all come back to our motherland to stay
nothing wrong with that, its all our birthright
A union was agreed between nations around
in opaques agreement lets pool everything and share
we move as one and live in peace and prosperity together
years down the line with all working well
the Isle said we want out we are not getting enough
we can go our own way and get a lot more without sharing
let us not be so selfish says some thinkers
we want out says the people cause we don't like sharing
lets go our way and take and sell to the whole wide world
they say I am greedy because some old man wore a coral crown
and owned the marshes he had lived from 1845 with his brood
no one went to sea to rob another or took taxes from people
the coral crown family all worked day and night
doctors, lawyers, surveyors, civil servants even nurses serving others
never took or asked from State to survive or wore any coral crown
came the wordsmiths and experts in Acquisition international
who wrote the book on Greed and taking from every known place
either by war, treats, bribery or just plain **** chicanery
yes, yes, this renowned Magpies hollered, you are greedy
it will cost you arms and legs, it will cost you all you hold dear
we say you are greedy and that's all, we hear no protest, no mercy
in simple minds logic and reasoning is not to be found
my coral crown old man did not fight to take land or wealth
did not sit in chambers gilded demanding taxes from no one
they moved from the hinterlands in droves led by him
to the coastal areas ****** land, where the marshes were wild
they cultivated and settled after years of exodus, perils and trials
he toiled hard and managed, created communities living in peace
ruled with wisdom and grace and looked after his people
killed no one for gain nor took land or property from any one
Ignore the difference between old man Coral and your own crowns
ignore the truths that shows there's no comparisons whatsoever
listen to the Experts on Greed. they have declared I am greedy
historically and now this Experts must be right, they invented Greed and Rights.........
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 3:25 AM UTC
To the limits!
And the heaves are harmed, in our lungs
and arms. Tendons flexed on their utmost,
and breath at play in the drowned coast.
To the shores!
And the leaves are left as specks of colour,
from the moors.
and vacations left the hinterlands
of the decayed, breathless holler.
For the greater good we stood as imagined heroes,
Yet for happenstance to lend a chance in our woes,
required a great many motifs
to clamour and climb
In glamourous time
to the raised butte
of a finishing sublime.
Modulate the past and harmonize the future.
Together tapestry'd, akin to patchwork suture.
We weren't raised this way.
To remain forever at play, workhorses neigh.
And sawing brilliance and sawdust eyes,
rapier wit with no equal.
But together a two-parter,
to the shores to see the sea quell.
Wildfire lick like lit flame.
Burn it all down and give me the blame.
It's a carried burden worth the worry.
In mountains some exist as prideful barons.
Barring the loss of their barren,
their smiles turn smirks of heathen carrions.
Which is fine, and the motif licks again.
And the motive is sublime; it's only sin.
Cherish the children and their rue of thresher-born,
Thomas Ligotti and his party of philosophy,
but I'm too caught in histrionics to allow the matter
to matter.
Beyond the kicking feet of the mirthful pitter-patter,
pitted against the coming solstice of time saving;
forward and back and ouroboros we may.
Hold on tight to this singular day.
Ignorant of the causes of our own decay.
Lost during summers covered in spittle and seaspray.
Only to mount a return, a loss,
to the area most unaccepting of the cost.
To the mountaintops!
**** what you see, and reap what you sow.
Push the mountains down into the crow,
and call out for the all the denizens below,
"Here's another landslide." As you call; Heave, and **
Pile them neat and plant a seed,
of a tree that hasn't belonged or had a chirped song
in a placidity.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:24 AM UTC
Masked back-packing militants descend on DC.
The instigators' antics indicate true agitator's instincts. When the rest buy it, the best... riot ? Putin set the precedent by rootin' for the President. As for the protestors -- are they seeking to serve justice or just the Secret Service? Joined by thousands of patriot motorcyclists, the black-masked boast of hikers may be lost on a host of bikers. Hmmmm... the silent verve of our veteran friends proves that the violent serve wicked ends. The verge of silence may mean a surge of violence.
While snowflakes melt down, the state will clamp down as militants storm town. Eastern sages know: a mean Taoist turned teen Maoist may raise the base rating for race-baiting just to get a rise. Erasing a different face is not the same as facing a different race (and many of these mad Taoists seem a tad Maoist to me...) Opening the trunk, one forgets that elephants remember: when the mob rules, they rob mules. Democratic icons are stubborn things. Until the bandits are punished let's banish the pundits to the hinterlands of fake news.
It's inauguration time, Dumbo.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 8:24 PM UTC
A cove, one’s own
For hearts, a home
where sky and sea and
cliff sides crawling with posies
meet in places
built from traces
of reassembled memories.
all is quiet, all is tender,
purling waters to remember
sips to come, from cups, were poured
by ocean waves en echelon
by providence and then beyond
by each embrace of pristine shore.
reminding us,
o’ forgotten trust
in things from hinterlands
curves of thought imbued with love
raked into hidden sands
washed away, washed away
by the Beloveds hands.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
In the lull
Of our constricted voice
In the hushing
Of our sullen realm
In the finite
Of our broken hinterlands
A watermark
No, rather
A barrow
A grave
Without inscription
Only handprints
In memoriam
Of the receding surf
Never heard
Never reached
Sep 23, 2020
Sep 23, 2020 at 7:23 AM UTC
I walked the borders,
saw the dunes towering
& heard sidewinder noises.
Each grain of sand
tumbles
out here
in the hinterlands
& those entombed
within the gates
of the concrete jungles
with cars honking,
know not the meaning
of pure silence,
nor the
call of the wild,
the sound of falling stars,
slithery creatures.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 6:09 AM UTC
Off the dusty
reckless trail,
my two angry-feet
stared back at me
from across my kingdom-
a claw-footed
tin-lined
copper washtub
manufactured in St. Louis
for wayward Western royalty,
just me and my feet.
From under the bubbles,
I swore there would be no trouble.
Between a thick-veneer of desert ****
I told my toes not to be alarmed,
to hang tight,
'cause this was going
to be our night for peace.
The last thing I saw
as we drifted into serenity
was my twin 44's
hanging quietly
in my well worn holsters.
Yessum, there's were rare times
out here, out here
in the desperado-hinterlands,
where quick hands
could bury a man
and his two feet.
I felt my hands tremble
at the thought of tomorrow.
But for tonight,
this quiet peaceful evening,
me & my feet
were surely safe
from any
immediate harm.
Amen (for these peaceful easy feelings).
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC