"riverrun" poems
Standing by the riverrun
a lone a last a everything
the mass was floating and unfolding
I was the engine she was the chorus.
Twisting about the bend
One fell one fall one everything
the mess was unfolding and holding
I could only touch her if she was nune.
Looking past the looking-glass
Her nerves her curves her everything
the miss was touching and forever
I be gone and be all by the riverrun.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 9:21 AM UTC
synagogue bells jar and outside is the
color of green, mist enshrouds moss
macadamized in young wall;
beating back to lips, a paler hue of scorched red,
a moment twists, hurries back to
the shell of a modest hour,
rearing in its tender arms, tantric ***
of rain and tendril. tenuous wind swiftly
purloins sound
submerging the world in picker-patter,
the moon fronts and the sun
behind — this is my world and within
its breast, the riverrun stride in between
stone packs its smell of mud
clotheslines full with heavy fabric
weighed down to intent and inertia,
dragged down to sleep and dream
as the hourly siren tolls somewhere that
does not have a beacon, a name
even, blaming only the shadow frittering
back to its console, pinning us
down to the calm weather we sing
about in the afternoon — reaping
in the twilight,
a cold-mouthed Hefeweizen!
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:50 AM UTC
Grievous
I hold you as the chameleon with his spring-trigger bone
Holds his tongue
And I will catch you as a fist
I will lick the stench from your odor sacks
as a skunk
All those creepy little fragments
bugs in the system;glitched codes
they are shackled souls in a microsecond arc-length
of the universal
Prodding the dirt
and the worms
as stars
How about all the spice trees?
The many different species of food glitter
they make the buds sparkle, they are thinking of the taste
of umami, of sour, of patchwork gaze
the cooked vestibules of bone
the marrow, seeping into the stew
The pepper trees are smoked
equinoctial bonfires
You and I are yet to be cooked through
A taxi in the trader joes parking lot
Big repetitive 7's splattered across its paneling
I won't forget when i'm drunk or inebriated somehow
The tree in the center of town is lit up with LEDs
Branches curling like worms
You are Pharos, you are the great celestial beam
you are the crescent moon, thin as a sleeve
and the hot taste of batter on your breath
the way you let my Guinness cool off next to the space-heater
and give me yogurt from the local townsfolk
Everything is creamy, you said.
But i don't like to hear that
It's a steel rod into my brain, that.
I am a simple Vishnu Hare Brahma
I do not have any purpose but to be enlightened
and worshiped for my powerful odors
and a four-chambered bowel
that makes the turn easier for worms.
2
Pitiful
You are the hopeless pod
the many wildebeest, crossing their annuals
through twirling water-crocs,
Lion Prides
Leopards shifting within the brush
Bacterial infections from ***** tusks
Strange metal boxes
No 7's on this side
I want to blow the ******* skulls off of anything
that aims for you, sweet mare
45-70
Will literally send chunks of it into orbit
Lion or Turtle or window or Children
The most godly thing is a bullet
And the streams of blood that will seed a new ravine
and seep the next feed of riverrun
Will you be mine, then?
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 4:39 AM UTC
So what is the new next thing?
isick ilich selum lee lay lum
syntax brizoke choke sizome
jabber wizock riverrun,
past Eve and Adam
Raisinets, Kay Jewelers, Round Up ‘s the way
Nirvana sun Gaga Ketchum drum Bellum
Numb undone-or-been done “that’s right son you tell’m”
“Ugh a rhymer?” “a diner.” “no stop it,” “crop top it.”
“No really I’m feeling like this meter is cheating”
“but I can’t stop,” “that didn’t rhyme” “oh yea”
So now what?
What is there?
Can I go any further?
Not not, come **** ****
September November taint
I, you, it—‘s all ****
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
Dream a dream in leather-bound
Sheets as white as wedding gowns
Trace endless streets as riverrun
On alleys, veins back and down
Cigarette mornings, sun’s crown is passed
Onward! To destinations!
Calmly, into nothing goes on the last
And ever on so fast.
Steam does lift off the shadows cast
Off the blinding sky, perfect, pale-skin white
From my empty room Troy-maiden appeared
Verse tattooed on belly white, limbs so lithe.
Ere long, the throbbing thing, the pen
Passed and rent the soul to send
My crafted love in the sallow morn
The devils therefrom that are born
Knows not best torture me
With outright attacks and battery
But that time and brooding are
Whips and chains—evoke his dignity
All it took to collapse his frame.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
riverrun, past Eve and Adams
in the end there is a beginning
that must never end.
It is hardly difficult to argue
that this is no time for the fatuous
and that nothing is more fatuous
than scribbling poetry at dawn.
But compulsion and desire will out.
We must sing of this world
not some better unknown star.
The given is the wool we weave.
All times are equally terrible
and equally sublime.
The eternal politics of horror
must never stifle the human heart.
Which serves to make clear that
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 6:25 AM UTC
I knew it all along,,
The passions fire song,
Has long since been sung.
A turn, another riverrun.
Currents up to speed, A hegemony's
Life force bleeds.
Entropic blades of iron
Coated in gold lions
Of Zion.
And prophets lost yet found.
Reality abounds,
Prophetic or not,
Subjective thoughts
Achieved, not sought.
As time trickles on.
A dream?
Perhaps....
Perhaps not.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
riverrun past eve and adam so
fast it tossed up my chainmail
vest. For a second it shone my
tattered back battle scars.
I’m not one to reminisce
about bad times but the fish
I had wrangled had rattled so fierce
I bell fack-boreward into the fox
of fishing hooks.
Dangling pirate hands shredded
sails salty water waves filled my
whales -- “ARR ME BACK”
The fish cackled and got away.
The boat was in the Abiquiu river, a ways away
a way a lone a last a loved a long
the riverrun
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
death arrives to feelingfulness,
all who wish to forget.
sometimes the way seeking the cold
from which the sun lifts in its hands
the heat pressed against
the mad and the strife-torn heart
affords nothingness still.
pain is etched in stone— all for no one
to hear, but he who is frozen beside
the petrified willow like a brook
unthawed from the ice of its call.
at the brink of it watch all birds,
strings, petals of days and the leap
without any sign of swelter from
a day's stridence.
how do they fit through the seam
of this river— altogether in riverrun
and aching, wind is full and stringent,
with its figure white in moon,
even whiter with hand-woven quiet.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 5:23 AM UTC
There she stands,
An angel with broken hands,
An angel with stones for wings,
She sings the sun away
And spins timorous sky ashade
Of wonder, thunder row'n’ down
Her body, she sang of me
As I died asleep
Another night, my eyes too worn to cry,
Too alone for an expression of lonliness
To bare any meaning.
The sapphire trail
Skylark doled to drain
The riverrun grass of
Substance built.
Lifted in hypoxic transcendence
Glistening with light, ****** gold,
Skin to lilt, and touch to felt
And dawn rotted unto morning
With one less life having made it.
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 2:21 AM UTC
this is when
we keep on keeping on
our fingers laced and kinked
to some incited cold
gives us no unction – i leave
you with irreparable harm
trudges across flame, guesses
the assailant of aches.
when these crosses straighten
within the whelm of your mouth
i will curl them again in sweet,
successive manners of graceless joust
and then when you come before i,
or is it i before you — whichever,
this music is never a notice of
ease — only rescue without warning
or attendance, seeping underneath
pallid floor work, lips puckered
pursed to attenuated form of bow
and mine eyes arrow through
your triple deeds arraying
and i can never ignore how immense
the moon is in the river of the same vein
riverrun, away, wayward—
lisps of white and red
and soon obliterated when both our
avenues close and we walk
home, hands separately yearning.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC
there is something
that needs to be done,
revere in the plot
or a merciless yelp of rebellion;
the night consolidates
into something no hand could grasp
no eyes could pare
with stabbing vision, paring the skin
of it, leaving it flayed
hurtling in the corridor like a child
razed by high-rise of sun
the bucolic ornaments of downtown
seething with hammered words,
it starts to rain, diving into the gutter.
there is something that needs to be done.
tonight i look past the haze of the window
and see a vision gyrating, like a hand of
hours full and whirling, preyed on
an iron-wrought webbed without relent
from a tarantula's sepulcher,
a seraph denied of flight.
this is what needs to be done;
all-kissing twilight of paradisiacal twining
a name extolled in all that is quiet,
dismembering parts of you
as i try to once more assemble the night
and give it your flair, your tonal voice,
your riverrun hair, your leap of faith,
again and again the vaudeville of stars
propagate in the starless morning
necessitating unsung surrender
heeding patterns, fluid lithographs
drawing a new caricature of pain.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC