The Real Estate Of My Mind

My stories are contrived from concealed figments of

imaginary pieces of the real estate of my mind

that stalk the subconscious synapses of paradox,

unfold layers of evocative reflections of experience,

journey through poignant particles of brainwaves that

peddle through the thick atmosphere to empty space,

seeking time bomb snippets set to detonate at moment's notice.

Minutes ago, words did not appear on this paper,

now language is squeezed n' transformed

into poetic birth of another doggerel.

If I were a woman, I would breast feed this infant

so that he/she would manifest to completion.

But, I am a man whose innate ability to nurture

lay in the soil over which I toil each spring

as I till, seed, water, weed, reap, sow my paradise.

In stillness, my lucid mind wanders inward,

convolutes, then circumvents reality,

logic disappears, reason reflects observation,

a flicker of perception is ignited,

lyrics pour from philosophical vessel

onto slippery roads I travel, paths once forsaken,

given up for dead, only to rise in the sunshine.

The sky is a cloudless incandescent blue.

The 80-degree temperature is the perfect palatial pallet.

The sultry wind crawls 5mph from the warm gulf waters.

Swan families are floating in file beneath the boat dock.

Married eagles are nesting in needles atop the pine trees,

Playful squirrels are fidgeting up bark of the palm trees.

Poking, peaking, long-beak White Ibis' aerate the lawn.

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pillaged wine

'scuse me for

outwardly processing but

I can't control myself

these days. There's too much

to masticate and castigate

not to. But I'm

low on patience

and need action. Abolition.

Absolution that this statecraft

between us, between the world

is more than funds and suppression.

More than archived warheads and

blanching at darker skin than cardboard.

I don't buy it.

It's not policy

it's theology.

And the faster we make

that distinction

the better. God can't lead us

all into battle

but each

will claim

his banner.

And you know the shit-storm

that shadows: tin cut messiahs

yell for blood

and everyone bleeds.

We all become bovine

and crave a good steak

w/our pillaged wine

and sterling spoons.

We feed their children ours

and that has got to stop.

'cos I won't spend

my golden years

mucking out

the shit of kings.

Bleaching their chambers

of virgin blood. Lighting their pyres

and burning my own.

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Jazzoetry: In & Out of Time - Music Set to Words

Quinn's  

330 Main Street  Beacon, NY

Monday,  February 27th    8-11pm    Suggested Donation

Calling All Poets & Quinn's presents JAZZOETRY – Music Set To Words.

This hotly anticipated inaugural event features many of the Hudson Valley's celebrated

actors, poets, and storytellers who know how to groove 'n flow with the incredibly gifted

musicians that make up the Jazzoetry Quartet.

The evening will move in and out of time with jazz instrumentals & jazz vocals, as poets

and storytellers perform spoken word and improvise with the ensemble.


Jazzoetry Quartet:

Kitt Potter - Vocals/Jazzoetry

Neil Nail Alexander – Piano

Robert Kopec - Upright Bass

Eric Pearson - Sax, Reeds, Flute


Jazzoetry Features:

Dutchess County Poet Laureate Poet Gold

Mike Jurkovic

Glenn Werner


Join us as CAPS pushes free speech forward when we need it most.
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Friday, May 5 8pm: An Evening with Eamon Grennan

Born in 1941, Eamon Grennan is a Dublin native and Irish citizen who has lived in the

United States for over thirty years. He was educated at University College in Dublin

and Harvard University.

His collections include: Matter of Fact (Graywolf Press, 2008); The Quick of It, (2005);

Renvyle, Winter (special limited edition, 2003); Still Life with Waterfall (2002),

winner of the Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize; Selected & New Poems (2000);

Relations: New & Selected Poems (1998); So It Goes (1995), a finalist for the

Paterson Poetry Prize; As If It Matters (1992); What Light There Is and Other Poems

(1989), a finalist for a Los Angeles Times Book Prize; What Light There Is (1987);

and Wildly for Days (1983).

As well as a number of Pushcart Prizes, he has received awards from the National

Endowment for the Arts, the National Endowment for the Humanities, and from the

John Simon Guggenheim Foundation.

He taught at Vassar College until his retirement. He lives in Poughkeepsie, and spends

as much time as he can in the West of Ireland.

Join us for a very special evening.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poets/detail/eamon-grennan


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(Now I Am the) Time Bomb

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Nephrite Jade

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First Day of Autumn

It's nice to feel an air conditioned day, 

Nature's changing thermostat 

set just where I like. 

Leaves on the trees disagree:

some are red with anger 

that Mother Nature turned off the heat,

some are yellow with fear 

for the coming chill of winter,

and some have fainted dead away, 

lying on the ground.


(9/22/16 JM)

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All the World is an Asana



A petal on a flower practices her yoga.
in a body no longer strong and agile,
her favorite posture being dormancy.
Her light, imprisoned in rigid form,
craves a change of asana.

Maples awaken in the distance with swaying red buds,
birds and bugs fly and wiggle,
stream currents flow,
moving beings in their unique
flowing, growing, flying and wiggling asanas.

Rocks still and sturdy in unperturbed posture,
the sun in fiery, shining Warrior Stance
and the moon in golden Silent Savasana,
pose, gazing at us, dreaming that all the world
has moved into the asana of loving.

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Packaged Brightly

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury

what else do you need to know?

How they've fleeced your bloodline.

Gutted your sons and defaced

your angel daughters.


How they put the planet

up for sale. Sky brown. Dead Sea.

Cut down mountains to get their goods

to a new market now that yours is

dark and shuttered.


How you always owe them something

even if they've claimed

each extremity. One by one.

Lopped off and

thrown in a hole


leading to

the process machines

that break the shit down

into dinner. Packaged brightly

w/lots of salt. And sugar.

And booze. 18% by volume.


How we dance on our last leg

the latest gyration. The newest dodge

and hustle. And I wish I had a hacksaw

to cut the shin away.

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Letter Home

     

Letter Home


Some Civil War guy

in 1863 wrote:


Martha, I have seen

the dog

'n pony

show

and I

can't watch

no more.


Me neither.

I know

the feeling.

Especially

blue

vs.

gray.

I know

the blood

don't matter.

The air

is out

of the

balloon.


You can call

customer service.

But I doubt

they answer

the phone.

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