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when the storks are all gone who will bring us our children?

Eduardo Ramos — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 04:55:43 +0000

After Manuel Vilas asked me if I still write, and then I crossed my eyes

pearls 12,13,14

Oh my
tapioca tongue, every
pearl on its way down, dancing in pudding,
has the message that something’s happened,
something a long long time ago, deep within my tummy,
a great pleasure was already there.

Hillsborough, friday afternoon [welfare of America's children]

I saw the man had no nose, just a hole
where it was gone, and I blamed cigarettes, but then
I realized perhaps I should blame cancer which could have
come first, and the chicken or the egg, which could just be nothing
but an eternal chicken. And as I looked down at his pickup truck,
and his face, his face without a nose, the idea came to me
that I was not to blame, because it was my fault to begin with. That night
I went home, had a beer, and smoked four joints, and the next
morning, I woke up feeling good.

meditations 12 & 3

Forget about the drought,
the war was over to begin with. Tonight
I drink hot water out of a cold tub and tomorrow
I wash my family in the front yard with a hose.

It was here all along, and now here we are,
living to tell the story. This week they sell Che Guevara’s stuff
to make some money, because this guy outsmarted him
many years ago and can sell the lock of hair he cut
from his corpse. It’s not his fault, this guy, though
it’s easy to blame him. We had already bought him
ten million times. Santa Teresa turned over in her grave.
And then it made sense that all we see is
nothing, plain nothing, and it sounds very pretty to me.
I could never forget how beautiful his face looked, long before
I had ever seen a t-shirt, and that was why.

for Amy and a baby

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Polyphony, Spending Spree, and the Abundance of Time

Eduardo Ramos — Wed, 21 Feb 2007 02:16:27 +0000

3-2 3-2 3-2 3-2
||
Time is a rhizo
me and so too
the earth is ti
me and earth i
s rhizome and
time is earth &
a rhizome is a
||

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workus [haikus from work]

Eduardo Ramos — Tue, 06 Feb 2007 17:03:34 +0000

mala leche

just
make sure it work
jerk

web page down
three hours in sprinkler rain
we all need help

7 deaths blamed
on bitter cold weather
web page down

printer stuck
in traffic today
my bike hurts

ten below today
the morning cold is bitter
we commute alone

bash0 2.ō

old computer
man jump-inside
human sound shhh

for Amy

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response to (& for) amy

Eduardo Ramos — Sun, 25 Jun 2006 02:34:00 +0000

Awe
or
a concise epic history (consider revising]

Awe begins nude in a living room devoid of living, where paperweights tread carpet like the footprints of ampersands. The smell of bread baked before the time of yeast, in the days of rock & roll, when my yore was yours & the ground spewed forth, miraculous like a burning bush spread over legend like butter. Birth came about as an afterthought spun from the silk of corn, while women & men alike emerged from fields stuffed in shopping carts made of clay. Soon God barbecued human rib in his prime–took seven days and stuck them in a mason jar for the next life–& before long the ants came to the picnic that left them legless. It was a perfect time to forget that the tablecloth was abyss, the abyss a great tongue, & the great word of the universe was silent.

http://crumbsinawhistle.blogspot.com

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Ontological Vacations, Part B

Eduardo Ramos — Tue, 11 Apr 2006 20:23:00 +0000

I.
Steep in blood: you don’t belong, so
be pushed back into the sea: the pinnacle is
belief in God when all else fails: it is salt, it is
red and blue, it is wet, & far too long and deep.

II.
Iceland—what a happy place—free of
concentration, camping in many
seasons of green (deceiving name)—moss
stains the ground in the shape of
Virgin Marys—see them bring
to life the stones, when weeks before
the island was made, it was all
dead like Jesus.

III.
The law must be beyond
the Law—mine is the law
of all people, not the law
of wolves, but the law
of born men—it is the law of
a big, fat baby, this roly-
poly little man (or woman) &
it can be spelled or spoken in
heavy diapers, baby farts, belches
when you pat my back & make it known
you are my friend or mother.

IV.
In the Fast-Mart I saw them
declare a state
of emergency, when all the peas
broke free, rolled down
the aisle, and Bubba
turned them under feet into
a mush, a paste to stop them.

5.
In those days even the menu
was deep-fried, variations of ham &
biscuits hung from chandeliers made
of antlers. Last week we saw the
same light, sitting in
a river, filtering the
milt of fish & other
amphibians not knowing love.

6.
Niche occupancy: I used to be
just Wonder Bread in polka dots; now
I sing in whole grains, make my nest
in pita pockets. Once life was bound to
the white, the spongy, the enriched bleached
awe of a singular plastic bag. Now that I am
free, the burden of choice has been
turned, over to the great blue sea.

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4 meditations on the nature of Goodness

Eduardo Ramos — Thu, 16 Mar 2006 15:56:00 +0000

for A

i/ Beauty

When a crazy blue
ladybug lands on a
kneeling aphid and
loves it without sex or roses.

ii/ Love

The spots on a ladybug, revealed
as carbonized hearts, seen to be

relics of reborn saints, who are the eyes
of all who are watching her.

iii/ Truth

Tongueless, silent (not
silenced), unspoken by non-

human animals, such as dung
or
colorful, spotted beetles.

iv/ Evil

Autumn’s end, when the last few
ladybugs stammer onto the sills

to dry, and that’s how there was
goodness in their skeletons that

sit there, in constant atrophy.

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Ontological Vacation (pure poetry)

Eduardo Ramos — Fri, 24 Feb 2006 12:08:00 +0000

Ontological Vacation (pure poetry)

1.
Being is in
cahoots with time, and
I’ve left both of them
behind.
2.
There is a mild
hypochondria
somewhere that suffers
from fear of people.
3.
In the future
you can custom-
design your
suicide.
4.
Bizarrely-shaped
corn fritters
come in bags. I
desire them inadmissibly. My
mantra is wanting.
5.
Desire is shaped like
bags of fried gizzards, always
awaiting the call of hunger’s
chicken-lust.
6.
Analysands, aside from
having many a’s,
always know more than
he who gazes.
7.
Consumption can be
confounding. Just talk about it
to a baby named Doughboy
who’s eaten too much of everything
but his share. His rolls resist, still full
of hunger and hope.

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In Search of a Place to Be Born

Eduardo Ramos — Fri, 10 Feb 2006 01:06:00 +0000

Nature
subdivides
and, born, before our eyes,
the names of places, sacred.
Deer Run, Owls Creek,
Willows Weep. Naming
speaks as electric dreams
on waysides, signs
of time, immortal
in wood fires, posted
on wood stilts, wired well.
Where I was born still
stands; where stillborn
I was born;
still, borne, before
I was born.
Still in the waters
of a big river; I was born
in the blue-eyed rim-
water of a sea, inside; stilly
I was born and
I am still
born.
Outside the birth, well
beyond the birth-mills
where they make
love with haste, where
babes are made with haste
to make haste, there was
a place.
It remains, still,
its waning name alongside
scrub native to somewhere;
kudzu garland strung
on juniper, an oak tree, divine
maple. There is,
still, in a clearing, some
clear water, ample handfuls
of mud, full of
swimming polliwogs,
fallen wood, a puddle, a
pond of black water, a
place to be born.

-Eduardo Ramos

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I heart to buy love in a mall

Eduardo Ramos — Mon, 16 Jan 2006 15:49:00 +0000

I came upon a poem in a mall but
I did not write it. It was unwritten in the swarm and
in the stores. It was full of adjectives and enjambment.
It rhymed from time to time. It alliterated like a pretzel
bought at an island cart. It was a well-crafted sestina.
It sprung forth in iambic pentameter. Etcetera.
The specifics are unimportant. They were spoken for
in many other words. I think I last saw it in a glass case,
straddling a mannequin with nipples, where I
left it last, untouched. As if writing it would have trapped me
in the infinity of its dumb and senseless logic.

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metapoetry is rampant in cave-dwellings

Eduardo Ramos — Thu, 12 Jan 2006 00:55:00 +0000

arse poetica

for a lifetime, methinks,
I’ve been inside a brick house
sitting around on my ars poetica
and feeling its soreness spread
into a final dying whimper that
never seems to go away

…

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