Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

From the adit holes come breathing

Gold dust from the mountain seething

And Indians laboring with summary pants

Hoist the gold into totemic mill stamps

And with 70 beats per minute, the cams blast.

It’s ancient Mercury whose water kisses

The narrow isthmus on its way to sea;


There the natives seldom see a sun

That hasn’t drunk from river San Juan

A vision eating ancient manioc

Upon the Pacific Zion where their kings

Once flocked, decked with cotton and straw

Root crops were the staple foods

Mandioca, tapioca and Mazamorra

And as this dream unfurled in dust

Like palpitant coffee in a sunlight colored rust

Mercury with shoes on backward

Buried his seed in woman-pregnant meanders

Illuminated the fish like Maundy Thursday candles

And spread the dream like straw in a totem’s ears


Gold and mercury marry and divorce

To be caught in black nets perforce

Spills to the ground its silver seed for reuse

And makes for Babylon pregnant dreams

Of eating manioc by the Pacific seam once more

Mercury that brings us visions

Of cassava on a fructifying shore

Under dirty gossan caps, meteoric water and large axe handles

The light of the Indian candles finds

A new and smiling seem once more.


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Green Grease

I ate a burger

I wondered if it’d had a soul

Smoke was the only thing

I kept eating

I have a soul

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Light Being

You sit next to me, dishabille, with

the curve swelling


Dressed in the patterns of Sunday paper

afternoons (airplanes crashing)

Looking at your hair

blown by wind over the pillow. Lipstick. Sun

comes through the ocean screen ‑ a wet calm

from juniper trees outside.


The cat plays in a blue light camisole

We threw off the bed. Tweesers

next to a hair. Rarebit in

the stewpot. Kinch. Rind.


I felt your own hot tears on the

back of my neck last night ‑


You didn’t even ask me what was wrong.

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A Poem About Cars


Cars, cars, cars

Cars, cars, cars, cars

Cars, cars, cars, cars, cars

Cars, cars, cars, cars, cars, cars.


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Paradise for Umbrage

Offense as sweet

As a box of raisins

You didn’t call me.

To offend a wizened grape

Is to offend me

Your hand as empty as a box

Of juice; I take the rain

Like I take the noise of children


Every nickel lies so forlorn on the tray

Bitterly remembering every grudge hugged

Come let us transact coffee and steam

Let us make a league of the offended

Dividing the milk of kindness

Until we are all even


–Eric Rasmussen

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“The Ice Divorce”

A Poem

By Eric Rasmussen


Hoar ice splinters rattle,

Around the turkey warrens

Off the saltbox barn

In the Green Mountain, pumpkin vines

Smashed reds and yellows

Under the tongue

Of new frost


An alert nostril

Discerns the paper birch trees

The city dweller

Cold on his ice chains

Searching to find the brazen keys

A finger snaps against the icy thumb

Bone fraternal snow flakes

You pantomime old age

And slowly go inside,

make a cup,

vermouth, Old Tom gin and rye.


His wife removes his boots.

While outside the window

A marten fighting for bread with a weasel.

Cheap doggerel growls

A comic burlesque

Across the wood tableau

and the coffee on his desk


Spring doesn’t come early

Nature never shows its pettifrock too soon

No pout of cleavage, no flash of gam


Man walks in

Logs alight,

Effervesced and drinking,

Popping from the gold and green splits

While fast green grouses and big hearted tits

Remember how segmented ants bullied the tree

Sea, air and land,

Grass, grove and lea


Remember when she walked these halls

And rolled the cat mint into balls

Washed your ears and skimmed the soup

for winter’s necessity


Would the wood come


And open her yet again

Would she be a five or an eight or a ten

How many yards of night

Do you walk

To reach yourself again?


Her damp you will inherit tonight

But not ever keep;

Without the softness to fight

Or the strength to weep


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By Eric Rasmussen


Love like accidental planets that crossed

Thick with mezzotinted atmospheres, moirés of

Opposing dusks

Life in a mere 80 years, like 80 minutes winked shut

For a few chiasmus-soaked cross-hatching lines of verse

To dote and fawn away, to fall in love but only for a day

Each time; mixed with mixolydian verses

That chink with the ice in lemon gin reverses

Seething with thoughts born only in momentary extremes

Then in words poured out with the mildness of cream

Thought (and life) lived only from the black to the white

Life breathed through a dilating glade

Slithering to the thought with the pallor of jade

But to think again, to love again, to live again

In the extremities; how does it like us, these?

If all that is thought is chemistry, if all we do is think

Then this thought will live again on a thin aired gloaming

Until there’s nothing left of it to drink

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