i am nothing more or less than i am committing anguish and delight through my poetry... 
i have a few small self-published collections that can be found below
'seamless ruptures'; a collaborative journey in black and white with the photographer and my brother robert biemer and tanka prose by myself

http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/989191

'81 days of tanka'; a modern english tanka tao exploration in 81 days

http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/1153844
and
'trident songs'; an exploration of music through language
http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/trident-songs/13573102?productTrackingContext=search_results/search_shelf/center/1

thank you for taking the time to visit me here, I am honored

namaste,

erich

for the record this is all my original work © by ebiemer and registered so, you steal=i sue.........

an american surrealist

 

sitting in a corner of blank walls
to his left is an opaque canvas
brittle and undone, it has been
this way since the beginning


pensive arms waiting on
a captains chair with a legal pad
cradled in his lap


only the keen would spot
the shadow image
inside him
of gnarled hands
gripping a horse hair brush
and broken palette dripping
rust covered oils
reflecting greens and blues
turning into a peacock's tail


and each time before placing
the pen on paper
i strike a match to both oil and canvas and oil
knowing roots
of the chair will sail back
wave after wave
to the soil of this room
and broken palette


© by ebiemer

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bamboo and bellflowers

 

his face itches needing to shave, still he clings to drawing nonsense on a paper
seeing there is no need for a cockpit when riding a blue horse between bitter oranges
gallop and bite
all on the way
dripping down his
unshaved face


will they wand him
or touch his junk
or even use radiation
before he can enter
the mystery grotto


he rubs down the horse feeling as if he had been strangled and abandoned
by tendrils and judders from love's silent earthquake


shake the head
nothing clears
ten twenty seven am
still nothing
not a pulse
in the wrist
of the winds


i don't care that before ashes the library will be unlocked
i just need to breathe and shave
surviving simply
as an uncarved block
translating secrets
in the belly
of an unpainted cello
or cave


© by ebiemer

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covenant of the bells

 
fingertip edges

a singing bowl

feather releases

a gong

from its' sideways veil

in some towns

for some people

rest never comes before

the clock tower sings

dream roots

and ringing bells

wind chimes

and tolling rain

these arts

are the vessels

of my blood

© by ebiemer

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dispatches from the lost petals

 

kite tails
trail many voices ink
all as powerful as peacemaker
bombs


on the bed diaphanous
translucent and white
gardenias are lazy
and silently strewn
where wine dark drinks
and poor mans haldol
can only work so long


in the mirror
i too have become so pale
that you can see
subcutaneous bruises
where fingertips once brushed
and on my chest
blood echoes
long lost lips
and other
wind dark links


look hard
and you may see
a beating chalice
whispering in strength
once again
where below a maple
i smoke
and lean
in dust
and mist
swirling,
it doesn't matter
if you no longer
see me open
with each growing
bud


© by ebiemer

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earth, wind, fire, water, stone

 
it must have happened in sleep
in the one walking through prism halls
floating in paper boats
above paper cranes


unseen but heard
they pull an arm
through green into purple
hoping to hide bruises
from a crystal needle

this is hard this stone ether in the wind
where your tongue cleans
off fire from your teeth
as if you were a marionette
at la scala
and black stone injections
are nothing more than goat whispers
behind the theater
of the wolf
but you would behead me
otherwise

a baseball cap
an olive branch
a water wheel
an orphaned frontier
try again and the needle will break

© by ebiemer

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land mines in the dream archives

 

magic spells and memory chants mix with rain from a cobblestone sky
a frog and elephant turn into a stand mixer for stalker breads
where do they come from and who will store these nuts

~

this one has happened before// i am being showered with dirt and earth
worms and lichen and steamed lilac camas bulbs// stillness in the healing fright
for messages in a blue glass bottle// a night unloved is still the night where
fractal shadows are sitting on the fisher moon as a loon watches mother
theresa flamenco with gertrude stein// alice is wedged between, greater
than three lives

~

there is a reason
unicorns never
sleep, blood flowers
are blooming across
straits of speared ribs

~

i bow to a bow of returning unleavened notes// of hints in the black
wolf trumpet
my crossbow sings
sings

~

losing a thimble
opens the head
of janus
spiked by glowing cats
playing basketball

~

translating means walking without knees
wearing grass skirt demons summon wind
there is always a tornado on waking

~

this bleeding is invisible,
a pulsing pain from empty sockets
acrid and mahogany dark
deep like an undertow wine
drinking cosmogony
using star trowels
to lay the bricks
building a hollow
house whole

~

i don't know what I know
i can't see the conductor
but a pine needle quilt
brings rest
splashing against
the many places
i live


© by ebiemer

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