Archive for Caleb Beissert

“Elapse” by Caleb Beissert

Posted in Poetry with tags , on November 22, 2014 by C.C. Beissert



On the blue pinnacle
in an early frost
the bumblebees are freezing
on the blueberry bushes.
As the clouds metamorphose
the sun shines through
reanimating the freshly frozen
bees. Their wings slowly
beginning to beat
and buzz again. All the bees
are freezing on that blue pinnacle,
the tail of another summer,
berries overripe and big
with juice. Bees in slow
motion in rays of light
moving through mist.




–first published in Animal Poems (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2014)

“Atomic Color-cinemascope”

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on March 8, 2014 by C.C. Beissert


Atomic Color-cinemascope

after Bob Kaufman


We were in Libya
staying in a house on stilts.
I didn’t understand my father.

The two dogs had to be let out.

We hid from the bombings.

The last one caused a wave that broke
a sewer pipe.
That made us sick.

We had to make sure the doors were locked.
She asked the bartender if she wanted to make out

in a few minutes. The bartender didn’t hear her.
I let the dogs walk in the back bushes.

We were always waiting while doing things.
Necessary things.
To kill the time.

Until we wanted it slow,

first published in Mad Hatters’ Review, 2014

Images of Spain

Posted in Art with tags , , on December 30, 2013 by C.C. Beissert



Flamenco Floor


Flamenco Floor III


Flamenco Floor II


Government Steps


Mosque Wall in Cordoba


Poet's Walk in Sevilla


Duende Street


Granada Cathedral


Granada Monument II


Cadiz Alley


Cadiz Wall by the Sea


Rope in Cathedral


All photographs were taken by Caleb Beissert during travels in Andalucía, España, in summer of 2013. Please use with permission.






Poetry by Caleb Beissert

Posted in Poetry with tags , on November 11, 2012 by C.C. Beissert




Mind Warp



We are racing toward far
alight star cloud
out in the deep space
of our eyelids.





—first published in The Journal of Interdimensional Poetry, 2012


Posted in Poetry with tags on September 4, 2012 by C.C. Beissert


I am bothered by the billboards,

telling my back-mind what to do at 4:30 on a Tuesday
morning. I feel hammered by the spike-driving captivity fighters; jovial
squandering imperial madhouse money machine lust machine and
soap is hopeless in pure light.

Now, in the blink of an instant,

eight-arm durga riding tangerine tiger through time’s blue hue
like a ghost moling throughout the entire dirt of being
dancing in soma-song circle outside naked
knowing more than ever and knowing nothing at all
in happy madness.

Now, shout in ecstatic language:

childlike Pythagorean rational my self bearing
realigned ancestrally channeling creation
two-headed serpentine blistering hallelujah tambourine
six letter jumping jack torso-faced, thousand-eyed
whispering devourer
slipping on rings of magic science
bobbing for worlds in the tin-sided omniverse
jumping in puddles of time in the forest worlds
exploring the crawlspace of subconscious past-life
angel kid whose blood pours in slurred oracles toward
big stick fallout shelter fat cat who’s
regretting the bombs once trailed by confidence
marking the planet with lines meaning nothing
is nothing if nothing is anything?

Now see in circles the comets recycle exhuming heart from murky

shared shamanic suffering a terrible long natured Ra almighty
blinding only those who stare, and
the mycelium society—welding no arms—lost under George
his minions discussed in other words
as the warheads destroyed the war
and the rain turned purple with thousands of winged swine.

Now standing in backwater flats in the darkest alleyway in the looking

handing out freedom in containers for sanity (what little is left)
now in a tent with midnight lamps burning
on sofas speaking of a mind beyond a mind beyond
smiling in heartwarming friendship sharing laughter
tapping the electronic pads in a love-circle
with good inattentions under a large light organ
and all the well wishers—hey
have you seen these I’m a monk do you have any money?
—speed off cackling in cart chase
throwing up dust behind a world of shapeless illusion.

Now! Raise high arms to symbolize praise

we only are fractions in this crazy backwards tributary
arbitrarily pumping oil ex machina,
so break my art with a candy cane whistle
shoot my mind with a blackberry comb
eleven rolls over to make room for ten
and we all roar together
commercial two-eyed Jupiter reptile descendants,
one more consciousness as old as rhyme.
The offense rests,
and I continue…

Now, realizing smallness from an airplane window

wise agers listen intently patient with us ever so
the kid whips out some gadget and dials up the innerwar
we’re nothing without our juice they say
real ones slap skins in funny rhythms
and sink back into the reality behind
with no words left to express
this ever strange cognition.

Now, in the green-lit room perfumed girls dance clumsily in tight skirts

to doo bop breaks
shady fellows slunched smoking in corners
rooms of banjos and djembes
long line for bathroom
the wine bottle kid vomits with rainwater hairstyle
marker-faced in elated one life party rage—now
in between place among the rafters
so quiet you can hear the trees drink and feel them grow.
This is their world, too.

Now! Extreme novelty approaching, poverty encroaching

ignition Yin energy milk mother rising
love-minded life-feeler shadow-herder earth-worker
wisdom whisperer sister brotherer jack hammerer
low sparkler wish wonderer dude bringer atom tingler
shaker up drumbeat we all die too bad
dancing in the sky with everybody
a beautiful passerby left these keys for you in the attics of
unconscious eternity
laughing once laughing twice laughing, laughing gone…

Now! In sex being life worship,

we stand
howling away the injustices of humanity
the cruelty of a dying nation
screaming for all that ever was, ever suffered, ever loved /
all merciless compassionate shit
just faceless nouns eked into existences by some cosmic shell of
streaming previously unknown colors into primal heart-feeling
vibrating low enough to stay together separately
building complex pyramids toward graceful sky
flying holy intense astral ladder structure godhead mastermind
exploding sinusoidal climax screaming fractal shattering.

I now see other nations, glory warriors heeling mercy-words

Herod-like abstruse mission-hearted macrocosm
gray open-headed writhing in blue whale freedom wave
driving wild-minded screaming through the forests of Brendiban
jumping through the open window of illumination
riding on the high-crests of novelty
old sannyasin breathing the Great Rhythm
contemplating the night sky through associations of words
wandering the infinite caverns of the mind
dreaming prophecy through numeric logos
now a peaceful and ready
spirit pushing the void
falling silent in the gathering dusk
releasing from happy insane-room demon-headed trouble world—
God knows the last time I had a moment in which to be.

—first appeared in The Nomad, 2008

Words Are Better than War

Posted in Happenings with tags , , , on July 11, 2011 by C.C. Beissert

Join us on August 4th, 2011, at Vanuatu Kava Bar in Asheville, North Carolina, for an epic evening of poetry, music, and films to promote peace and tolerance. I’ll be reading poetry accompanied by live music and followed by a reading by Pasckie Pascua and screenings of two short films. This event kicks off a new series taking place at the Kava Bar every other Saturday beginning in August. Read more….


Posted in Poetry with tags , , on June 22, 2011 by C.C. Beissert

Here’s a concrete poem I created a few years back. It draws inspiration from the work of the poet John Hollander and poet/lyricist Robert Hunter, from whom I derived the connection to the poem’s subject—one of Grateful Dead lead guitarist Jerry Garcia’s guitars.

"Wolf" by Caleb Beissert

—first appeared in Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, 2010

“The Jericho Bird”

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on May 16, 2011 by C.C. Beissert

The Jericho bird is bleeding—
the saddest line I have ever written.
That great red bird crying

in the twilight for all
that ever was, the walls
of Babylon crashing down

around it. A storm
of reason fills its eyes,
pours out in each tear.

At the end of an era,
a bird sings
with all creation burning.

Its beauty surpasses all
affection in the last light
of a dying sun.

I cannot describe the intensity
of such a sight—
great wings beating the final air.

—first appeared in Pisgah Review, 2010

“At Work”

Posted in Poetry with tags , on April 15, 2011 by C.C. Beissert

The clock
tastes like circuitry and dust.
Hands like a drill sergeant
inspecting his ranks,
attentive only to the air
inside the glass.

Under the clock
smells like wet leather
on the first Sunday in April.
Laboratory inscriptions
bear the letters QUARTZ,
but it holds no gold,

only an idea
of what time should look like
and how it should
sound—rent rent rent
rent—striking a match too quick,
losing the flame.

Whose idea is it anyway?
Why should we rent away
our lives only to start over at midnight?

On its rough face the numbers
shine like hair, each waiting
for its part of the minute.

—first appeared in Tar River Poetry, 2009