4/7/25: why i am not a self-portrait

 Today's prompt. Here's the poem that inspired the prompt; this will work well for poem to share today as I am running short on time.

i'm not equipped to look myself in the face for long periods of time, unwilling
to reconcile this eye's asymmetry and the uneven pattern of the electric razor's
laconic march forward across my cheeks, my neck, the switchbacks of the chin.

my hand is a cruel minister, my heart a cold mistress, my brain a sad labrador retriever-known he's done wrong and returning to the scene of the crime for an inverted reward. 

this line
angled just so,
flattens me;
reduces the
charm and
unloads
fine-motor
deficiencies.

so much erasure shrapnel
so many sighs. grunts of 
disapproval.

i've been wrestling with
the me here and there
and the limitations
of this vessel-the hand,
soul, brain, heaps of
praise, admonishments...

the masterpiece is on back order. we'll settle for what we've got today. 

4/6/25: mint

 Today's prompt. I'd like to share a poem I admire from Nate Marshall (sorry for the cursewords, y'all).

exhale, chill from
the wind of your 
lungs--boing, rushing and
cleansing. aquifers-swimming holes
deep and hidden by shade-springtime-
chill like

self-preservation:
reliving the primitive
(heat, scorch marks, the
dry season's lasting scars),

made right through the gentle
falling of rain, the budding of leaves,
cloudcover and winter's last gasps
injecting themselves into the scene--

exhale, new-cast off slumber, take up
the yoke of day, face set in the strokes
and patterns of the standards of the day;

exhale, the well is full. each breath, a new-
ness, each breath, a bargaining with the future.
see me, hear me, be close and

be safe.

 

4/5/25: commercial hell and product heaven

Today's prompt asks us to pull terms from 3 columns. You can check out the columns in the first link, but here are the terms for inspiration I have selected: “play like you are about to start crying”; "novelty song"; "sharks", "concrete", and "snow". Lastly, I want to share Chris Perry's poem from yesterday "on the piss". 

the sharks are circling the

last crate-thrown overboard; remnants

from prosperity, endless earworms,

known everywhere. hummed and needed, but loathed

in equal measure. divine scales, tilting to a balance,

the blind lead the more-blind. impressive range.

larvae wriggle to the surface to inherit their destiny.

and just as soon as

the commercial concludes, the chord resolutions

fade. our joy is gone, our 

crops murdered by the snow of

a contempt-filled winter. fallowed land

made concrete. our ship has run aground.

everything must go. soon the fins, silent, patient.

vultures of the sea begin their patient laps. soon, 

the correction. soon, the gnashing of teeth. soon

enough.

4/4/25: living with paint

 Day 4 prompt is here. In keeping with the idea of sharing poems (disclosure: this is something I am borrowing from the same place where I get my prompts [link above]), I'm going to try and link a poem from someone else each day too. Today, I want to share a poem I read yesterday from Rook.

when i was a child, we'd say the "our father" prayer at night. "our father, who art in heaven".
i imagined god as a french painter. beret. full black beard. off-white smock. smile of concentration. sitting and painting a globe in broad strokes;
painting the world where i lived. was i too be part of his canvas? also, if the art was in heaven,
was the world not in on the act? 

god was a painter and i was unsure if i was part of the masterpiece or just a discarded palette of spent paint.

little did i know, art was a verb, but not an action. i can't art (oh, but how hard i try), maybe god could though. god was in heaven. i was on earth. two bills, one show?

was he still painting? was he ever? did he have a beard?

are we all just paint
waiting to be painted?

4/3/25: why i am not Frank O'Hara or a painter

 Today's prompt has me considering why I am not a painter, so I also decided to consider why I can't be Frank O'Hara, writer of "Why I Not A Painter" Also, you should read the 3 pounds of flax's poem linked here. 

Frank O'Hara and I met at a temporal bar somewhere between Heaven and pontificated about process. We were drinking the house wine because everything else was marked up to Hell. There was an irony in that as we weren't in Heaven, but he swears that's where he came from. Hell, he said, has everyone drinking domestics that aren't properly cooled, probably on account of the flames. Nothing worse than a lukewarm Budweiser, we agreed. 

We were served by a poltergeist with a lazy eye. His name was Beeartis Filluthwaven Smith-Jones Arch 21st the Lesser, but we were told just to call him Arch because his mother liked that. He told us to stay away from the artisan meatloaf. Heaven, Arch warned, did meatloaf much better. It was something about the water.

O'Hara told me that everything had synergy. We all feed off of an idea together and when we put it together it becomes a tapestry of meaning. I said that all good ideas were taken. He told me that was the sort of talk that paved the road to hell. Arch shouted that there isn't really a road to hell, it's just a poetic device. O'Hara told Arch he'd probably be a pretty good poet with observations like that.

Arch said there's no use for poetry in the place between Heaven and Earth. We, O'Hara and I, expected that Arch was drinking on the job. I don't think he can drive at least, said O'Hara. You know, he added, pointing to his feet, I don't think poltergeists can operate the pedals.

We were on our 5th House Wine. Arch had a heavy pour. I was worried that I was learning nothing in our conversation. O'Hara told me that we paint with the tools we're given. The room itself was starting to blink in and out of focus. How strong was this wine? It's not the wine, said O'Hara, the time was almost up. 

I was overcome with emotion, not all of it the product of a day drinking wine served by a poltergeist. I still have so much to learn, I said. O'Hara smiled. You kids, he said, always looking somewhere else. He shook my hand and stood up, waved at Arch, and the two left together. The room itself swirled, I stood up myself and my vision blurred. Nothing was going the way I expected.

I was back in my living room, sitting with the radio on, listening to today's hits. I wondered if I dreamt the whole thing. I wondered what it all meant. Maybe it was the time of my life. Maybe it wasn't. 

Maybe I'd write something. Maybe I'd make dinner. The world, it was starting to seem, was mine.

4/2/25: love song radio

 Here is today's prompt for Napowrimo Day 2. I opted to play with the concept of Echo and Narcissus, sort of.

sing sweet, old timey radio songs to the river
because i've seen my face and failed to
understand what it was i was seeing. caught
up in love. caught up in the sweet nothings
of an exacting jawline, such profound eyebrows.

i'm gonna let the horns wash over me like 
the spent flow of a lackluster water heater;
in the dead of winter.it's just to cleanse myself.
were such things possible!
i can't unsee-

what i feel. can't unfeel. from a distance.
from up close. distortions. contortions.
my love an unfinished dream, eyes wet
with taffy tears and dried by night's remains.
i am beholden. i depart. i return. i remain.

little comfort, when the voices blur and 
harmony locks itself into a three minute
resolution of my problems. still, i remain
forever yours. forever my own.
still.

 

4/1/25: Sinfonia

Day 1 of Napowrimo. Here is the prompt. The term I chose was Sinfonia, defined as "Sinfonia (Italian: symphony) in earlier usage indicated a passage or piece of instrumental music, sometimes an introductory piece; it led to the Italian overture, known as the ‘sinfonia before the opera’: the origin of the Italian symphony."

little did we know it. these happy accidents, delightful breadcrumbs of a familiar shape and acceptable taste, were part and parcel for a new movement. heir apparent to a symphony, our symphony. taking up our instruments like metal in arthurian legends-like gun powder in the unsettled west-like fire for the malcontents. swirl and twist-our notes pirouette and bound and fall and screech, beautiful and uninhibited, noble-feral. what began as misfires, errant notes askew on the sheet music, the cough of an uneasy patron of the arts shifting his mass on the metal folding chair, takes beautiful shape-and in slow, uncertain steps- becomes a movement.

Napo-prequel 3/31/25: Portrait

 Napowrimo returns tomorrow. I use this excellent website for daily prompts. Here's my response to the "Early Bird" prompt for 3/31.

 might as well-stare to stun/the eyes, windows to
the soul and what not/soul full of malice, partially chewed
circus peanuts and washed down with an RC cola/scowling-
all of the world is rage, becoming a column of flame to reheat
yesterday's dinner/born feral-made domestic/might as well-something
behind that glance/mysteries to unravel-something to unpack/worth
these 1000 words-or not/the jury is still out/they've been hard at work though,
rest assured/soon we'll know what everyone else is thinking/might as well-
use it to make up our own mind while we're at it/unblinking/dignified\might as well//

yung rage

 

an angel tears its wings from its back

and remains afloat for a moment, before tumbling

below the heavens. 

i’ve never been so sure of anything really

when the tearing of celestial feathers

meets thunderclap, meets heaven’s laments

on a half-hearted trumpet solo

lined up with no more hosannahs

at least for the day. no one smiles.

sometimes, the action itself

too far from done, resists

an easy fix.

no amount of stitching,

our fathers, and rosary

beads make it right.

god had dreamt a world

of peace. These damn kids kept

getting into the blood of christ.

someone had to put their foot

down. Someone had to restore

order. and no one knew the 

resolve of one stubborn

angel. performance art, 

maybe. a statement made.

silence, like winter. we

imagine peace. really,

it’s just waiting though

instant decision

small jolts

zaps from the static

a lullaby to sloth

a scratch to the edifice

little by little the decision is cast

the record needs flipping

the righting of wrongs

revision of the cosmos, reorganizing

celestial impasses. each a renegotiation.

limitless, slumber

drenched in tartar sauce and regret

i’m never leaving this couch again

not on your life because i refuse to put it

on my own.

 

careen

 

oh little simple thing    limited    listless thing
dredged up from a storm                        blameless thing

sweet and filled with solace    how the world
is want to see your sleep disrupted                cast down    from                great heights

torn by wind and other elements            precious thing
i would do what is necessary to shelter

protect    you    my little sleeping            marred 
homebody-without-a-home

i would build from                        the rafters                little thing
a swing    bassinet            cradle                    for your rest

i will it    into    existence        into real
and let us enjoy the moment                precious thing

for you    the world                for you
this is not                                                                                            enough.

slop

 

dream this little dream into a winking existence,
knowing. little bits of a bigger realization. dawning
on me. soon. i should have been kinder when i had
the chance. should have. soon. little by little. these
moments escape me. time, this conveyor belt 
setting. whiz by. soon. at the end of the film.
minutes remain. precious minutes. dream this little
dream.

soon. letters on the chalkboard. marks on the
wall, measure my growing disappointment.
myself. soon. myself, this little dream, dreaming.
before long. we're almost done here. soon. only
in dreams.

i will try something different.

slap

 

bing bop boom bop bing bop bam bop boom bop bam
and i made a million dollars on a song
and i spent a million dollars for a dream
and i made another million slinging supplements
and hawking my wares in a public space
on a public platform and where my voice is one
that drowns out the many

zip zap zop zim zalla zam zapparoo
and i told you a million times
how i made it in this cold world with no
blanket, no pot to take the proverbial piss
no step to step to, no home to hang my hat,
no heart to call my own. and i want you to 
feel this sadness and say, ok, and move along 
with your day. move on up. move on down. get
a little closer to the thing that makes and unmakes 
me. 

grimgramgoogrimgargroos
cut it and print it
smelt it and bake it
give me the goodness

and this right here, my american dream come true

slip

 

and fall
and cue the zap of a pain
slink up the spine
and back again

ice is nice and ice is right and god is good and i suffice and we will all sing and dance

little to no warning. little left. this, a sense worth sensing. a pain worth paining. 
these, all god's good children, each of them, yelping in harmony, pain receptors,
sing these wounds to sleep. sing this sleep to something deeper.

sing and dance and find romance and let the body understand

after the white, hot flash. little to nothing compares. what is left, anyway? we are all one simple step from perfection. one simple slip from making the circuit a cycle, a cylinder. completion.

right on time.

never far from home.

fanfire and ice

 a reminder: if you want to read my latest project, you can view and download rorschach. here's something else entirely

go tell it on another mountain
but not this one. we're all out of patience
for announcement, for accolades. we're up to
our armpits in the resolutions, the absolutions,
the institutions, the inspired chants, the liturgal
epiphanies, the mathematical and cold pronouncements,
gender reveals, pet gotcha days. 

we've had our fill, these glimpses into hellfire. these convivial pitchfork and torch gatherings.
get thee to somewhere without surprise and fanfare. get thee something good for your troubles. sweet, sweet oblivion wrapped in bacon. served with a garnish.

we're telling you what is what. who is who. when is where. and so on and so forth. like clockwork. depend on it.

go tell it on their mountain.
go tell it over there.
go tell it, if they listen.
let them deal with it.
we've all had our fill.