Well, the world conspired against a poem on Saturday, so here's one a few days late.
grim revolver. rolling thunder in the wee distance. each step is a miracle and a calamity. each little passing a heat wave all its own, another ubitious swing of the scythe to bring this year's bounty to market. stop staring and close your mouth: the water is rising and your bile is contagious. insert the memory card and begin recording whatever you see. just keep filming. this is all the good stuff. everything ends in punctuation marks
blinking twice to acknowledge this /perfect/ truth. all words /aside/. i’m only sketching something in the /moment/ for posterity. /monuments and documentation/ i’m only dreaming again, for the /first/ time. slowed to a third of the speed. /interrupted/ i’ll flail and struggle as my head is forced /under/ the water. we can pretend we don’t know how it all ends, /right/?
getting to it again, I hope. I'll be in the new Paper and Ink that drops this week. Definitely check that out, it's going to be good. Now, some poem-thing:
status update
this is no
little mercy and it is
certainly no absolution.
in our defense,
we've been busy figuring
out the specifics to identify
exactly what this is
or purports to be. so,
you'll have to bear with our
appearances as we navigate
the moment. as we
proceed and stop to smell
the proverbial flowers
(they smell like urine, we're
told). hey, at least there's
flowers. usually we're
just getting the whiff of
roadkill or old, barely warmed
leftovers. fodder from a fading
microwave. this, this one is
a feast by comparison. we
digress. no more mercy.
we'll sort the rest at a later
date. thank you for your time.
Busy morning means a short set of haikus:
slender breeze
through the windows
of the sweating home/
gravel found
in my shoe after a walk
a reminder/
grass left
indented from a
tire’s tread/
a cloudless sky
showing it has no hand
but all of the cards/
the air creaked
and thunder was merciful
with his applause/
maybe I could
be your store greeter.
smile and stare through
you. maybe I could
be the person who sends
positive soundwaves into
your skull. maybe that
would balance the scales
of goodness and we'd both
see heaven. maybe those
gates open and the sales
are finally worth it for
you and me. maybe then
we'll be saved from whatever
life has made of us. for
us. maybe I was born for that.
meanwhile, I just burned breakfast. again.
maybe, I'm sorry for that too.
sound is a monument and we are tearing it down with these here tracks. stink fest, this one. it’s between us and darkness now and the darkness has better violins and also a stronger supply of snares on the two and four. we’ve got our own collection of pots and pans and obscure scrapings. we’ve got to make the symphony start and stop and swell before it sputters.
I invented song once, and it was exulted for a time before some people said that they’d heard it all before. I was displeased but took the criticism to heart. I let it carbonize and calcify. a slow rolling status quo statue. now I sing strictly miracles.
I’ve been silent ever since.
You can grab my collaborative chapbook "Misshapen Pears: A Musical" now. from Two Key Customs. It's a trip, I'm told (by this I mean I told myself). This drop also features some true heavy hitters and a who's who of Haiku enthusiasts. You should go and spend some duckets or clams or whatever currency you call your own.
pollen said
this is not the summer
and it is not a summertime cold
and it's not even a cold.
not at all.
I asked pollen if it made
a difference when it was
and what it was if I felt
like I had a cold.
pollen told me to shut
up and drink my hot tea.
it has big plans for the
two of us.
my weathered
throat and mucus-laden
coughs shouted back:
no, we're really good.
let's leave 'em wanting
more.
pollen is a railroad robber
barron, the show continues
and the scratching will
persist and the congestion
will remain.
I say when we're done here, says pollen.
there isn't a big enough pistol
or missile or heat death ray,
no intrepid form of torture
quite bone chilling enough.
no, pollen deserves more misery
and destruction and tumult and
annihilation than is available
to us currently, but I'll keep
dreaming. I've got time and
enough malice and just the right
amount of discomfort from pollen's
work in the devil's sensory break
room.
I've got the fuel for eternal and
infinite use of the human spirit to build
something for revenge.
I'll find it yet.
But first, does anyone have
some Claritin?
Monday marks the release of "Misshapen Pears: A Musical" from Two Key Customs. Y'all might not be ready for whatever it is we cooked up, but you also might be very well prepared; you'll have to read it to find out.
I spent too much time
in my youth, inside
my head and
wondering if I was
alone or not. If
anyone was with me. That
was fool's errand. We
are never actually
alone. Even when we
crave
silence.
I am so sure now
that I've never been
in better company
and that was what
that old version of
myself wanted more
than anything. I
guess that's something
to remember when
anything else seems
like some kind of
crisis.
we're all we've
got, mostly. we might
as well try and be kind
to one another
or whatever.
that would be
pretty cool, I
think.
took a little break from daily writing after April 30. If you're interested in purchasing work I've been putting out, you can find 12 Haibun I wrote in this collection from Alien Buddha Press. I also have a split chapbook with Glen Binger and Donovan Sponaugle coming out on 5/18 via Two Key Customs. More on that in the coming weeks. We're so back, kids.
front seat, perfect view.
this is the pinnacle. another moment
I am the world/now/then. allow me
this bit of self-congratulation. allow me
to be the
center of a universe before the
knowledge sets in that I'm
just another rock/out here
/alone/screeching and putting hands
over my eyes as the sun turns its attention towards
me. I've
always wanted to be in the light. At least until
I stand face to face with whatever it reveals to me
and everyone
else caught looking at
the moment.
It's the end of the month. If I sent this to you every day and you didn't want to punch me, I owe you a coffee or something. Here's my take on the final Napowrimo prompt of the year. If you're enjoying these and want to see more of what I do outside of these months, you can follow my instagram @narrative_paralysis or check out my music-related thoughts on medium @leonardwalkerwriter. There's more on the horizon, as always.
...some are made of fog. some
mist over...lessen the ill-feelings
left behind by...
...some are burning in the likeness
of dull fuel, bugspray on a dying campfire...
...those who stay are...
...still considering the legal apparatus to
leave...anything outside of the doorstep at night
and it will remain there...here is a gift of
papyrus with nothing blemishing its outer
layer...they too, have summoned a feeling
from inside...
...each of them. each of us. we'll be known
before long, we just know it...
...are fine with interruptions. derailments, long
ways around it...so, I ask you once more...
...will we ever? seventeen snoring years and
a riot and then it is back to a more permanent...
...rest...it always ends with a bedtime story,
we tell ourselves...it's only us, always.
Today's Napowrimo prompt is some time travel of sorts; a poem where past and future selves consider one another.
early morning me-
before the hurly burly
of a day-
scribbles digital or physical.
seeks to produce anything.
before the light comes and
moves him into its machine
glow. before the day becomes
him.
some of me remembers
sleeping. he remembers
the sun's alarm creeping onto his
face, announcing obligations
with less urgency. he knows
sleep is less and more than
death's relative. he is fine
with this family reunion.
once, a friend posited that
how we start the new year
is the precedent we set; the
path we shovel for ourselves.
we, me and me, always knew
the shovel well. we knew what
we've made for ourselves and we
each walked the path of our making.
one of these new years, the shovel will
turn on us and our children will be the ones
piling the path we made
down on us. when we
remember, for the first time,
a sleep that requires
no alarm.
Today's Napowrimo prompt follows a formula of 6 lines composed of 3 sentences: a statement, a question, a conclusion.
with some effort, i strive to feel
a sense of good faith, or something.
who told me that I should
try to make myself feel this way?
some fool in front of the entrance, selling
iron-on t-shirts and second-hand dreams.
Today's Napowrimo prompt is to write a poem of instructions using the same stanza structure.
four ways to
skin your finger
were given to you
by a father-figure.
you will follow each,
quite on accident,
and find that the
methods are fitting.
you will write a bestseller
and call it "what skinning
my finger four ways
taught me." honest stuff.
later, you will be sued by
that same father-figure.
don't settle. tell him
you'll see him in court.
show up to the court in
a jester costume and say
that you are nobody's fool.
this will earn you respect.
tell that father-figure that
he'd be nothing without
your fine prose and your
striking picture in the book's jacket.
don't settle. pay the lawyer fees.
this one is personal. this is not
"his vision", this is your very
skinned finger's inheritance.
end the moment with
a musical number. everyone
learns through your song. isn't
that the point? isn't it? bow. curtain.
Today's Napowrimo prompt challenges us to write an "ars poetica" poem. I love this sort of thing, in case you were wondering.
not so much
the call sign
over the city
more
streetlight fuzzing
in and out
while on the job.
some days,
chronicle the moments
of real and imagined,
reportings and revisions
some days,
badger and cull
the collective conscience
for resources.
not so much
truth and beauty
on full display
more
the unobserved
becoming observed
with unchanged behavior.
each of them
the solo performed
on and off-key
followed by applause
all days,
rain for the seedlings
time, attention.
to make bulbs for pressing
between pages in books.
