Napo-Prelude 3/31/26: Store Bought

 Prompt from NapoWrimo. It starts tomorrow, y'all.

I don't know if this is hard won
or just another compromise. Sanitized,
pre-packaged. Off-brand (never off flavor)
snack-shaped objects and the family is
fed another week. As we elbow through
three aisle calamity to weave through essentials
and the excess. Balancing the checkbook of
wants and needs. Now and Later. 
Mouth's watering at the impending coin coming
back into our pocket when we return our carts.
This, at least, is free.

Munch's The Scream was stolen
right from our collective throats. The sight and
sound, on display in some bunker of excess and
the finer things. In front of some interpretation of
controlled flame and feet up.
No sense of a bargain. Just
a mouth, hanging open. Maybe, it's just
hungry. Maybe, it has never known fullness.
Maybe, it just waits for the rest of us to check
out in the controlled lines of the overworked
for the cart to be returned and the parking space to
free itself from our collective presence.
for the lights to go out in the store.
in our homes. in our
hearts.

Then, and only then, will it close its mouth.
Only then, it will be satisfied.

holistic

all of the time, soul and body telling each other stories through a tin can walkie talkie. old friends, known it all along. mistakes were made and yet, let the record show, they aren't blaming the other just yet. not the time. bonds aren't meant to fray so easily.

give it time. let the understanding run its course. we'll see what they're made of yet. and soon enough, we'll know beyond the shadow of any doubt.

everything, in time.

Healer

some version of me/past perfect/you/ know the type
made myself/reimagined./this is me and you/and you
likely have a different version of the events./i want to
right the ship/all the time, subconscious fixes/fixations.

me/aberration in the wavelengths/wave tables/we are
here /never/.

we were here/maybe?

i want to dress it up the way it could have or should have
been/and/this is personal./

i'm sorry for involving you/this go around/let it
be/good, and buried/

reminiscing/lord, help each of us/we'll make
it right/soon/

enough.

deep-fried life

misconnected flare signals. traffic akimbo.
awash with guilt and buyer's remorse.
porch-bound tourists
see the grid go ahead and lock itself.
never willing to look the neighbors
in their eyes.
fueled by batter and an enterprising
sense of propriety.
anything and everything will be fried.
what do we wait
for, out here? out there?
where to?

my misgivings from the crunch
and disbursements of flavor profile
too good
to deny. my own
bashful denials come
in rushes of blood to
the offending pieces of me:
heart and mind.

we will wait.
we are full and drunk
on power. soon direction
will be given and the wave
will crest and we will be
gifted movement.
soon we will know our
fullness.

careful cheerful

we are forms in socks
sliding on the floor
dreaming of flying
not quite ready to leave the ground.

I will never be quite
sure of myself, but I 
want you to believe in 
yourself when I tell you sweet nothings.

anything I've ever tried to say
was destined to end up in the wind
just hoping that it landed and
hit the mark before it went on its way.

I hope we'll follow suit.
I hope we'll find our way
sooner than later
before too long
becomes never.

simpler moments

 let me believe
that this is
not so short-lived

let me imagine
some brilliant day
sooner than later

and I'll be
fine for just
a little longer.

let me just
say what I
was thinking

then

now

whenever the moment
seizes my voice.
and sees itself 

out.

twilit

the limits to my creative spirit
eek out of the liver spots
cropping up on my skin,
once unblemished,
now puckering itself up
for whatever good will comes
its way. my words too,
less gumption. less pizzazz.
horn arrangements in the halcyon days
remind me of what the sun felt or
rolling down another hill or
flinging myself with abandon
into a pile of leaves or
trying to flip on a trampoline.
trying to get closer to some feeling.
trying to let any old song
feel new. hoping there is
still some time for me 
to flourish. for me to 
have something to say. 

Shhhhhh

 glad to help and happy to assist/get yourself something from the back/be right/with you

i will yell and tell you what you/wanted to hear/unspeakable horrors

don’t you dare?/look away

anything else/thank you/for your time.

portions

seen from the periphery
disbelief is a feature-noise
in the picture. the scope, limited
time.
only in theaters. only for the

theatre.

these performances-unlimited 
servings, famine of understandings.
lessons left on the stove-well past
done.

everything

is up for interpretation.
especially this.
especially me.

some haiku for you, gentle reader

An appetizer for infinitehaiku vol 3 and other surprises

this slick mud
on my good shoes
ruins the rug

singing like birds
only not in any key
and Bon Jovi

stapled paper
found in my driveway
something forgotten

light on the ice
solid, slippery mass
hurting my eyes

dry hands
in desperate need of gloves
or maybe spring

we out here?

any sound at all/we have no luxury to picky/out here/where noise is absolute/indefinite silence/uncontrollable, shrill shrieks clamoring to anyone with a willing(?) ear/we will/not be forgotten/not/again//

aside from the rage

out in flux
and i don't know what
i'm so good for really,
not any time soon, maybe even,

anymore.

spent newspaper in the rain
ink running down some
wrinkles of no consequence;
when no one reads the words
the means to an end don't matter,
now, maybe even,

never.

aside from the rage and the ill-feelings
and the simmer pot of resentment stinking
up the kitchen and adjoining rooms, i guess
it wasn't really that bad, maybe even,

good?

sizzllap

the way your hand

connected with his face

was the sound of 

cackling electric

tension wires

doing their best cicada impression.

all the hair on all of our bodies,

the onlookers, those keeping vigil,

is at attention.

my, how you’ve made your point. 

blink and you miss it.

 world of updates:

1. Crying Heart Press will be putting out my Chapbook "something something something survival" on Friday, January 9th. You can order it at their shop. While you're there, you can pick up Keiron Buxton and Mike Zone's chapbooks that day too (and use their code for free shipping on orders more than 20 dollars). Support this press, they've put me on to about 20 great writers and are consistently putting out high quality stuff.

2. If you see me out in the real world, I'll be slinging some short, hand-made zines (one collection of Haibun and 3 pocket poem zines) for the low-low price of $2.00 for all 4. 

3. An actual poem

blink and you miss it

zing and zam, comic dialogue bubbles are here to tell you the truth
and make sure you understand that this is serious stuff, despite the medium.

we appreciate you continuing to read this important missive.
some people see sound effects and think that they've hit rock bottom.

no, the truth is the rocks are still some way off.
we haven't even started with the fart-trumpet sounds

no, that's for tomorrow. or the next day,
when you and i have nothing left to say to one another

then, we'll get some
real answers.

inspirated

holding firm
means holding out

on everything i hold
dear to me.

near, enough. little sequences and affirmations
conveyed through the various tribulations and trials
of our old time namesakes. 

well, well, well.

i was only as good as the first trick and the second trick and the third trick in my four-trick repertoire
by then, they probably knew,
better than i knew myself, 
what trick was lying in wait

for them. fangs drawn on,
angry eyebrows painted just
above wide-eyed surprise.

cartoonish malevolence.
constant mocking, airing
the grievance and the disappointment

passed down from the first of us
to carry the torch for something we loved
and couldn't quite bring ourselves
to say out loud.

not even when the time was
long gone.