Napo 4/29/24 Elegy

Today's prompt. I resisted the urge to call this poem "Leonard's version." I share this with you now because I am a flawed vessel.

I'm going to say some kind words now,
rose colored coloring activities for adults
while the children busy themselves on the margin.

I'll say you lived well enough-like a river

boat on a lazy afternoon with a limited gambling license.
There's always someone willing to try their luck.

Your luck was fireworks midday-loud percussive
thumps whose visual quality was dulled by another
sunny day. So much sun, so many explosions.

I'm going to miss the eager smile of yours-some
new bad idea creasing your forehead-the scrunch

that comes from loving you and your machinations.

I know, you are looking at us, from some unknown

direction and nodding vigorously. Hell is up, Heaven is
down, the rest is in between, they say. You always laughed.

I hope they were right about the in between-that some
small piece of you exists within our current space. Never 
here exactly, but always near enough to us. You there, smiling.

Napo 4/28/24 The Birds The Musical

Today's prompt. 

here, i am a bird, a furnace of bird song and feathers
power line musical choreographed to my birdsong
each refrain, a prayer, pitch repeating. an endless molting.

Napo 4/27/24 I Too, Might As Well Sing America

Today's prompt invites us to write an American Sonnet. I have resisted baser instincts and tried to take this one seriously. 

Lost to the crack in a Liberty Bell. The cracks of time
lengthen from center to edges. Emma Lazarus has
been leaving messages about my extended warranty.
I'll tell you that I've never felt less free when opening
my mailbox to find the names of a previous resident. How
have they remained at large for so long? How, do I 
disappear entirely? "Neither a borrower nor a lender be"
said a man who would fit right in here, at the pulpit and 

on my answering machine. Saying nothing and
Everything. Schrödinger's Sentence. and
I am now and truly a boiling pot, water leaking 
out and shattering the ceramic stove top. 
I hold these truths to be self-incriminating.

I hold the tired, the wretched, the poor, the best,

the worst. Shaken, not stirred, with fervor. Ready for you.

Napo 4/26/24 Spherical Lyrical Miracle

Today's prompt invites us to play with alliteration, consonance, and assonance. I'm so sorry that it has come to this poem. 

Assonance, assiduous, arrived at the bar, atlas in hand. 
"Drink, dear sir!" No damsel in distress (duress too, one supposes)  would be denied. 

Dissonance, seated to her left, hissed soundly so to as to dismiss, longed for conspicuous lists of
trysts from beyond the mists.

Consonance, concerned with copious conundrums, cornered Assonance and clarified his callous conjuring: "Love is long in the legumes. Reeled in with reason while writhing in the reeds."

Grandpa Alliteration is at his trusted stool, sipping sloppy from the Sapporo bottle again. A man who knows his mettle, seated on metal, salt like the earth long settled, wilted like petals. "UGH." he laments.

The writer falls face first in his filet. This failed farce has gone on too far. The sound police, along with those with reason and taste, are chanting their disdain for what he has done. May God grant him grace.

May the Gods of Poetry load their righteous lightning bolts(TM), or soliloquy cannons(also TM), or whatever it is they shoot, strike down this war criminal. Put him in the Poetry Hague.

For what it is worth, he is cackling maniacally. Who will win Assonance's favor? Will the writer ever finish his steak? Are the Gods Poetry Wrathful, Just, or Merciful? Why is this poem written in couplets?

They've lost the plot, sir.
They've lost the plot.

Napo 4/25/24 Proust Questionnaire Part 2000

Today's prompt. I opted to write a new set of questions without answers.

1. What is your favorite occult happening? You may not choose one that has happened in the last 73 years, even the really juicy ones. Yes, even that one.

2. If happiness were a bird, how would you cook and present it for your friends?

3. If happiness were a bird, how would you cook and present it for your enemies?

4. If happiness were a bird, how would you cook and present it for a stranger?

Choose EITHER question 5-6 based on your current level of happiness
5. If you are not happy, what amount of monetary gift would make you forget your unhappiness?

6. If you are currently happy, what amount of monetary gift would make you set fire to your favorite possession, poison your flowers, and give your dog to a mortal enemy?

7. Will you give me exactly seven dollars?

8. What if I told you seven dollars is enough money for me to achieve my lifelong dream of meeting Celine Dion at a random Cafe and to buy her a seven dollar coffee?

9. Do you think seven dollars is an inappropriate amount for a coffee? 

10. Pretend you are Celine Dion: would you feel uncomfortable if your self-professed "Number One Aficionado" presented you with a seven dollar coffee?

11. Setting aside Celine for just a moment, would it be accurate to say that I have the bluest eyes you have ever seen?

12. Do you think that I am making this questionnaire too much about myself?

13. Who is your anti-hero?

14. Have you ever touched a hot stove as an adult because you listened too well when you were a child and wanted to see why everyone made such a big deal about it? 

15. What is one secret talent you possess? For this question, it is imperative that this secret talent is one you definitely do not want other people to know about it.

16. Are you interested in participating in a Secret Talent Show?

17. If we were at a dinner party, and I'm talking about a fancy one with multiple forks and smooth-ish jazz playing in the background-at least a business casual dress code, would you demand ketchup for the appetizer if ketchup were an appropriate component to your enjoyment of the dish?

18. If, at this dinner party, there were a celebrity, say Celine Dion, would you walk up and put your arm around her and sing "My Heart Will Go On" into her ear with tenderness? 

19. Would you choose a different song?

20. Which writer of critical acclaim would you most like to invite to a dinner party and feed poisoned food?

21. What hours are you most likely to be away from your home?

22. Is it more appropriate to live to work to work to live?

23. How do you feel about those fake rocks people buy to hide a key to their house on their property?

24. What is my greatest strength? Note: I am asking about myself.

25. Approximately how much wealth do you possess and what percentage of it is "lying around" the house and easily accessible?

26. Do you plan for retirement?

27. What would you like engraved on your tombstone?

28. Would it be appropriate to say that you and I are closer than friends but certainly not a sibling or a lover?

29. Is there a safe anywhere in your home? If so, what is its security rating?

30. Will you remember me when I'm gone?

31. Will anyone?

32. What is a nightmare of yours that has come true?

33. Can I have that seven dollars now?

34. Are you happy?

35. Now?

Napo 4/24/24 Resolvency (is not a word and I know it)

Today's prompt is based on a line I stumbled upon in a perusal of Poetry Foundation's website. The poem is called "Transformocean" and it is by Samuel Gregoire and translated by Forrest Gander.

There is no way to end the story
without more words
more pages
the sentiment's quick dulling
with no whetstone in sight.

Little flecks of gold
all over the character arc,
careening towards
this impossible
resolution.

Beseech the muse?
How many sacrifices 
of livestock to quell 
the burning, to extinguish
this minor conflagration?

The chord resolves itself
in unclear harmony, 
followed by shuffling of feet
and coughs
from an audience left
unsatisfied

Napo 4/23/24 Hero's Journey (with fashion)

 Today's prompt features a hero that we all deserve and is totally made up.

From the sky, a whinny from an unsatisfied wood chipper.
Dropping to the ground, a spectacle, flailing man,
chartreuse cape, Bright yellow, form fitting, jumpsuit. Icarus in gaudy linens. The robin dropped 
too soon from the nest. A penny from the skyscraper that kisses
clouds. The missile that knows its time has come to a close.

This man, yelling for dear life, dropping from a point unknown
has forgotten his wings, again. Not for the first time.
Hoping for the bailout. The trees are growing larger. The ground's features 
more precise. His shouts more desperate. His cape, still chartreuse. The observers,
mostly hungry for a spectacle, something new, are licking their lips. Turning the phone towards
the inevitable meeting point between ground and our hero.

Our hero. No stranger to desperation. Now sobbing, pleading with some invisible ally. Shouldn't this already be over? Falling for what seems like hours. Time does not flow ordinarily when this affront to fashion descends from a point unclear to the firmament.

Accepting his fate, he stretches his arms, shouts some attempt at a catchphrase and closes his eyes.
Landing with a thunderclap thud that echoes like a dull roar from a bored jungle cat who has just woken up from an uninspired nap. The ground projects a sad mushroom cloud of unimpressive dirt. Quick to dissipate. 

"I'm OK." Comes a shout. The mixture of triumph and a sly grin.

He does this every time. When will we learn?

Napo 4/22/24 Slim Pickings

Today's prompt explores the disagreements between an Osage and Mandarin oranges.

Nature's barbed wire before the foreclosure. Lost in Merriweather's pocketbook. Left to wither with the other seedlings on an adventure that no one cares about except those interested in the deep cuts. The kids said you looked like a brain on the side of the road.

[Your ripeness repels me. Good for a salad, good for the gander. You're a top 40 hit, nothing more. They all know your songs and your words, but none of the feeling is really there. Background noise for the livestock to bleat to when something crosses their vision.] 

You're only here because your wood burns well. You're only here because they don't know what do with you. Wash out my eyes, I think. You leak the milk of human kindness, but that kindness is not your own. It is the weakness of the 1900s when it should have set your orchard ablaze to warm the cooler nights.

[Vapor as a smile. Cool eyes showing nothing, my how your citrus lights up the palate of the chain's patronage! Their tongues alight with the dash of flavor you provide. I am an oddity, but you are commodity. Flavor appropriation. Exotic. Palate cleans before the boiled potatoes return to the food rotation.]

A feast for the deer. Found later, mangled in the grill of the SUV that ended the deer's life. Seeds spread far and wide by American Automobile Ingenuity. There is blood all over your branches. Those thorns can't keep the truth away forever.

[What truth lies past my defenses? What knowledge lies beyond your skin? The ease of peeling a piece of you away. Remove the excess, enjoy what is left, discard it all. I knew you before you knew yourself. They were never surprised either. Mass consumed, fondly brayed about in passing, and forgotten soon after. Compliments to the chef.]

Napo 4/21/24 Also Ran

 Today's prompt is inspired by the color Smaragdine, which is number 7 on this list.

In a dull shadow to the luster of another,
whittling to pass the time.
The shavings accrue in molehills
turned mountainous.

A joy- oh, craftsman of the wild-
in the braying of the pack
in the whistle of the leaves
tussled by the breeze.

Dread knock of leaf crunch
the usurper has arrived
once more
to lay claim to the clearing.

Let it be another's,
be content as the tent is raised,
as the barking commences
as sun rises and casts itself to shadows once more.

you are something of a different
piece. Though this place, you are
much more than what will come from its lost reverie.
You are the deep sigh of the woods. Remaining.

Napo 4/20/24 Recital

Today's prompt. I had to resist the urge to write about one of the big inflection points in history and instead opted to go into "Deep Research" mode (aka Googling "Strange Historical Moments" and seeing what popped up). I found this.

Calling me, darkness burns
through the hole in my shoe, creeps

along my nerve endings. A twist
of hip, enterprising jazz hands

holds the feeling at bay.
settle the brushfire

jitterbugging on a
stage made for me. For you.

Bill's cousin's cover band
playing the hits, running through

numbers, eyes bloodshot, a
worried pallor. The fourteenth encore. This is

more than a gig. No more solos. Foxtrot.
Born to Die Hand Jiving. Paint-by-rhythm.

Even my prayers, a melody that
seeks relief. Take on the 1 and 2

of the bass-snare-bass-snare
and I genuflect on cue.

Up and down and up and down
bleed me in a waltz.

You make me want to shout.
I will never wait a minute again.

Choreography for the revelation.
The song begins again.

 

Napo 4/19/24 Tomorrow and Today and Subsequent Tomorrows

 Today's prompt

Act 1: Haunt Me
Slow motion hell wheel 
on a unicycle piloted by death's
best man. Deny it to them, those
cracked-lipped, moaning bags of
bones with sonorous waking snores
doubling as a plea for another.
What used to be dreamed about
from childhood. All the way up, even,
to now. Until the promise of no more
has reared its ugly head, wearing a Tex-Mex
chain restaurant's sombrero, no less. Blowing
on a noisemaker that makes baritone saxophone
whale calls. Calling you home. Calling you away

Act II: Hunting Season 
I've poached every today of mine
in the dead of night, snares and implements
of chaos all around my canopy. 
Tomorrow, he won't be no different.
I'll find him, drinking some lamentable,
overpriced mixed drink and ordering 
half price appetizers to make up for it,
holding court at the bar for anyone who
wants to listen. Nobody is listening, kid.
I'll take him by his scruffy novelty tee shirt
and look him straight in his eyes, my hand around
his gullet. I'm not blinking either. Go ahead, I'll say.
Now's your chance. Come and let me hear your 
timeshare pitch. Then when you think you've got me,
wrecked and sobbing, ready to hand you the keys and
let you walk me on out of here, I'm going to hoist you
into the air and wring you like a rug after an overdue
washing. You ain't taking anything, friend. Not today.
I'm not giving this to you. No chance. This is still mine.

Napo 4/18/24 Event Horizon Telegram

 Today's prompt. I gave this one a half-mulligan and this is what shouted out of the old brain cave.

From a sense of dread. Stop. To a sense of comfort. Stop. A simpler time. Stop. Where words mattered. Stop. The running of the words, like bulls chasing the courier. Stop. Essential transmissions. Stop. Text message would have saved Romeo and Juliet. Stop. Probably Oedipus too. Stop. Ruin all of "the classics." Stop. Tear down the walls of time and place to make everything The Flat Now. Stop. Loosely, an arrival, the space keeps collapsing in on itself from the weight of (stop shouted, in drone) no interruptions where everyone is happening at the same time across a single timeline that is not extending left or right but it is a dot where infinite multitudes squabble with one another at the same time no place (stooooopppp...) no time like the present as the present is the only time and another yapper yapping into the other yapper's serious yap about their relationship with yet another yapper as the yapping chorus swells in dissonance and beauty and perfection existing in a side by side shouting match between the whispers and general anecdotal greetings we are here and we are unable to STOP

it never stops

Napo 4/17/24 Playhouses

 Today's prompt is inspired by a TV on the Radio song.

Each moment is closer than we think to
an unraveling. Near catastrophe!
narrowing the river, sharpened rapids
and the current shifting from gentle
to demanding to controlling. Done 
in a blink of the camera eye, unmade
without mercy, a draft held by
aqueous interests. who will be selected?
taken under or kicked out
to the river bank, cast out
like a spent grape
to dry out in the midday heat.

Napo 4/16/24 Still Life

 Today’s prompt.

Out at the curb,
the can waits for the mothership
as lesser satellites pass in 
both directions to and fro
rolling between homes,
errands, occasional revelries, 
the like. Breeze, undecided in
its rhythm, playing cymbal splashes
or percussive thwaps meant to shake down
to the marrow. The can, patient in its vigil,
beneath another half-sunned afternoon,
waiting for a moment to be useful.

Napo 4/15/24 Postage Fee

 Today's prompt. Veered slightly in a different direction, but definitely enjoyed the oddities of postage.

letterbox empty again
what once was overflowing
[river after rainy season] is now
parched like dry earth's croaking
demand for water.

sliced oranges and almond bits
arranged on a platter
[behold, a feast] for you
my peace offering
on children's party plates.

a room untouched
austere and dust-settled
[monument in waiting] space
for the eventual 
point of return.

black cat mysteries
truth in shadow and light's 
[fooled you again] malfeasance
where I am left questioning
most of everything.

Napo 4/14/24 Anaphorafest is more exciting than your Balloon Festival

 Today's Prompt

We, given rise to the feeling of discontent, try a bold, new direction. Robust finery, loads of ribbon and flowing outerwear. Snappy, professional, a sense of control.

We, reacting to said discontent caused by bold, new initiatives, placed a large audio horn into the office. A hard plastic megaphone with pipework, terminating in a horn-like speaker in my office, designed tow help our colleagues speak truth to power, namely me, through this series of tubes as it travels to the management floor above them. 

We, and I'm talking about me here, have listened to said sounds and are happy with the decisions I have made for the group. The hand signals have really cleaned up the communication process. The mandatory trust falls in the breakroom have avoided major injury and lacerations, minus the one that happened in the aftermath of the "thrill of falling," though the lawyers tell me that this case will be dismissed in due course.

We, the organization, are a monolithic crab robot that has escaped from the Artic Ocean to seek revenge on those who have interrupted our crab robot reverie. Also the lawmakers who are claiming that this is a monopoly. Also the debt collectors looking to charge early interest on the crab robot's Bluetooth speaker system, which, if we're being honest, isn't as advertised; perhaps we'll take this argument to social media. Also, the people who criticized our new work attire. Also, the delivery man who stole a Boston Cream donut from the breakroom during the "thrill of falling" confusion. Also, our former CEO who absconded with a large settlement for saying that we, and I'm talking about me here again, are a power hungry robber baron with a vengeful streak that borders on the sadistic; in addition to the proof of my elicit dealings with various foreign nationals to get the audio horn at a reliable, read: cheaper, price; and, we admit this with transparency, my now-reformed view on several OSHA requirements.

We have known adversity. We know success. We will know perfection. We, and I am talking about all of us, will board this crab and march into the glory this company is due. 

  

Napo 4/13/24 A Study (with Rhymes)

 Today's prompt.

Abstract

Consider the world: Words with senses, read it like you're there, only you're not. FOMO in a syllable count. Sharp, Screech, Rainbow, Gassy, Bitter. Words are like, well, like words, but also like a dull shiver when someone might be talking about you. On the subject of the concrete, you have to think the hear and now, no ephemeral shivering necessary. Staple, Tree, Bug. We are all concrete, yes, even you, no matter how intransient you feel or how much water you drink. And as is true of all things, the action is the culminating event. Raise, Erase, Pace. 

A Poem about the World (with rhymes and some sense of Rhythm) by Leonard Walker

The message was found on a staple
The staple affixed to the tree, might be maple.
Gadzooks: sounds a screeching observer
What fools! they said, reaching in fervor.
Over the hills and beyond the rainbow,
Such wonderful thrills, the sharp and the painful.

Let me erase the previous notion.
I am at bay, set the pace,
allow for devotion.
Raise me from infancy, know me in constancy
Constantly bitter, worn down in erosion.

What reeked gassy, now free
crassly, this bug, empty, a fee,
sharpen this lug, flee to the 
greener pastures, a hug, under the rug,
this rhyme has gotten away from the writer
and the world has lost its rhythm on the axis 
and soon calamity will be a forethought and
we are all going down oh god we are all going 
down and ive made my piece with proofreading
and conducted the seven sacraments and ill just wait for

the end

Napo 4/12/24 Large Life

 Today's prompt

A soul is born in a factory.
An hour of need, near the finishing
line. No one observes, life
split open existence and air, like a tongue of fire, the 
country station's warbling lamentations
skip-return.
The workers show their dedication.
The product must be assembled.

Matter forged like clay. Borrowing specks of life, just enough to be useful,
nothing anyone would miss:
Dead skin cells, scabs, forgotten plans, broken promises, hair follicles, a fine globule of snot in some state of being between liquid and solid, spit, fantasies, aspirations, moves in a virtual chess game played against a coworker when the boss isn't looking, dirt brushed off of clothes, a fingernail, knowledge of elementary school mathematics, a snippet of a future.

The soul, not a baby, though fresh like one, 
sits exultant in a space between this world and that one,
visible to all. Ready to become washed in the wonder of the observer.
The workers show their dedication.
The product must be assembled.

The soul, a borrower of the life of others
to create itself, recognizes its future in the absence of
onlookers. Remembers
a past that is not its own
but is intimate.
"It's not quittin' time" sings the radio.
The soul knows it, too well.

The soul shows its dedication.
The product must be assembled.

Napo 4/11/24 Dramatis Personae

 Today's prompt, I opted to do 2 "Acts" to make this work.

ACT I

Hope dissolves itself into something permanent on the carpet.

ACT II

And so we celebrated the miracle of mistakes and slaughtered our finest goat in the dining room.

Napo 4/10/24 One Wet Smack

 Today's prompt.

Headline 1: Local Man Offers Water-based Retribution in Resolution of Dispute with Another Man

Hit me when we are underwater together
because you demand satisfaction, but I do not 
want pain.

I'll set the terms plainly:
You may smack my face, but
only if we are both submerged.

You may not use any
swimming aids, or additional
tools of war. Yes, never that.

You are hereby entitled to
one smack anywhere about the face,
chest, arms, or legs.

I will qualify fully submerged requires
us to be in at least 8 feet of water, as
you are quite tall.

You will, of course, remember,
that I sink like an old statue,
so I'll need to cling to you for dear life.

This may present a problem in the physics
and propulsive angles of your strike, preventing
you from "charging up" as it were.

I know this may 
not be to your liking, but these
are the terms. Take them or leave them.

Headline 2: Local Man Savagely Beaten After Presenting Terms of Aqueous Smacking

You have made a mockery of
the Code of Hammurabi
for that you will be punished.

You will be hit
about the face repeatedly,
and kicked in the stomach 3 times.

Each kick will double in severity.
There will be lots of yelling, some of it 
profanity-laced. Mild frothing of the mouth.

Let the authorities sort out
the truly innocent and the guilty,
I am firm in my beliefs.

Napo 4/9/24 An Ode, to You

Today's prompt. While we are at it, I've been writing reviews of current music over at Medium, my most current one on Tierra Whack's World Wide Whack, is available here.

There were big plans for you,
a couch meant to last an era, a seat
invincible.

Only, an errant fork in the cushions, 
tongs buried deep
by a canine friend turned temporary foe;
Only, the feline's favorite scratching point.
Only, some upholster's nightmare taking 
Place behind the penultimate cushion.

Slowly, we watched as your cushions
sink deeper into defeat; we adjusted our 
aging frames as you found our familiar points
and said "no more, please." A demand more 
than a cry for help.

You, swallower of remotes, lost phones,
the toys of children, the concerns of adults;
perch for our canine and feline antagonists,
them of the mind that you will forgive their
past transgressions. 

You, loyal servant to our communal comfort,
wrapping us in your aged fabric, your fraying lines, 
your creaking and dubious form. You, loyal and true.
The model for all living room furniture, big and small.
You have given all you had and we have still asked for more
and still you are willing to accept our demands.

We do not deserve you.

Napo 4/8/24 Mother, Son, Sky

Today's prompt. 

All of that heat
and all of that light,
mother of the sky
bringer of the day.

Interloping rock, hell spawn
in the orbit of a bigger rock.
A less celestial body, a smaller
also-ran. The lesser beacon of the night.
become the usurper.

Stand in the light, raise your arms to full length,
like praying, like victory. Cast your stretched shadow,
darken the plains, change water to an unseeing abyss,
force the ants to look up. Show us,
how wrong we've been. We've underestimated you,
and now
look what you've done.

Napo 4/7/24 Season Greeting

 Today's prompt. I opted for the minimalist today.

Like waves, like the unending sea meeting the horizon. Like the river searching, continuing:

you and me. 

Napo 4/6/24 Surveying the Landscape

 Today's prompt. 

The flowers revealed their truth to me,
a humble listener, drinking in the tenets to
a life lived in the elements. "Don't drink 
old rainwater after business hours."

My father told me to question 
anything that sounded like a sales pitch.
"Gold glitters and the soul latches on
with its tendrils of avarice."

The flowers were apoplectic. "Who did
I take them for? Garden weeds?"

Why mention business hours? It seemed 
like a racket to me and I said so.  

My father, away on business, said "Keep holy the
separation of business and health."

I wondered aloud, "what does health mean?"

The flowers responded, "Health is the thing with
muscular legs that carries us from one commercial to the next.
We are living in a glorious time to move capital."

I took my weed eater and turned the errant garden to a finely 
ripped up, dry dirt. We were praying for rain again.
I contemplated drinking the standing water, flush with the buzz
of mosquito and the dull smell of eggs.

My father once said, "to know thirst is our greatest advantage."

I wondered, as the flowers howled their apologies, their remediations
for living life in service of currency, their action-plans and committees
to become better, if I were doing the right thing. In the silence
of the hot afternoon that followed, I looked to the sky and heard the distant grumble of thunder.

Napo 4/5/24: Blessings, Given and Received

 Today's prompt. Also, Thank you, Napowrimo.net for featuring yesterday's prompt on your website!

Bless me, Kitchen Sink, for I
have once again been selfish,
rinsing the reusable coffee filter clean,
clogging your drain up with the finer particulate
of yesterday's dregs. Drawn you deeper into the
mystery of the health of our septic system. Made
you an unwilling participant to my imperfection. I come
to you, a humble sinner, and beg you forgive my transgressions.

I bless you, Street Light with Faulty Bulb. Shine forever,
even when you are intermittently blinking, even when
you fail and those who walk beneath you are thrown to
the dark path of publicly-funded sidewalks, ones with
root systems pushing the tectonic plates of cement, 
ones that break up the Pangea that is this walkway.
They and I know your honest light will return. May
you shine with the purity of your being. 

Great communion of of the grocery checkout line,
let us pass through your fire, your slings, your arrows,
the small talk and insidious tabloid headlines, the
inevitable bagging of cumbersome goods. Let us
recognize our grace as other lines move faster.
We are, all of us, unclean and searching for nourishment.
Give us the clarity of self and the willingness to know
all about the 14 ways to use potatoes in the Crock Pot.
May we all know true salvation.

 

Napo 4/4/24 Fiend Chorus of the Damned

 Today's prompt. I strongly recommend you read through some of the entries from the book that inspired this activity. 

Oh, my stars. All of the constellations in the sky. Hurling abuse downwards. The screams of adolescence, arriving late in your adulthood. Time and distance are imperfect vessels for your discontent. 

I cannot be mad, my errant children, never at you. You will learn your mistake in the form of a late message in blinking morse code over eons. Your father is disappointed, but your father will be long evaporated by the grunts of time. You, of course, will learn this retroactively, and then your wailings, cosmic grief, shaking the flight paths of garbage and broken rocks.

Know too, even in my disappointment, stern and fatherly, I am also ever in awe by your grace. A proud progenitor. I will send this message too, in a series of nods and winks across the night sky. Know that disappointment only comes from a place of love. Where it comes, where it goes, where it ends, we can only guess.

The universe expands. The universe shrinks. All things become dust or black holes or something that has yet to be discovered. Hear my song. See me love. Begin, end, repeat.  

Napo 4/3/24: Scorches

 Here's the poem prompt for today.

My wife said "I didn't realize it, but car fires scorch the road for a long time." She pointed at a blackened bit of road. "Hell fire scorches longer," I said. We arrived to our destination in silence. 

The devil is always playing tricks of fire. Out here, inside too. We told the fire inspector so, and he just stared. "You folks aren't from around here, are you?" We definitely were not. We definitely were playing what folks like to call "insider baseball." I know nothing about a cutter or a slider, but I know something of the devil himself. I know that sulfurous tinge in the space where nose and throat meet, the tickle in the back of your knowledge box. I know that the water regularly looks like an oil spill caught fire on top of it, and I know, sure as Hell's born, what it looks like coming out of the tap. I have swallowed it down my heathen esophagus, felt the acids of my sinning stomach gurgle up in protest, in praise song? 

The destination served small hot dogs wrapped in bacon. Chocolate fondue was allegedly present as well. Perhaps we deserved this, these Earthen pleasures. My wife, seeming to read my thoughts smiled and said "This is just temporary." 

She was right. Everything eventually stops, mercifully. 

Napo 4/2/24: (Platonic Love Song)

Bweep da da 
these are the sounds of platonic love.
Fills your heart with a rollicking bass line, but in the "everybody clap"
sort of way. Nothing untoward.

Gazong kaswish
a comedy of errors. Will they? They won't. That's the point. They will, however,
1. Eat buffalo wings and not care about getting messy.
2. Listen to jazz and really "get it."
3. Wonder aloud about all manners of futures. Nondescript offerings.

Zip kashopsha
give me a hug, you lovely son of a gun, you. I covet routine. I covet my neighbor's routine. How long has it been? Bible times a recent memory.

Pa-Zoo:callingaglingaling
I don't know what to say when I see you. It's like "how are you?" It means more, like
this piece of me has returned. Like, thank you for remembering me across time and space.

Like, thank you.

cymbal shimmer and chords resolve. No fade out necessary.

Napo 4/1/24: Cosmopolis in Dialogue

 Today's prompt. I chose to write about Don Delillo's Cosmopolis.

This guy, he's rich? How rich is he? We're talking "buy the future and send everyone a postcard about how it now belongs to him" rich.

This guy, he's riding around the city in a limousine and he wants a haircut. What kind of haircut? Not really important here, probably something that involves the dreaded "product" to style though. Product is a four letter word in your house. I have my reasons. He might pay someone to do the styling daily. Perhaps there is a machine that will do it at cost. Stuff us normal shills can only dream of, that's this guy's proverbial "artisan bread and free-range butter." Free-range butter. Yeah, kid, think big.

He's also wanted dead by...someone. Why? You know, I don't remember, but probably because someone is jealous of his limousine and his robot hair device. That's no reason to kill anyone, well, most people. I didn't say that was fair, I'm just telling you that it's a wild world out there.

You know, I think it's time for a quick haiku interlude:

Dreams of wealth, new
Give us a little off the
top, where's my foot rub?

You call that a haiku? 

Sometimes the bird cries
Wake us from autumnal snores,
Sometimes it's winter.

That was beautiful. I'm fighting back tears. Thanks, I am openly sobbing myself.

Well, look, I should probably talk about the rapper too. This story has everything, huh? I guess so, but I don't remember that much of it anymore. The memory hole took most of it, that and all of the nightmare that was my divorce and the subsequent fight about who kept our DIY arboretum. I would've killed to keep that arboretum; it really completed the neighborhood. Well, yes, but then I'd have to reconcile that with the Lord. I'm not sure I want to do that. You know, this story, I don't think it had haikus though. We've got one up on it right now. That's something, isn't it? 

I'd say it is.

Napowrimo Early Bird: A Flute

Tomorrow starts National Poetry Month. Each year I follow NaPoWriMo here and use it for inspiration in a daily prompt. I post those results here. Today's "Early Bird" prompt was to take a term from a list and write an alternative definition.  

[I am not sure] song to and from my soul. this mirthful smirk. the sketch of errant laughter. poltergeist [if this is coming or] behaviors, noticed on the peripheral. Knowledge [going,] unavailable through [interjecting or] a glancing denial of service [silencing]. “hey, aqualung” as sung by a tired forest spirit [the interruption.]. limited time. 

rest stop

 

Today I will write something.

Step into the face of creation, stare at it,

Be blinded by the force of the collective will

Existing within me.

The will to take the winds of time and push sand from the desert to a city

and to get in everybody’s expensive coffees.

Goddamnit, they’ll say, this was 8 dollars.

The sand will only be up to their ankles.

Driving will get harder. Traction being what it is,

And speed being something of a prerequisite.

I have only just begun to reconcile the urge

To dismantle, to build, 

casting sand in all directions, whistling like a desert storm, and you are all fishtailing out of your company parking spaces

Lost in the sand piles. Tires crying a lament as they struggle for purchase.

Time, is not on our side.

As the monuments rise from the piles, as the sand burns to glass, 

Encloses us.

I have made us a record of its passage.

And we are now up to our word holes, spitting grit and trying to speak.

Soon, the sand will cover everything and the time will be complete.

Soon, we will flip ourselves over and see what stays

This sand, a record for something else. 

Will we be a mark on its ledger?

Watering Can

 Raining down love 

and warm feelings

doesn’t grow a person,

doesn’t feed a family,

doesn’t secure a nation,

barely the sound of a single hand

straining to applaud its own 

ingenuity, barely a 

trash bag cut lengthwise for a blanket

in the evening swell of wind, as it rises

like a starlet’s dress over a street grate,

that warm rush of summerish air kissing exposed flesh,

blowing the covering up to the sky and blotting out the moon,

I am so proud of myself

for all I have accomplished

in your names,

I’m just going to give myself a minute

and soak up the goodwill with this unspent rag, saturate it,and 

ring it over the mouths of the thirsty, then wait to be washed clean in their adoration.

Era of Good Feelings

I may be finished with this era of good feelings

though I haven’t decided the consequences of such a declaration.

Each day is a scratch against the wall from my overgrown nails.

Unkempt rows of 4 and a diagonal slash to finish the grouping.


I’m counting down to the day it ends

where I am met by angelic trumpets and barbershop quartets,

everyone applauds, even if they are only doing so out of social pressure.

Friend and foe alike here to watch the light extinguish itself.


Curiosity killed more than a bunch of cats, I’m told.

They have lists down at any city hall rife with the victims of

exploration in the face of what is safe.

Profiles in courage.


I push back my unmanaged hair, tie it off in the back.

My work can meet no interruption, even from me.

Especially from me.

Even in this new era of unknown feelings, I have obligations.


I’m almost to the gold watch.

I’m almost to the clap out on the final day.

I’m almost to the cold stare from Saint Peter.

I’m almost there.


But, first, one final sleight of hand.

One more trick to leave them all guessing.

Before I disappear into the maw of time.

You will know my work. Behold.

 

Highlight, Reel

Sometimes, the possibility snaps into place

and the vision of the golden future shimmers before me

with ease, it is within my grasp, things have never been quite

so obvious. so available to pluck from the ready and waiting 

vine. washed and peeled, unnecessary to cook. each bite

a fulfillment of hunger, satisfying crunch, the gratification of 

friction on the teeth as the food gives way under duress.

I am full. content. waxing poetic, reflective, in rumination. 

thankful. it was here, all along. waiting. 

Wound

 

Give me each piece of the shard of glass I stepped on and you ceremoniously extracted from my heel. Blood-stained, uneven and jagged edges. Found weeks after the cup was dropped. Found in my skin. Found on the splatter-plot of my gory steps to the bathroom to sit on the closed toilet, perform yoga poses to try and identify what has penetrated my foot’s feel good sense of exploration. I want this souvenir. A necklace to wear around my neck. A reminder. No, don’t clean it off. Let it be how it was, fresh in the air as my wound congealed and set itself right and we began to blot up the evidence of my travels. 

Top 40

 

Give me that feel good jukebox snoring away

and let my dance partner be a real looker

in all the right ways, but with none of the attention from the onlooking crow lineup.

Let her move with grace to sound of the good lord’s own warbles

after we provide the proper tribute

in 25 cent intervals.

It’s that old time sneeze of a good time,

the sort that catches the moonshine behind your sweet tooth and stops itself clean in your cough box.

Go ahead and rock me, sweet lady.

Let me move through these steps and let the sound never come across cleaner.

A counter to the humdrum static slipping through the one good speaker and its bastard little brother.

Yeah I know the truth, girl.

Can’t help but shout it from the top of the counter

to a room full of people, maybe our own disciples

or maybe the ones who want the other guy 

and we’re destined for ol’ Golgotha off of Route 206,

Near to the air base 

And the litany of pines.

Bury me in bliss

Let these 3 minutes and 12 seconds

Purify me through the fire of a guitar solo as a bridge

Over my troubled river of a soul.

Make me gurgle and split out from the banks.

See me in all my glory.

Sun Spot

 

Here’s an example for you:

the power of sunshine

on your wounds.

Unfettered solar flares

Collide with the atoms above the skin,

form a pincer molecule to burrow into

The muscle and bone,

breaking, mending with a

daylight suture job.

Yes, the scar is permanent.

So is the healing

The poem that doubles as a prog rock concept album idea

 

We are inside The balloon

Broadcasting a dream

Projecting from each of our eyes

making a communal physical world

out of a shared hallucination.

The balloon floats over Montana,

Or what it thinks is Montana

But is actually a cleared forest

of purple trees and mountains scoured with bite marks.

Rivers made of something that can only be described as “soapy water” but definitely not soapy or water. Ground, a fogged-over glass.

The sound of bird calls, heard in reverse.

A point the balloon is marveling about in its internal calculations. Humming in alphanumerical reverie.

The balloon, set to record,

Ambient weather outside and

Ambiance inside.

Watching the world we make

Undo itself as you and I both reach for 

what we collectively suppose is the last chip in the bowl, As the big game reaches an inflection point that will determine an important outcome.

When our hands touch,

A brief, glancing of flesh,

Something important shorts above us

and the hallucination stutters. fades, and cuts out.

The only sound, aside from the collective gasps, is the deep exhalation from the balloon’s failing air supply.

Now we will never know

Who won.

In Vein/Vain

 

Take it in your hand

absorb the key facts, remember the ridges,

lock this into your memory.

Let it sit, untouched,

held in place with yesterday’s dust,

in the room off of the corner of our home.

Pay it no mind

gentle snoring, a casual scratching,

the foundation is settling, old bones creak.

Your hands, now calluses

and wrinkles and gnarled rootwork, bending in on themselves, they will remember.

It is almost time.

awakening like the crash of a rogue wave,

something has washed ashore.

City Planning

 

This city, bright and mechanical,

Floating like a flower in an vase

Way up past the skyscraper eyesores.

Surrounding industry.

Inside,

Paths like a Wire Beehive.

Electric pulses

Winding paths

Dropping and rising in the space of petal to stem.

Path termination, kicked out

Into the old air

Far beyond, in the rearview.

Bobbing in the space of nothing.

Drooping a little lower each time.

The city loses its footing

Deflates itself

And the wires uncoil

Falling around the empty field

Under a cloudless sky

At the foot of the steel leviathans.

The monument whimpering with the spasms of a dying animal’s determination,
beyond the rear view's eyes. Imagine, it is still out there, trying.