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. 

rorschach: a digital zine

January came and I decided to craft a project. It started with daily writing and it quickly took its own shape and form. I decided not to print it and made it available to you, warts and all. Here is rorschach. Feel free to download, print it, or do whatever it is you do with it. Let me know what you think.

grown up nightmare

ink blots...your future...know yourself on 2/8. here's something in the meantime.

grill times     everyone's smiling    my friends and yours    
    i will let the sun shine    sing song and warmed beer    everything coming up coleslaw

            hum along with me    hum along with you    watermelon down to the rind
flies waiting with tender hunger    tooth-marked husk of corn    water slide buffoonery

some days    we're made for it        some days    it's made of us

                                                bring us the condiments
                                                demand satisfaction    do we even know each other?
        little acts of friendship    everything is coming up at the end of the night

we can't wait to do it again.

a haiku so i can pretend i am at peace inside

I think the title says it all.

felt chill, this tundra
little icebergs and frost heaves in the countryside 

(S)lumber

 

grief forever

silly little hopeful giant

silly me and the large dog i rode in on-jaws open, mouth breathing, sure of my own success, still wincing from the scars of the last tarring and feathering 

this itch never goes away, does it?

here to assert justice, some howling order to the unraveled order of another outpost in need of heeling-in need of knowing what is expected

silly little me thinking my order is the same-the universe works with or against at will, in fleeting smirks and animated rages of a toddler

silly fly, oblivious-believing all angles are covered before the end arrives in a righteous, almighty slap. 

silly giant. silly little me. your/our vision is not all seeing. the hand is not one-size-fits-all. the slap, however, is always almighty.

Solara 96-110

 sorry for the wait, world.

XCVI
my words are more like nonsense and still, someone is agreeing with me. they’ll come forward, in disinterested clumps/amoebas who can’t be bothered to congeal. hell no, we won’t grow! little tests of disbursement. lessening the impact. still they will arrive at the appropriate moment to chant something like a sad battlecry, another little ditty made by a combination of scatting and yawning. to think, this all came from nothing.

XCVII

you know that i/critter of the swamp/deep forest kin/sad enough for two of us/mourn collections of broken trees and the rotting stumps of yesterday//i done told you, pa/there ain’t nothing for us here anymore/not like yester-years//a voice emits from swamp country-beware-it snaps-for my violin is broken and i have used the word “for” when speaking to you. this must mean i am serious//i am a conscientious swamp thing objector/give us honest truths/those condos aren’t building themselves//pa, get off’n them condos/they ain’t hiring none of us under the best’ve them circumstances//free labor is the voice of the people//i’ve had about enough of this swamp shilling/sad to be leaving, but look what we’ve become//

XCVIII

when will the babbling stop? i would like to know. i would like a timeline expressing the ability to change and the inability to let the real words come to the surface. bad enough, we let real sentences stand on their own merit. word bubbles, next to the river, like it has something to say. we cannot understand the language of water. it was never meant for us. not you, and certainly not me. i will lay my head on the pillow each night and know i’ve done what’s required of me; water thoughts be damned. what will the current bring to you? 

XCIX

like a bridge/over the Atlantic Ocean/like the industry cropping up on said bridge/think of the gas monopolies//the hotel chains, springing up like snakes out of a cylindrical can/economy revitalized//shirts commemorating the trip/like a dream, only commercial/only filled with roadside attractions/only a pain when you break down/all that smog and the fish below/we’ve done it/

C

We were leaving, long before the rest of us had planned to go. No bags, just our feet, the wind. This fellowship. We knew what was behind us. We didn’t want it anymore; not like this. Not this time. You followed suit, eventually. Followed the path we marked with scuffs, our easy conversation and camaraderie with one another, still drifting on the wind. Along the metal, over the water of a river long forgotten. We all went elsewhere, to a point unknown, unimportant. Just, not here.

CI

Fidelity/Thy name/Is a flower/In a barren field/Next to a rotted out tire/Shine yourself/Back into the forefront/You’ve earned your fifteen minutes/Baby

CII

is nature/good/and done yet?

mingling with our affairs/our

ill-gotten/treasures/hidden on

maps of a golden/imagined country.

interceding with what we’ve/made/

linking within an abandoned fence/this

Semi-forgotten bicycle? Can we/just

agree to go our separate ways?

CIII

I can’t/won’t change what you did/left to devices less formal/less honest/rewritten along the rust marks/along the old wounded lineage/I can’t bring it back to life/not the way you want it to be/not like before/not even halfway back, or halfway/there/the silver standard, untouchable/you’ve been handed an opportunity/not an invitation to revision/lessen exposure/lessen the blow to the ego/let the rust become native and take control of the operation/we’ll have to make do with what is left/salvage it/somehow/

CIV

Some unseen hand, in an unseen tongue, on a spent piece of paper, has taken to recording the enterprise of the past. Left us, guessing at the detailed notes. Headshakes and mutterings. Another lost opportunity. Not recorded in the annals of history. Another one, gone. Again.

CV

exposure/the sun/like wrinkles,

this/like parchment/finer aging,

this/loadstar, shackle on the neck,

this/a destination/an obstacle,

both/this/in heat mirage/shimmering

air, this/lend me what is yours/not mine,

this/ 

CVI

truth is vision/and what the eye/is beholden

to/the truth is/that i am no longer/seeing clearly/

what is in front of my eye/instead/i invent a truth

fitting my purpose/my need/another color, another

shape/another landscape//

wind, rake this still form/gather the dust 

and swirl/remake

this truth into something we will

all believe.

CVII

gurgle and whimper/the future has devoured me/beneath the waves/cosmic/sound/ocean/all in a swirl of cacophony/let my heart know it is stopping soon and/the sputtering is natural and/soon i am food for a fish/set of fishes/or an enterprising beast designed in sound/the light is faster than we imagined/even with everything we know/we still/know nothing/

CVIII

shifting the terms of service/fire below water/lightning on both levels/what we see and hear/not relevant to a discussion of this magnitude/as earth splits/as water leaks from the apartment above/less you know/less it your friend/as the smoke shifts downward/up and away/we are going somewhere unexpected yet/yes/another surprise/right about now, you’ll be coming up for air/surprised to see what remains/what has left us/

CIX

Not sure/relief/or pained response/misfiring of a synapse/the leg kept twitching/long after the brain was good and done/who knew what was really/at peace/what does rest look like\when left to our devices/moments of weakness/a triumph in stillness/this, a monument/this, inflection point/willed into knowing yourself/like an arbitrary spin of a wheel/spokes flying in all directions/and then, peace/

CX

this is
not what i
had in mind
when the day
started. dearly
absent lightning
and broken crack
of thunder. my stare
has traveled the eons
and cosmos. i expect
some raving spectacle
and was met with
unsure cymbal claspings,
shrugs from the players,
less prepared than me
for what comes out of
the sky. today. 

so much less

 i
know it
you cannot understand

will it be 
something
unusual?

this relief?
in another world
another time

unlike the
limits of yesterday
and years prior

what once
was a dream-
was a dream.

once
another nightmare,
these

little miracles
under the microscope
this life, examined

goodness,
unlimited.
in short supply

everything must go
not even the 
displays will remain

we remake
ourselves
in a world

brand new.
our greatest
creation.

here and now.