not the favorite-
this/thy little misconception/them
nor us, like thee/home forever,
just like never/like always/
glow always/unwilling to
fade into the background/zoom out
"you are here"
always positioned/never lost/
these little spaces/made clear/made
visible/lone beacons in a starless sky/
we are now/we are never/we are forever
little known and eternal/delayed and on time/
right here, when needed.
you're never going out of style
almost and not quite/somewhere/this is now and then and never/even if you don’t notice/even when it crosses the path you are walking/we are never without it/one another/
one and all/the table full/napkins and salad forks/et cetera/ et al./no roll call/no voting “present”/
we will own this/put our names to it/become it/swell and burst with the facts/non fiction/one and all/
lend us this ear/yours/mine/the litany of others/i should have known/never in doubt/together, we will lay claim to what is ours/
in infinite wisdom,
this vision, reduces
the likelihood of
miscalculation. sets
free, sets fire to,
unlimited brush
with endless air.
in infinite wisdom,
forever extending,
forever, each ever
a new hill to roll right
on past. right onto the
next vista.
from up here,
i can see anything.
i will be everything.
whenever.
dress it up any way you like and i’ll give you the notes you’ve requested of me. to tell you the truth, that’s what you’ve asked of me. honest like headlights on a hill in dead nighttime. dead to rights, just out there floating. letting you know that something is waiting. maybe even getting a little closer. with each passing second. each of them. growing in stop motion. slow road to oblivion/salvation.
which of them/who of us really knows anything? i will make a truth out of whatever calls my name the sweetest. whatever knows the way to my heart. through me. into my soul and out another end with clean exit wounds.
oh, to be obliterated. knowing my own destruction. knowing the end, recording it as the opening track. cue the sounds of accompaniment to my wailing. I won’t be alone when it all comes out in the wash. there will be strings and horns and other lines of melody and harmony. we’ve been working a long time together. so much to tell you. so little time to be told.
listen.
tomorrow...Tapes on Fire. Link when it's live. There's a bunch of other ideas in the works. more on that later.
consider it a spot of luck
that hell is below us.
and hell fire isn't raining down
any time soon. any time. anywhere.
maybe in hell, but as we've already established:
we are at a strategic elevation. the advantage,
critical. let them make it rain all they want.
we're sitting pretty in the regular acid/microplastic
rain we've got topside. they'll have to think of something
a little different to get us on their level.
in the spirit of fairness, though:
i will tell you our next moves, but it
will be in a coded language. taps, almost like morse code, but instead just one rule:
3 taps is a
surrender.
we: don't: ever: surrender.
take that how you will. we'll be transmitting until we receive a response.
hell isn't other people, it's a deep cavern filled with pitchforks and fire and
ceramic swing sets. i'd be mad too. it might also have paid advertisements
interrupting your thoughts. what could be worse?
what could be worse?
in another spirit i'll answer my own question:
not: a: damn: thing.
we aren't heaven, but we sure is hell aren't settling for anything less than what we've got.
and if you want what we've got, well
come on up here and make an offer. we're listening.
In case I didn't say it here: Tapes on Fire (a book of poems I have been writing since 2018) drops on 6/1. I'll post a link when it goes live. Get it while it's hot, tepid, or something.
only when the sun says
hi there
or goodbye
do we know the issue at stake.
hi and bye
sit or stand
run with the best of them or walk with the other best of them.
each a version of the greatest, each a mirror. each equal and opposite, bizarro version of itself
talking backwards and jumping instead of walking.
such oddity, such majesty, such normalcy.
geriatric and infant, here and there, blink and we might miss the moment.
beginning and ending, these are the changes i pay the big bucks to see.
i'm going to be watching to see what happens. i'm going to pretend whatever it is
matters. it might.
If you don't know: Tapes on Fire, my first poetry collection, is in the final stages of approval, available soon unless you can find me and hustle one of the copies I ordered. More soon.
so, yes,
paint brush and broad strokes, impressions
of time
in competing lines,
concentric swirls. i am rarely absolute
in
the things i paint and the things i say.
smaller shrubs
and trees, sing harmony.
nature yawns and the air is
comfortable
warmth, the tinge of pollen, a light roast
coffee
without dilution or flavoring. somewhere-
strings, not
overstaying their welcome, adding to
the scene. the players
moving their bows in concentration,
an acceptable amount of
yearning loosed from their instruments.
from heart to string,
from air to lungs, ear to soul.
notes of merriment. notes:
content. insistence. it’s real, it’s here,
it’s now. drink
deep, be satisfied. these are the golden times
promised to no
one, here and now. yours and mine.
the brush dipped
into water. purified, made almost-new. made ready.
nothing comes
out the way i expect it. add, subtract, revise, revisit,
rescind.
results. look for yourself.
...and back to a weekly schedule.
Fear not,
Fear all.
brinkmanship and the like.
We should all be so afraid. So very
afraid. Enthralled
by violence. Ensconced. Sealed. Terror and
Strife. I am ruled by my personal fears.
Little indignities.
Decency cast to the breakwater, smashed against the line of
patient
rocks. Patience, little one. Your time for ruin is soon
upon us all. Patience, Patience. The waiting is the hard part. Harder
than the doing. The coming and the going. Life is happening around
us. Little known facts and lesser known truths.
Patience,
little one.
Today’s prompt. Thank you to everyone who has read my work all month (especially to the people I bombard with it on a DAILY BASIS.) I'm sorry to see April go, but stayed tuned…I’ve actually got something significant in the works that I'll announce soon.
I’ll never forget where I was the first time I heard it.
Who I was. Might be. That sense of displacement. In a conversation with one of my roommates, as we watched the end of childhood through an obscured glass. I had to hear it. He was insistent. Watch as his eyes light up with splendor as he shared this song with me.
My my my, my…my
That feeling, fleeting. furtive. the sense that every second was trying to hold water in my bare, shaking hands. Holding it at the end of a cold winter. Trying to take in the sun. Trying to keep it for myself a little longer.
Skinny love.
Song of youth. Song of sadness. The spare guitar jangling out and on itself. Furtive baritone. I’d never felt so seen while falling. I was sure of a nosedive. Unsure of what would be born from the collision.
Later still, watching my roommate dancing with a friend, singing along, joy in the moment funneling out from the oration of a song. It was a week from the hard stop.
I spent some corona and Budweiser tears, it was hard to let it these movements go. Hard to see me where I’d end up. Wondering what was left for me afterwards. Wondering what I had to show for my efforts.
All your Love was wasted.
A lifetime later. I only visit this song, none of the others. This line, anthemic before. I realized the mistake: Love being wasted, gone.
Love isn’t oil. It isn’t youth. It isn’t a pie graph or a timeline.
It is clean energy. When we use it, it fuels itself. It isn’t a shriveled, weak thing withering in on itself.
I’m still in that moment, hearing this the first time. Hearing it soundtrack life’s interruptions. Between the goodbyes. In our waning, in the winding down. In absence and reunion and the spaces where life carries us.
It wasn’t wasted. It echoes between our souls.
It’s still here. always
Today's prompt. Not a full 100% take on the prompt, but this is what is spinning around in my brain.
words and the like build
an invisible monument, reinforce it
with sentence structure. an errant clause,
punctuation housings and wirings. splits,
electrodes, and more to it than the untrained
eye (namely: me) can ascertain. The world becomes
a paragraph and all of the rules of nature, laws that govern
existence, fall into a single space before us, write themselves
into being. we are left to make the meaning ourselves. we get our
wish: play god and move all of the king's horses and all of the king's
men around the game board. where to build hotels and where to
press our luck: park place and the boardwalk, railroad robber barony,
becoming the means of production ourselves. starting small riots
and smirking as the workers tear apart what we've made for ourselves.
it is just like this. everything is reduced to the word choice. everything
becomes all right or terrible or listless or eccentric. or just is. or was.
one day it will be, too. we can only hope or fear. it just comes down
to the wording.
today's prompt. In honor of the concept of music, I'm going to recommend you listen something you didn't understand the last time you heard it.
music be, miscellaneous
and left for the scavengers.
they're playing the scraps of
songs my brain makes at the
end of dreams. no one knows
me like you. no one, makes misfired
synapse become the sounds of
distant symphony, played from a
cave. they didn't know the occasion.
they didn't get the sheet music in
time. wholesale invention. hardly
heard from the trucks going by, the
hum of progress follows its own,
distinct meter, notation, etc. improvising
as they see fit. the woodwinds against a
drum. the saxophone with a slide. the stuff
of another time. another nightmare.
another reason to shake our collective
skulls in disdain and rattle our brains
just so. enough to feel it again.
Today's prompt. I decided to look at some more Auden and chose this one as the poem I'm sharing today.
i.
we assume our lives are narrated by brilliance
and punctuated with fireworks. our own little
symphonies, crescendos and triumph.
auden assumed icarus fell with a splash, was
ignored by the cruelty of a ship with obligations,
dismissed by the man with the plow. missed by
a man who wanted nothing more than to stare
at the sun all day.
auden assumed
icarus screamed, struggled,
splashed.
if it were anything. maybe a dull thud. maybe a
listless resignation. maybe icarus had already expired
from the thrill of the fall.
to suppose anyone was aware at all is
where i begin to question the enterprise.
ii.
seen from above
seen from below
another bird comes crashing
another one of god's disappointments
i am just looking through the willows
for some food for my own son.
iii.
we assume our lives are
central parts in the play of
life. we're right. we are principle
speakers. all of us. each a megaphone-
each a soloist belting the notes with
disregard for blend. we are
something, all right. if not, you'll
hear it from. i'll speak to your
manager.
iv.
an angel gets his wings,
promptly loses control.
the clouds want to weep
but can't waste the water.
lean times are coming.
there will be other angels,
anyway.
v.
the plow prepares for tomorrow.
clears the land. prepares our
inheritance. every gust of wind,
each grain of sand, every dog and
sparrow, ours. all of it, tomorrow.
Today's prompt. Sonnets are not usually my bag, but I may have something coming out one day that plays with the form. I googled Modern Sonnets and this collection came up, seems appropriate.
i won't believe the truth, not anymore.
old rapscallion! old line to my feelings,
modern mystery: efficiency, soar.
excalibur, a sword from stone's dealings.
pulled from the dirt, plastic imitations.
sold to the highest bidder. consider:
when and why and how. the intimations
nobility astoundingly slither.
hither and dither, snake without a face-
two headed, de-brained, and still dangerous.
one head is cruel, the other? a disgrace.
still made to look born in a manger. thus
a saint and sinner, but more the latter,
fed by its malice, still getting fatter.
Today's prompt and no poem to share today. write your own and sing it at unsuspecting people.
affixed to concrete listen all the stops the way melody and noise splash each into each other can't help it built into one like the other dueling, rising; waxing
waning. won't help it. we are mostly forgotten/intrepid followers of life's plans converging here and like this you who mattered in ways my soul remembers but the rest of me forgets
or life guides us/ wanderings elsewhere. no circles. even when we depart thinking it is an elaborate figure eight thank you for taking my hand we trace something different
something/somewhere else made monuments in the spaces since then mostly good ones,
i hope i might pray in 4 minute rituals, celebrations recitations thank you
even when we lied to ourselves young liars i like to think it was earnest belted out
in response to a wall of feedback meeting something more perfect. we felt forever, didn't we? can't help
it/forever wasn't something caught in a bottle. as the song shifts, as our momentums pushed us forward and elsewhere, i was sure this was the peak won't help it. it might have been then,
but it was just another opening number.
today's prompt. Rather than post a poem, I encourage you to write your own today. You can add it as a comment here or you can just keep it with you or you can just ignore this encouragement completely.
beginning with the first note/we are already moving in disagreement with one another/chords already versus yes, chords forever/where's the bass versus new frontiers in production/compromise is a dying art and we are watching it bleed out in front of our charged antics/performance of a disagreement/one of us will cave/one will agree/one will come forward with an olive branch, wilted but symbolic/endless summer versus autumn cold*/we might make something special/we might become a hulking i/i'm not afraid to fall apart*/i already might have done it a million times/we might just make it yet/might//
*The Lawrence Arms-"October Blood"
today's prompt and a poem by Roque Salas Rivera.
what if birds are the equivalent of someone
who can't stop scatting? zipadee bop do bop.
zimataratamatazz-bee-doo. would we still
be taken to a place of peace and reverie?
bim-ba?
or would we ostracize the birds? whisper
about them at work functions? watch out
for benny over there, they just keep-
hum-hummita-ha-ha-hoo-
cornering me and asking if i like the
ba-ba-da and how it resolves.
i think we both know the answer, friend.
those birds, maybe wearing a smart fedora,
wouldn't be welcome around here.
no-nah-noparooa-yah-da-yah-da-da-doh
not anymore.
Today's prompt (I think I've run afoul of it, but this is what came from it) and a poem from Kimiko Hahn.
i would say the following: each day
is another victory/we can stack them too-
these victories don't build up in the blood/soluble like vitamin-c-held fast to our chest, hoarded for a day when devouring just one will not suffice/
bet you can eat just one-sometimes
victory has a sharp, oniony taste to it/sometimes a bitter
palliative-necessary suffering/all iron in the back of the
throat and the throbbing of the space behind the eyes,
pain in bloom, this spring into summer, into week-long fall-
to second summer-to a middling winter/these victories
set aside for the thieves, the scavengers, the hangers-on/
let them eat their fill as well/more than enough for everyone
when we set our brains together, even in the half-light of another
hungover wednesday or,
the siren song of a thursday after the lunch break/calling out to
us-we are all reaching, aren't we? all demanding. we are all teeth-
gnashing, tearing, pulverizing-
taking what is ours-sharing in the communion and the miracle
of another success story. the prism shines another dimension
on a fact well-established/i and you are "we and us" and "we"
and "us" are standing in "our" collection of successes.
raise our collective hands/sing out merriment/enough/
only when we have our fill
Today's prompt and the poem I am sharing by Andrea Gibson.
simple enough, pass that crown on over
to the next one in line. play some horns.
sing in latin. we're really moving along
now.
[we have announcers for the color
commenting. the crown is about to be
placed on his head.] "he's really holding
still, like a true monarch."
"but wait,
he's wrinkling up his nose." "i think
he's about to sneeze." [the sound of
an ordinary sneeze, not yet ordained
by a deity] "the head angle shifted
just slightly" "yes, that crown is
definitely missing the mark."
"may the crowner's hand be strong."
[the crown falters to the floor]
simple enough, there is a drone
of mediocre thunder. the crowd
looks to the timpani player who
is standing at attention. "wasn't
me."
another rumble. the angels
have arrived. moved into a deep scrum.
wings and brows furrowed.
[announcing resumes] "a divine
quorum. this might be an official
review of the proceedings." "do
you suppose this is a challenge
from heaven?"
"we haven't seen
one of these in quite some time."
[800 years and it was overruled
from the celestial booth]. "looks
like the head angel is about to
make a speech."
the angel came
forth, adjusted their halo and
spoke with deep vibrato.
"terra. syrah
finale, zoop."
[the crowd does not speak angelic.
a murmur of confusion rises.]
the angel coughs. "oh, sorry.
still good."
[the crowd reacts with polite
applause] "well, that's something
of a relief, yeah?" "i suppose it
was pro formo or what have you."
[a king is crowned. the crowd smiles
mews and slaps backs appropriately.]
today, we begin again.
Today's prompt and a poem by Frank O'Hara
ding ding ding!
another correct[able] response
made light from bells and gongs
and the sharp spanking of a triangle.
all right, angles
mangled into the least manageable
botanical manacles, poetry is made through
a series of tubes and my own [happy] nonsense
suspense, suspend the disbelief. more horns to
the concoction. more cons to the hob-nobbery.
more nobs to the conned snobbery. shellacked
settlements. what good sense won't admit, that little
is kismet.
cleansed and made with the alms i've provided
to make amends. so much depends...you've heard
this before, haven't you?
unburdened by my truth-telling. salt smellings:
the vapors hit the captive audience. we're waking
them up. they won't miss a minute of this
performance. this, my comeuppance. this, their
limited engagement. our mutual and
casual estrangement. we've failed to contain it and
now it's got the run of the place.
i should have known this is what we make of it-
this, my inheritance- squandered and dashed against
the breakwater as the boats look on. some sad, some
indifferent, some seeking vengeance. we are all the boats
and the rocks, maybe even whatever was mine that
hit the rocks and was smashed into tiny water-soluble
pieces. we are seeing, knowing, dying, growing, fleeing,
crying, lesser poems, indifferent, significant, and none
of us has really learned anything from this entire enterprise.
the symphony sells itself. we take a bow. thank you for joining.
donations are always demanded, rarely enforced. drive safe.
Today's prompt. I am sharing a Margaret Atwood poem with you all because she's a real gem.
i don't know, but the sobs run their
coarse nature, me through the blender.
wringing every last stucco tear, each
one, a little shard-glass accumulations.
i don't know, but i've left myself
weathered, spotted in a springtime
sun. shriveled. too long, too little,
too late.
i don't know, but another dream
in another mirror, melody in flux
for a limited time. nothing to it,
nothing doing.
i don't know, but the scars do
the good lord's work on themselves
and leave behind a faded cave painting
reminders to the self, lesson for the others.
i don't know, but i've let it resume
when it was otherwise concluded,
when it was otherwise the dying gasp
of a deflating balloon after the party.
i don't know, but we'll see where
it takes us. see the ride to the horizon
and wonder if we're coming or going.
let the rest take care of itself.
Today's prompt is a walk drive down memory parkway of sorts. It may seem a bit bleak, but it's just where the poem's voice took me. Today's selection for "Poems Leonard Shares" is this poem.
when we were somewhere between older and younger. discretionary income
for gas. life expands with the universe, celestial colonization of not-matter.
three of us. aimless. it's valentine's day and we're all in some various state of
heartbreak or what passes for heartbreak when you're to the left of the center of
the timeline for life and death. humming and grunting along to the song. laughing
away some version of a pain that i've since outgrown. "slow motion, see me..."
empty road, still not late. we're not really anywhere. on another scatter plot of
coming, going, arrival. look at the mess we've made of the data. "slow motion"
and the car follows the single lane, county highway, the cold february stillness.
we're drawing maps in our brain. making connection.
"see me". singing the song in a voice that hides something. boredom?
angst? disappointment? smirking and laughing like the kids who've sat
so still, behaved so well, letting out that relieved laughter. we're (the imaginary kids
in this scenario/the three of us in this car (in this poem, [from this memory]) aren't
even sure it's funny. it just feels good to go along with the sounds.
"slow"
we've lived another life in the time since. that laughter and that weight. that sense
of driving nowhere and everywhere. we've been down that road and back and lost the
map that held it in place. earned our stripes, as it were.
"see me...let go."
i've lost that pain, inherited newer aches. i don't celebrate valentine's day anymore. i don't like driving as much.
i'm closer to death than i've ever been before when
you read this, you will be
too.
we'll all laugh.
we've been so well behaved.
Today's poem prompt. The poem I want to share with you is by Mina Loy.
sure, the good times-
they don't stop. permanent
joyride: cue the theme song.
in this unbroken circle
light a candle in the middle
cut our hands to trade our
humors-make this bond complete.
tied to one another for an eternity.
invoking the spirit realm, another
dimension, imprinting ourselves on
each other's homes.
the bond forged
leaves a spectral version of the
other, somewhere in the kitchen.
less freedom to roam-only to wait.
appearing infrequently. reminders in
a thumb burned by steam or a broken
dish. silent adjudicator. no judgement
forthcoming. documenting the rot
of the rest of our lives. with and without
you and me. watching the traffic of our
lives and living through the other.
i should pick up the phone. i should send
you a text message. i should write you a
letter. but i probably won't
i'll just get the funny feeling you're
here whenever i ruin another meal.
with each broken glass, each failure
of knife acrobatics, we'll be back where
we started.
Today's prompt. For today's poem: I chose to take a poem from Donald Justice. After completing the prompt from Sunday, I grew fascinated with his name and this particular poem, "About My Poems" is a a lot of fun.
hear the crack and crash?
the bell tower is falling apart.
endless chimes and thuds, silenced.
grandfather's grandfather's clock
a stew of bronze,shingles, and wood splinters.
how will we know the time is right?
Had to wait until later in the day to get this one together. Here's the prompt. Here's a poem from Gabrielle Bates because she is great.
single gasp, swirl like
a distant, muted howl,
wind,
crack of old forest
leaf skittering
gather and claw
the ground with
gentle, sandpapered
edges. rock dislodged
rolling
away, more following now.
another gust and a symphony of
flailing branches. somewhere,
a single plunk into the river.
silent ripplings. in
between the wind and adjustments
nothing makes itself known.
My poem's title today comes from the poem that was used as the inspiration for Napowrimo's prompt. The poem I think you should read today is by Franny Choi, you can read it here.
donald justice wrote something that made me jealous
so i broke into his prius and stole some change and sunglasses.
i spent the change on a bad coffee at a sheetz, vile swill
swirled through me, i felt dark inside, still wearing his sunglasses.
i went home to our room with no windows.
i sat in silence dreaming of light from no windows.
i was not satisfied with my decision. so i went to his house.
i knocked on the door, but nobody was home.
or donald justice saw his sunglasses and stayed away.
who was this poemless lunatic outside his home?
i left and went to our car and wept softly.
rain started falling on our rusted out car softly.
i called donald justice's phone number, my call was disconnected.
i knew i was losing control, but i needed some closure.
i knew that an answer was out there, in his possession.
his glory, his light, your winning smile, some closure.
i have been such a wreck since you left me.
look what i've done and what you've done to me.
Today's prompt is a big ol' behemoth. Today's poem is a big ol' powerhouse. Everything is bigger today, I suppose.
I.
"big, dumb, stupid heads doing big, dumb, stupid things
with a big, dumb, stupid voice and looking so proud of
themselves but only spewing out sludge mixed with
disappointing fudge and overcooked chicken with a side
of canned greens. the dumb ones nightmares inside my
dreams. nightmares like the ones where i profusely vomit
at the end in surprise and i know that's supposed to mean
something psychologically but i'm not listening when you
try to warn me. not anymore. my fingers are firmly in my
ears and i am humming off-key to drown out the bad feelings...
III.
we should have known you were here.
we should have seen the wind shifting.
we have never doubted our fear.
and left ourselves open to splitting.
II.
and sure i'm madder than heck because it hurts
something awful to slam my fingers into my ear-
practically touching my brain-but i'm not trying to
hear your dumb witchcraft, your drops in the
dumb bucket. contributions to your idiot 401k of
dumbness, celestial mappings of idiot. you've made
it a dang art. the Michael Angelo of stupid. The Ren-Wah
of moron...
V.
the crowd likes to bellow, the crowd likes to speak.
the crowd has now spoken, the crowd eats the weak.
the little boy jesus is in his crib sleeping.
or up on the cross and collecting his weeping.
IV.
a full renaissance gallery: ode to dumber.
plug and play, insert coin and lose brain cells."
...i got a million of these in my back pocket. i'll
give 'em to you for a low price, too. i got some
ads on the late night television shows. we've been
spending good on commercials. there's a something
for everyone. we just have to find the right "market
opportunity" as my ad-guy says. one born every minute.
we're gonna make a lot of money, you and me, kid. stick
with me, like snake to glue trap. we're gonna hiss and slither
and be richer than a villain from a dickens novel. on our way.
Today's prompt. I wasn't feeling a villanelle this early in the morning, but here's something. Today's poem is from R.L. Swihart. For this poem I took lyrics from PremRock and billy woods excellent new song "Receipts" and from The Hotelier "Dendron".
the universe repeats itself
slurring its words, getting louder with each word,
each misunderstanding. flustered, stern and reddened
face. it's a late lunch in a run down applebees. a wednesday
the universe was insistent that this place did good mojitos.
"tell me again, that it's all in my head."
i say nothing.
"i know you know exactly what i mean."
"i know you know exactly what i mean"
the universe repeats itself. everyone is turned around, staring.
i want to point this out. it barrels forward with explanations
"i know you know exactly what i mean"
tell me again. i am still dog paddling, fighting against
the wake and pull of what the universe is struggling to share.
i nod to the waitress, hoping she understands this to mean
bring the check...now. perhaps she is scared of the universe.
perhaps she knows it knows she knows exactly what it means.
perhaps she is uniquely aware of whatever hell it is trying to
conjure in front of our small mountain of napkins meeting
boneless buffalo wings. wish i was home.
"tell me again" it says. i can't speak, it's all in my head.
the universe repeats itself. we are both its audience. the
industrial microwave hums its song of plenty. making
food for the rest of us sinners, just trying to get a bargain.
i know you know exactly what i mean.
Today's prompt. The poem I want to share with you today is "Bay Window Lauds" by Marcus Wicker.
pun's worth was rock bottom, rarely seen at scenes worthy of rollicky
rolls on the ground, screams of surprise disguised as laughter. No, pun
was passé, past his prime. left behind, unable to find a guise worth
gussying up. reinvention was out of the question. pun was past tense.
the shakes gave way to tall tremors. gone werethe times of trembling-
he had to get right with the god of humor: pitiless, unblinking, a deity
worth its wait in circus peanuts, fifteen dollar well drinks, dripping with
irony and indifference. sometimes sporting a crown, other times a "smart"
beret. the god of odd things. the god of oblong observations, old ministrations
pointed pontifications, stern cynicism.
pun dreamed a laughter invincible. steeled
by the sweet soundtrack of actual pleasantry, absolute in its entropy. destructive,
undeniable, unrelenting. pun played with his wares, said his joke rosary, and hoped
his future was not stuck in the past.
day 9 of Napowrimo. Here is the prompt. I want to share this poem by Li-Young Lee today as well.
always, not quite, a roar
in between the combusting yowl and the
thrum of passing by, from before
bearing down, coming through, fly over, fly by
vintage wheels and shitboxes and whatever
holds it up, in between, maybe more.
always at night, like the sun is some kind of
noise cancellation device. cues the sounds of life,
sure.
comings and goings, stoppings, flowings,
slow rolling doom, hell on wheels,
i'm just trying to sleep here. nothing to see
maybe the ground shouts in protest
or maybe just me.
Well, there's not a prompt currently; it appears my prompt site is down so I'll just freestyle this one. Here's a poem I read this morning and really liked though.
sing now, bird of paradise; make tomorrow's sun a trifle warmer.
divest yourself from the stunning failure that was today's sunlight-
obscured, cloud cover-the past is a ledger of failures.
do as you are told. i see your majesty and raise you
brute force. the swing of a fist, the knee cap ascends-
pain, collapse the lines of clarity. perhaps a palliative is in order?
perhaps, another reminder? demands are made to be met;
your song is past due, it's nearly daybreak-
glimpsed: a vision of warmth, sunflowers extending in devotion-
it is you and you alone, singer of miracles, maker of mercy, the one
whose warbles clog the air above us. you and you alone:
open your beak and let song do the rest.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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//
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
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
I think the title says it all.
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.
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.
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.
