pyramid

Brief note: Working out the last bits on two projects for possible release in the coming months. More on that as the time approaches. Here's the weekly work in the meantime:

This is a grift for the ages

linked to disturbing trends

from the deep past,

packaged with 30 percent

less plastic and a pastel

theme. Made exciting by

influencers with pretty-shaped

noses and an hourglass figure

gripped by the hands of Chronos

himself. Thy memory does not fail

you, even in your hour of vulnerability

to a product you do not need

or have the space for in your already full

basement or that you might have denied

three times before the first crack of

rooster refrain. Even then. You are still

a victim to an angry consumer god who 

comes down from his solar paneled heaven

in a Cyber Truck playing Fleetwood Mac out of its speakers and calls everybody “babe” or “stud” and gives one of those winks and snaps

his fingers into pantomime guns. We are all victims

to his glorious awareness of the elasticity of demand and the sustainability of selling old ideas to us after we forget about them. We will one day

worship better false gods. They’ll fix everything when we get there. Just you wait.

set it and forget it

give me/a new lease on my leash/my liege/contain me in a non-liminal space/free range and farting out my lineage/all in the movements/tear it down/burn an establishment/fear, now/I’ll let you know when the time is right/how much of time is even a factor/so much/borrowing from the language of the proles/like I am some sort of nobleman/like I have that kind of juice/fresh squeezed/unhappy accidents piling up in the shoulder lane/golden, like the past/unlimited salad and breadsticks with a pasta option/we’re all family now/send it up, an offering, in delicate flames/watch the way they saunter in their effective destruction/here is an eclipse, an appropriate darkness, lit only by the fire of our own making/haunting the skyline/another set of ghosts for the future to speculate about, find the finer points of existence/a feverish pace as the last ember turns to ash and falls back to my feet/I am once again thinking of newness-my relative purity in this filthy time/ash footprints all around us/who knew how well our tributes would take to the hunger of the flame/each of my ancestors will brush it from themselves, set up shop, and make their way in this iteration of a universe/salespeople, all of us/always selling and there’s never a shortage of customers/save your place in line now and act surprised when this one takes a direct hit from the mouth of the flame/there’s still so much to burn/

Sepia

 A

i am already missing these moments already

mourning the arrival of the future broken glass

birds sharp little edges to grip with care

with ease of motion their song bleeds out from

the point of impact majesty in eighth notes and

jilted harmonics my grief in shorthand copied 

onto the pad near the old rotary phone sad stop r

called for lw @ 4 re: old news

grief in the well long gone and dried up

i will fill my cup with the dirt left behind

guzzle what remains choke on this vintage grit

it was a great year that year

the tears start falling now still 

my throat and lungs scream for relief

another swig of the dirt another reminder

the memories will just keep on coming so will

the wracking coughs the fine particulate coating 

my convulsing stomach

i am frothing at the mouth wild eyed beast

the laughter has joined the party

i have never felt more connected to what i’ve lost

i have never known it until now

Groaning (A Celebration)

 

Nothing serious happens/not here/even without the soundtrack to inspire reflection/dumb silence/sounds of a sniff/another cough/shuffled papers/

Why/why is there another explosion of noise in the quiet spaces/why can’t it occur within an appropriate space/

Nothing serious/another minor discharging of sonic exultation/another motion denied/motion suspended/superseded by previous motions/nothing/

Serious/a sense like urgent/a sense like panic/met with the reverence of a seance/ghost stories/memory/urban legend/tall tales/mythos/coming of age/

Why/why/why/when it all shakes out/why/am I the one tasked with the burden of remembering/another time/another place/why/again, with feeling//

Sunday Funday

little birds on my lawn/nests in the bushes next to my house/nests 

that start families/a neighborhood fox/homewrecker/engages in dastardly

plots for sunny side up bird eggs/unlimited mimosas and avocado toast/this

fox in its ostentatious hat, it knows how to brunch/does it for instagram/stupid hat

selfies in front of the nests, ruined by hunger/by natural impulse and an algorithm

feeding the fox a buffet of brunch picture comparisons/

bird corpses litter my front yard/nests ripped apart, left dangling in the bushes/disrupted 

and shredded/errant sticks on my front steps/no sign of the errant hurricane of influence, just the good bones of a nest made with something like love, snapping under my feet as i leave to find a meal for myself/we are out of avocados again

 

#stupidlittleclouds

 

It will be etched into the sky
by a cloud concerned with record keeping
and celestial loafing. Three truths and an
exaggeration for the sake of a resume,
A beautiful suggestion of what might
Be true in alternate timelines of existence
or maybe just tomorrow. 

It won’t always be this way, not with
any sort of certainty. No guarantees
will be made here. 

Two things are certain: this and that. No,

I will not elaborate.

Even the clouds, with all their stenographic tools 

and skills, are only making rough outlines for
a vague public record. Shells of what was
being said and done here. Their version of the events
is maybe not, as we might consider it, the full story.

From up there? Angle is all wrong. Distance makes
the mind’s heart wander, fuzzes out the key players
on the stage far below. There are no opera glasses
available to even the most prestigious cloud.

Down here? Even my heart. Thumping away in my stupid chest.

Letting my stupid blood course through me, to propel me
forward to further stupidity and acts of clumsy goodwill.
Even that, in its heat and its
constant awareness. 

Even my heart lies. To me and

to you. And there’s no cloud worth its

weight in moisture and excess and probably

forever plastics that has any sense in its

stupid cloud brain to record my lies

with honesty. 

(Poetic) Protest Song

Today is another day where I will struggle to 

Exist in static

The worn grooves on a record

Shouting their voices

Free myself from a simple dread that

Only a single sound escapes the broken sound machine

What if this is the only trick I have left?

Left to my own

Devices/song continues

Droning endless/sing

Me another one/now

My life, a reduction in force, less

Notes looking prettier than before

Tempted by the truth, no more

You can’t tell me I’m not trying here. I promise

The notes in an avalanche again

Given as a gift to right now

Left out for another day

Find it when they find it

Absence and Presence

Both are the same

In static

Buzzing

Squalls

I’m going to continue through it all/Going to know the noise/Going to keep exploring some edge of something and hope it takes shape/eventually

Reunion

HOUSE KEEPING: [Cross post] here is a recent essay I wrote comparing how Revival Season (a rap duo) and Yard Act (an indie/post-punk band) employed the elements of dance music. I hope you enjoy it. It's been weird not posting everyday and it has been hard to find a rhythm for concepts without Napowrimo prompts. 

spent and waiting for land
while lurching through tempest after

tempest more of a like kind dripping
Into each moment i am well i am

well i have never felt more in control of

my extremities never felt it coming
when my own umbilical cord leapt out from
the spent body parts trays of yesterday   wrapped
me up in a familial embrace this was a north
star this was mother’s milk this was everything
a warm handshake of the soul is meant to signify

reaching for my neck bring me in closer   slither into place
tighten the hold   cut off the air let me brain see the fireworks
i’ve been waiting for to erupt from my correspondence a view of

perfection each of us made clean

Way/Weigh Station

Back to the weekly posts after a rather fruitful Napowrimo. 

I’m already here. Shepherded by bus
in the infancy of night, before the changing
of the guards. Sky and moon, solitary
jailors, an unblinking vigil. You and me
and each of the sky’s flashlights. Searching,
what have they found? Their patience, unblinking,
impassive. Something that screeches into
the colder portion of night, without sound,
in the desperation of a wounded animal, one
who knows that its tormenter has caught
the scent, has circled back, sharp object
in hand, a dream of satisfaction playing
on the mind’s projector reel. silence, take me,
take us all. i can hear the braying of the beast
i can feel the cold dew on my bare feet, creeping
forward through a cold, satisfying chill soon a gnashing
soon a moment reaches it terminus soon an
ending soon another ending and another ending
soon the daylight

soon   

Napo 4/30/24 Johnny Appleseed at the Apple Orchard

The final prompt for this year's Napowrimo. As always, it's been fun. Thanks for reading along with me.

We made a mistake posting our weekend plans

to our digital footprint. It was only a matter of 
time that Johnny Appleseed himself, who my husband
met and endured at a local plant enthusiast meet-up,
saw we were headed to the local orchard.

"am total-e interested in their stock! see u their [sic]."

Johnny knew apples. Johnny came rolling up in
his honey-crisp-colored Camry. He hugged me, he
hugged our friends, he hugged the person who sold us
tickets--even though he was unhappy that it cost money to
commune with the apples and the trees.

"A tree for you/A tree for me/every tree is free/ho-wheeee"

he sang, though I could tell that his merry tone was judging
the capitalist endeavor he was now paying for, in nickels. 

He refused to take the tractor.
"My feet are mine/the earth is warm/and so I go in Earthen form/dooo-orm!"

I just assumed he was out of nickels, but I should have known
this was a sign, a red moon, that 
things were heading south with alarming speed.

We watched as he ran from person to person, accosting them as they casually took a bite of 
an apple and cast the rest aside. I'll admit, that did seem wasteful, but we could hear Johnny's shrieks over the hum of the tractor, the jangling bumps, the scratching sounds of hay against us.

"waste not/want not/mother tree/I save thee/who-freeeeee!"

And then he started thwacking people with his traveling stick, but not with ill intent, more like a gentle "hey stop that, no I'm serious, I'll do it again" sort of thing. He took the apples cast aside and, with a loving gesture, putting them in his rucksack, skipping from person to person and repeating these actions.

The orchard sent their champion, a hulk of a man with dirt on his hands and an adequate mustache, to apprehend Johnny. There they dueled, Johnny swinging his traveling stick like a frothing mad raccoon, the champion slammed his fists together, yelling profanities at Johnny. Children covered their faces. Our baser instincts took over and people began to take bets. I put 15 nickels and a bag of Honeycrisp on the orchard's champion.

Johnny came in quick. Blows rained down on the champion. I am told his name was Phil. Phil took a nasty shot to the head and lurched backward. 

"The voice of the apples/ the bringer of justice/I return you to the dirt/now grow an orchid!"

Johnny was losing his rhythm, his ability to rhyme
as he tackled Phil and beat him about the head.

"I think he's actually going to kill him." said my husband. Johnny screamed something incoherent at Phil's unmoving form and struck him again. and again. and again.

The police arrived and subdued Johnny with rubber bullets and at least 2 tasings. Phil was good and dead at this point and his body looked the part. We watched from the now-stalled tractor, Johnny was escorted away, a look of triumph on his face, the one and true champion of the apples.

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?