tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7580483048800512442024-03-18T20:34:40.430-07:00Art Amok: 30/30 ProjectNaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-78701094898677001502010-04-29T10:35:00.000-07:002010-04-29T10:36:21.597-07:0030.30 vision~ after Angus Adair's 21 & 25(opening line, a cheat, from my own #24, inspired by my friend angus's poem about "not getting over things fast enough," (his #25 & pt. 1 on his #21 ) in crude summation)<br /><br />to say i still miss<br />is just to say i will always<br /><br />that's what forever is<br /><br />what was once present<br />leaves a human shape<br />stains<br />microfilms<br />i can close my eyes<br />play a song<br />recreate<br /><br />i live as a fish<br />swimming in one direction<br />as a cat with a correct way to be touched<br /><br />this is how we live<br />together<br />suffering the pasts<br />haunting us from other directions<br /><br />my heart knows dates on calendars<br />birthdays<br />last time seens<br />the day the news came<br />how it sank in slowly steaping<br />the arrivals and the breaks<br />the intersections and the ruptures<br />deaths declared<br />the phase of the moon at burial<br /><br />i couldn't forget if i tried<br />heavy as a cedar chest<br /><br />sometimes there is no getting over<br />only through<br />a navigation of shark jaws<br />cling to the anecdotes<br />the tiny turn of mouth<br />a story about corn in rumble seats<br />the feel of park wood on spine with head between thighs<br />nervous tics<br />laughter<br />these are what will remain in slow motion<br />in slumber<br />and the comfort of dreams<br /><br />i can hardly believe i ever knew<br />i can never believe how time is cut<br />by cleavers of watch arms<br /><br />"you know what i am jealous of?<br />i am jealous of those of you who knew ____<br />longer, better"<br />says the man across a table<br />and my heart echos that pang<br />greedy green monster that it is, i know<br />no marathon is as kudzu<br />overgrown<br />enough.<br /><br />i resent the lamp, the books<br />the ink, the ashtray<br />the blanket holding scent<br />the owl's impenetrable stare<br />hardness of objects existing<br />without the hands of owner<br />the scraps to witness my sorrow<br /><br />i want to break everything<br /><br />mourning<br />doesn't end<br />for some of us<br />a muscle memory of arms<br /><br />my ribcage is a wind chime of lockets<br />my skin the shrink wrap to hold feelings too big<br />from leaking out all over the sidewalk<br />the cutting board<br />the kitchen<br /><br />my mermaids, angels, tricksters<br />selkies, crones, vixens<br />wolves and tree limbs<br />my sweet ghosts of gone<br />i am failure<br />i will never live up<br />to your shadows<br />i can only rattle with you<br />in my breathNaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-46674620409089764442010-04-29T06:58:00.000-07:002010-04-29T06:59:48.311-07:00Walpurgis Nachtis almost here. Walpurgis Nacht is a pagan tradition of "burning out the winter ghosts" to welcome rebirth, harvest, abundance & the coming spoils of spring into summer.<br /><br />With this, a poem about elements and SHARKS, from Poets.org.!<br /><br /><br /><p><span style="font-size: 15px; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(207, 101, 0);">Sharks in the Rivers</span><br />by Ada Limón<br /><br />We'll say unbelievable things<br />to each other in the early morning—<br /><br />our blue coming up from our roots,<br />our water rising in our extraordinary limbs.<br /><br />All night I dreamt of bonfires and burn piles<br />and ghosts of men, and spirits<br />behind those birds of flame.<br /><br />I cannot tell anymore when a door opens or closes,<br />I can only hear the frame saying, <i>Walk through</i>.<br /><br />It is a short walkway—<br />into another bedroom.<br /><br />Consider the handle. Consider the key.<br /><br />I say to a friend, how scared I am of sharks.<br /><br />How I thought I saw them in the creek<br />across from my street.<br /><br />I once watched for them, holding a bundle<br />of rattlesnake grass in my hand,<br />shaking like a weak-leaf girl.<br /><br />She sends me an article from a recent <i>National Geographic</i> that says,<br /><br /><i>Sharks bite fewer people each year than<br />New Yorkers do, according to Health Department records.</i><br /><br />Then she sends me on my way. Into the City of Sharks.<br /><br />Through another doorway, I walk to the East River saying,<br /><br /><i>Sharks are people too.<br />Sharks are people too.<br />Sharks are people too.</i><br /><br />I write all the things I need on the bottom<br />of my tennis shoes. I say, <i>Let's walk together</i>.<br /><br />The sun behind me is like a fire.<br />Tiny flames in the river's ripples.<br /><br />I say something to God, but he's not a living thing,<br />so I say it to the river, I say,<br /><br /><i>I want to walk through this doorway<br />But without all those ghosts on the edge,<br />I want them to stay here.<br />I want them to go on without me.<br /><br />I want them to burn in the water.</i></p>NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-73808054195882306762010-04-29T03:32:00.000-07:002010-04-29T03:33:45.890-07:0028/30 "Lake Doris to Gus Wood" by Gus Wood<span style="font-family: courier new;">I suppose the moonlit North Carolina nights</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">made me your romantic,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">tempted you to call me your lover in poems,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">tempted you to call our time spent together</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">a kind of intimacy,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">and I am just the sort of sweet smelling bull frog</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">symphony to let you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">We were only together for summer times,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">and even then our trysts seemed </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">breathless,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">brief,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">ended all too soon by the beep of a watch,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">the bugle announcing the girls' turn</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">to distract us.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">You began clumsy,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">pillaging the still calm of my waters</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">with the ugly slap-smack of a canoe paddle.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Silly summer-camp child, </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">you tried to touch me inexperienced.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">You tried to navigate every nuance</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">of my body with awkward unlearned strokes,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I waited for you to grow up.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">And you did,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">beautifully.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Your arms became strong and skilled.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Still in your canoe, the blunt broad tool</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">finally granted you grace,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">transformed all of your body</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">into pure touch.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Your biceps transfigured</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">into the pink muscle of throat,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">your hands molded into a lover's lips,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">and your paddle,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">boy, </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">became your tongue tracing across</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">my body.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I still ripple echoes of this compassion even now.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">But even this touch, this bliss,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">was foreplay.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">A waiting game until you found yourself</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">at home in a small-ish plastic kayak</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">at the edge of the dock.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Nervous, cold, and short of breath,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">you plunged, deep.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">The water struck your face, untender.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I finally had to teach you the lesson </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">of a water's womb.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Ingrain, into your shut tight eyes,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">the skewed perception of a kayak,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">of my embrace.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I had to teach you to survive</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">when your instincts are flawed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Tethered to your vessel,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">you fell.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">You capsized into me, breathless.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Upside down, </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">underwater,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">you must not gasp,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">thrash, claw for something</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">you are certain will save you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">This sort of action spells death.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">My child, in my loose grasp you learned</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">to stay calm, bubble ration your breath,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">hear the slow echo drum of the depths</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">as Gospel.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">With my kiss at your lips,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">your right became left, </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">your up became down,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">you learned roughly to ascend.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">You learned to right yourself,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">with an armor forged of opposites,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">of focus, of the lessons taught to you</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">by others just as in love with me as you were,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">are, and ever will be.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Use your paddle,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">set your leverage,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">thrust your hips,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">strike the water.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">You emerged from the dark wet,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">like a new born.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Water burning your nose,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">and your old instincts sinking</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">to the bottom.</span>NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-23704002332857167082010-04-29T03:11:00.001-07:002010-04-29T03:11:52.662-07:0026/30 "The Dead Sea Knows Its Name" by Gus Wood<span style="font-family: courier new;">Catch your rippled reflection in a glass,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> in a gourd, in an adversary's skull.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> Watch your face dissipate into sunshine,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> tilt the vessel back,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> drink the water.</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> Feel the echoes of a thousand year strife,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> feel them ransack your throat.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> Feel the salt strip away your voice</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> until it's all blood, all gnarled raw,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> until it's rubble and all you can dare do</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> is spit up your madness,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> and choke.</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> This is my blood, your water,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> my outraged waves cresting to splinter</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> the West Bank.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> This is my name made all too palpable.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> This is your Dead Sea.</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> This is the elements putting on a parody</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> of its people.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> My hands are stigmata'd with shrapnel,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> my sides split by sniper fire,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> my deep blue tattooed with the endless</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> rat-tat-tat-tat of an AK-47's signature</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> riddled into the mud of my womb.</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> There can be no life in my waters.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> Your legacy was left churning </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> into hemlock stink waters.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> I am inhospitable even to the unnatural</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> architecture of fish, algae.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> The salt in my spit will shred the insides</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> of such life into razor-bladed scraps</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> of paper, into pink ribbons too rung</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> out to cradle anything but old animosity.</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> I am caked with your routines,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> the constant summer sun blackens my tides.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> My water knits into jagged teeth,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> smashing into the shore,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> stabbing it like chunks of molten metal,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> like shrapnel.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> I suicide bomb with each sand-scattering wave,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> trying to convince you,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> trying to share my religion.</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> I am begging you to see my cliffs,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> crusted with salt so coarse</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> it could stay there forever.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> Timeless,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> like the way your wars threaten to be.</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> I cannot hold anyone close enough</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> to sustain life. </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> The water too dense to bring you to my muck, </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> to my jagged diamond-cut womb.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> Everything floats, I will not hide your dead.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> My waters are ancient balm</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> to make mummies of kings who saw themselves</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> equal with the sun.</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> No fish swim my waters.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> I am all chew, all blender,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> all gnarled mouth and rock salt,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> You West Bank bloodthirsty dirt-children, </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> the ones locked in war,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> I beg you.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> Stop trying to match my waters' mercy,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> trying to churn your red-stained sand</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> into my salt waves.</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> Stop trying to ascend like the flesh</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> floating to my surface.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> You're all drunk off my stinging salt-song,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> off my stabbing pain in your throats.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> Stop washing in my waters,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> I will purify nothing.</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> I am your Dead Sea.</span><br /> <br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> You are my dying people, </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> pouring my gnarled salt,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> on your open wounds.</span>NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-100876944458498482010-04-29T02:47:00.000-07:002010-04-29T02:48:43.680-07:0025/30 "Lake Erie Laments Its Fate" by Gus Wood<span style="font-family:courier new;">Everybody loves a good fire,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> something impossible to drop a jaw</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> while you're watching.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> I was only trying to show you </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> a miracle.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> It was not an invitation</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> to change me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> As your constant companion,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> I sought your friendship.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> I giggled as you gutted me,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> filled my shores with cold</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> unfeeling concrete,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> making me an industry.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> I loved each and every ounce</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> of your filth.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> It brought us closer.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> I turned my riverbeds into a shrine,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> an altar to praise your broken cities.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Industries boomed and faded to shade</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> in the reflection of my choking black waters.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> True love is never healthy when you mean it,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> So pollute me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Fill me with the discarded scraps</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> of your human experience like you </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> once so eagerly did.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Mound me with your refuse,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> I could never refuse you my muck,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> So pollute me.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Dump your communion wafer waste,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> your sins,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> choke me with fetid bliss and I will once again</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> announce my love to you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> I will burn bright for my lovers,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> for Cleveland.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> I will burn all orange against the black of night</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> and my rotting waters.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> This was not a tragedy.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Every dead fish, every burnt scrap of something,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> was an offering to you,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> my cities.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Self-destructive, infatuated,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> with the faded portraits </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> of your America.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> I set myself alight in that 1969</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> moment in time just to pay back</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> all the love you've given me.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Just to pay it back,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> in kind.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> But you claimed to know me.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> You dragged my shrine until it shined,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> wiped of all the gifts you offered me.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> You made me a home for fish,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> for ugly scaled intruders,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> that waltz into our love story.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> They have no business touching me,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> defiling the bed I've laid out for every body</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> you dump in me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Give me a corpse to kiss,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> to hold.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Give me garbage,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> some rotting memento</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> to press into my muddy bottom.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Do not leave me alone.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Nature has no business here,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> in between us.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Turn my waters to bubbling swirls</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> or smothering black.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Set me ablaze again.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Set your rusting car skeletons</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> to disintegrate on my tongue.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Your industries, history, and sins</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> all rotting in my arms.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Let's suicide pact and never let go.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Let's become a romance for the ages,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> the best ones all end in tragedy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> Cleveland,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> I have always loved you,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"> like a fire.</span>NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-10858137612914714712010-04-28T20:50:00.000-07:002010-04-28T21:03:43.937-07:0029.30 AZold dirt<br />red clay<br />inhospitable<br />arrid<br />barren<br /><br />cave dwellers<br />and geology<br />own this more<br />than pale men<br /><br />irony<br />the way this landscape<br />was purchased<br />(poached, like ancient seguaro)<br />from the very same hands<br />it now expels<br /><br />welcome to hell on earth<br />infernal hundreds plus degrees<br />mirage<br />is defined here<br />brutal earth<br />the dry tongue of miles<br />parched as bone<br /><br />rumor has it people drown<br />with what begins as a trickle<br />becoming liquid again<br />in sudden flood<br />but the fire of the sun<br />licks the rock here<br /><br />this is a scorched earth<br />with its own policies<br />the man made razor wires<br />fences spooled braces<br />(unlike anything along<br />our creamier neighbors to the north)<br />no match for the pincushions<br />the needles of cactus<br />this is Hades, ready made<br /><br />whatever pissing contest<br />plays out here<br />will eventually succumb to lava<br />mama earth<br />will drink it in<br />not even a droplet<br />on the fingernail of her timeNaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-34519809757329442022010-04-28T10:11:00.001-07:002010-04-28T10:11:32.224-07:0028.30 after angus, pt. 1Ever skin a fish?<br />Snag scales underneath fingernails?<br />it feels wrong<br />wrong as rubbing a clawed cat backwards<br />but once naked<br />they leave a silvery slush<br />a justice of glitter<br /><br />I remember the cat claw<br />of feeling scales underneath nail<br />a lack of justice<br />wrongly naked<br />leaving a glittery skin<br />a rubbing backwards<br />of my heart into silver slush.NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-49528366483093426752010-04-27T20:26:00.000-07:002010-04-27T20:42:45.283-07:0027.30the tar in the parking lot<br />thick as coal<br />overstuffed dumpster of clawfoot chair legs<br />mattersses<br />pillows<br />the police<br />empty it with gloves<br />and poke with batons<br />the scene is under surveillance<br /><br />i am not sure<br />how i got here<br />but there is yellow crime tape<br />enough to make a fetish dress, a ruffled skirt<br />friendly voices, coffee mugs<br />notes and photographs scratch and click.<br /><br />i reach my hand into the masking tape outline<br />prong of parking spot paint<br />intersecting with where eyes could have been<br />the tape is there<br />the body gone<br />clutching a badge, i receive a call<br />evidence back at the station<br />i have a hunch.<br /><br />i wake up with the question<br />where are you, <em>where are you</em><br />i felt so close to finding out<br />right before the dream ended.NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-47935770969646658952010-04-25T16:26:00.000-07:002010-04-25T16:43:07.872-07:0026.30 out the windowI am distracted by the cloud drift<br />puffy<br />I am inadequate by the measure of trees<br />their new spring green leaves<br />I am the way rain grays white, ominous<br />aquamarine is the sky<br />I am the way the moon appears during the day<br />solid bulb, rock in the cumulous fluff.<br />I am the sewing needle of the silver plane<br />darting through and across.<br /><br />what kind of tree? oak, mimosa, dogwoood<br />what kind of cloud other than cumulous? stratus, nimbus, thunderhead<br />corrections, why the ominous, the grey?<br />the restlessness<br />the noise in my head<br />rockbands of pound, unfinished, not rehearsing<br />Jung would probably say<br />death<br />the way dreams are always about sex, loss of control<br />anxiety<br />never about<br />plot, narrative, nothing is as it seems<br /><br />like this jewel of sky<br />the height of trees<br />the clutter moving in and out<br />stunning beauty of it inviting gaze<br />instead of concentrating on rocks in a tumbler<br />wanting to be more than just<br />ideas.NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-91046730638317771432010-04-23T22:45:00.000-07:002010-04-23T23:18:21.999-07:0025.30 imaginary yard salei wish i could dump some of these rooms<br /><br />over grass, a lawn, a suburbia of home-made signs<br /><br />lemonade stands<br /><br />and old dart boards, mugs,barstools and that sort of kitsch<br /><br />for sale<br />quaint.<br /><br /><br /><br />better,the battalions of insects<br /><br />on the fringes of fences and the other side<br /><br />of tinted glass<br /><br />they are everywhere<br /><br />and multiplying<br />sell off their shutters<br />film, telephoto and digital grains.<br /><br /><br /><br />i gave up that life of concrete curbs<br /><br />and unnattended walks so long ago<br /><br />they seem like a character i played.<br /><br /><br /><br />our version of a yard sale<br /><br />is the anonymous donation<br /><br />the auction block resurfacing of vases<br /><br />paintings<br /><br />or the house party fundraiser<br /><br />where every guest donates<br /><br />a red carpet dress or accessory<br /><br />with a photo of proof attached<br /><br />sometimes these are for foundations<br /><br />a politician<br /><br />a social activist's lawyer fee.<br /><br />this is what we do with our philanthropy<br /><br />we have assistants and accountants<br /><br />this is what it means to be rich<br />you delegate the tedious<br />and hire people to decide for you<br />what happens to the little things.<br /><br /><br /><br />it's fun to pretend<br /><br />what i would garage sell<br /><br />a drawer of underwear, silk stockings<br /><br />velvet gloves<br /><br />whether or not i ever wore them<br /><br />unimportant to the illusion that i have.<br /><br />really, i can and do get away<br /><br />with not wearing any<br />undergarmets hinder breathing<br />and if you're boyish enough<br />you're free.<br /><br /><br /><br />we have too many gifts<br /><br />letters, idols, carved buddhas<br /><br />and little wooden temples, window frames<br />i've no use for now that i live fully<br />on the outside<br /><br />i imagine a host of houses<br />front yard as lanfill of cutlery, plates, fabrics and furniture<br /><br />cast offs from interior decorators<br /><br />shoes, ink cartridges<br /><br />ordinary objects and the usual old machines<br /><br />sets of matching gifts and toys<br /><br />unopened or left as the litter of any ordinary attic.<br /><br /><br /><br />my favorite selling points would be the curiosities<br /><br />in jars<br /><br />the things i peeled from myself<br /><br />or once held sacred<br /><br />like the necklaces of piranha teeth i wore<br /><br />the rocks i collected in hawaii<br /><br />the human bones i found on a roadside in east asia<br /><br />bits of flesh i saved from tattoos, the original ink<br /><br />in little sheets of first draft<br /><br />before the image truly settles.<br /><br />i know<br />it's my lips you want<br />my perfect, kissable, cocksucker lips<br />but you just<br />can't have themNaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-89448124901446433432010-04-23T09:40:00.000-07:002010-04-23T09:45:40.899-07:00ALMOST DONE!!! (& generator)There's only a week left of this brilliant extravaganza, the challenge of writing poems every day for National Poetry Month.We suggest keeping up such a good habit.We'll keep this blogspot live & continue to count the year in poems.<br /><br />Today's RAC prompt is:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="UIStory_Message">Describe/ use<br />the contents of (insert movie/book/cartoon/mythological character's name here) yard sale.</span></span><br />Don't reveal the _______'s title or identity until either the very last lines, or at all.NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-7140382411138546872010-04-22T21:42:00.000-07:002010-04-22T21:51:00.039-07:0024.30 stream of consciousness...to say i still miss, is just to say i will always<br />that's what forever is<br />the repeat<br />the memory so strong<br />time stops you close your eyes and you are there<br />forever is the thrum of the ache<br />the heart thud<br />which is always the same note....<br /><br />...i feel like i should like them...and i don't<br />they are annoying<br />just because they are doing what should be done<br />doesn't make them less annoying....<br /><br />...irritated by the press of pillows<br />if only we could plug in...make sleep a battery....<br />revisit the origin of burning midnight oil...<br /><br />doctors make the worst patients, teachers, the worst students<br />businessmen the worst consumers, mothers the....<br /><br />...religions all have stories i think i've heard before<br />written by either the same author, or by members of the same family<br />a family of many who do similar things, like barrymore, kennedy, but maybe...<br />maybe more like scripted by periodic table...<br />i'm trailing.off. to sleep.NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-84619024159486221372010-04-22T15:54:00.000-07:002010-04-22T20:31:14.310-07:0023.30 how to tell herthey don't understand<br />where your ladders come from<br />spiralling down from spruce, aspen, evergreen<br />to take root in life is to be<br />thick<br /><br />anything else is starving<br />sad, shifty as willow<br />weak to the air<br />easy to pluck and break<br /><br />we were never this<br />wide hips to make homes<br />for ourselves as much as any<br />child likely to die or man<br />likely to die<br /><br />we<br />don't come from that<br />were not born<br />to be sprinters<br />runners<br />over flat deserts<br />reeds thinned by heat<br />shimmer of mirage<br /><br />instead<br />we were meant for darkness<br />welded from glacier<br />calves designed for trails<br />hills, incline<br />carriages and trunks carved<br />for controlling men<br />with their beards and ships<br /><br />we stretched butcher arms to help cut the meat<br />pull the nets heavy with fish<br />we are mongers close to animals<br />tough enough not to thaw<br />tree trunks<br />with enough foresight to stock a larder<br />for the snows coming in<br />locking us shut<br />piled six feet high<br />for weeks<br /><br />we were our own insulation<br />survival not worn in furs for fashion in scraps.<br />able to hold our liquor<br />we were and are always made to be<br />our own kindling.<br /><br />young woman<br />there were eras of nights alone<br />we needed only ourselves to build the fire<br />tend the flock<br />cut, skin, tend, pull, pound, stir<br />gather grist, be a mill<br />whalers' wives knew the art of pace<br />and stiffened jaws<br /><br />mens' opinions have always been<br />secondary<br />especially those who don't know<br />this ancestry of ropes tied in meticulous knots<br />operatic voices of saga<br /><em></em><br /><em>Ilmatar</em>'s children<br />need to be sturdy in the wind<br />substance enough to carry epics<br />cave painted on the insides of our mouths<br />even in distant countries.<br /><br />how should we tell you this<br />what should already be known<br />as well as flame, earth, water<br />origins of shark bones and cosmic eggs?<br />pull tidal umbilicus<br />from your own blood<br />it's not too late to make the translationNaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-13422108063120375542010-04-22T15:50:00.000-07:002010-04-22T16:53:25.690-07:0021/30 "Scarlet Letter" by Gus WoodIt was standard alumni dinner shit.<br />Boredom balloons and nutcracker<br />Christmas, finger food piled<br />high on paper plates.<br />Jingle Bell Rock raping<br />the sound system.<br />Everybody in there was praying<br />for a fire,<br />for a riot,<br />for a phone call screaming for them<br />to come home, to the hospital,<br />to anywhere but this dreary dinner party.<br /><br />Christmas sweaters strangled<br />everyone's confection-stretched necks,<br />the punch bowl coagulated into pink hued<br />swirls with a smell as strong as gasoline.<br />The English department haunts the open bar<br />like Hamlet's father, trading paper cups<br />of something strong, drinking themselves<br />into their most convincing impressions<br />of Edgar Allen Poe.<br />They slur swear words and lamentations<br />on how no one will publish their next novel.<br /><br />The math teachers count the milliseconds<br />counting down to when it's ok to leave this place.<br />It's all mistletoe and white-green<br />exasperation until...<br /><br />Red lightning strikes the room.<br />Red lipstick, a red dress,<br />all of the sudden snapping into<br />firecracker tint.<br />Slit up the thighs and cut low...<br />The teachers tell us they can still hear<br />the sparks popping when it happened.<br /><br />When He walked in.<br /><br />Mr. Pierre, all quiet, timid substitute teacher,<br />had a high voice the freshmen laughed at,<br />and a sense of style the seniors could bow to.<br />With his black shoulder-length hair,<br />impeccably permed always,<br />he could lecture in lieu of a math teacher<br />and you could almost hear Tejano<br />as his tongue tangoed with each word<br />dipping on its way out...<br />this was way out.<br /><br />Mr. Pierre,<br />in his red dress,<br />and high heels,<br />walking taller than most of the girls.<br />Every shimmy of his hips<br />was a gorilla slap against his chest<br />and a lion shout:<br />"Say something motherfucker,<br />I dare you.<br /><br />"I've filed these fire-engine acrylics<br />to better make my point.<br />To better draw out your blood.<br />To turn tonight into a story you can't<br />tell the classroom.<br />So say something."<br /><br />But of course, we quiet upper class sat there,<br />tightly folding the wardrobes we won't dare<br />display, shutting our own red dresses in their drawer<br />to be cut down by the sharp creases of business suit<br />brutality.<br /><br />That night, at that moment, everyone's souls<br />cheered for Mr. Pierre.<br />This drag queen dragging our dreams out<br />into the light.<br />His dress became a victory flag,<br />a firebomb in a china shop scattering shards of<br />sharpened gossip across the floor.<br />They stuck in the skin as everyone walked to their cars.<br /><br />Sticking deep, drawing blood,<br />bright crimson dripping,<br />a reminder of the man daring enough<br />to drape a dream over a substitute teacher<br />turn him into a flag, a declaration of war.<br /><br />So pull your dress out of your closet,<br />strap on your best pair of heels,<br />and walk tall.NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-86480988590018111862010-04-21T20:43:00.000-07:002010-04-21T21:13:00.349-07:0022.30 (maybe an almanac pt. 3 piece?)little girl in pink pajamas with purple hearts<br />bathrobe, spins outside the venue<br />it's 10.30pm on a wednesday night<br />a cigarette sticks to the bottom of her slipper<br />as she spins, spins, spins, unaware<br />an axis on ashes<br /><br />the glowing neon light of the coffeeshop sign<br />blesses her face<br />she likes being the center of attention<br />already poses<br /><br />one day, she will be a seeker<br />always falling for the ones with habits<br />loose hair<br />pipe dreams, smoldering.<br /><br />~<br /><br />it's parents and kids tonight<br />young bodies everywhere<br />some of them with flashcards<br />equations, notebooks, papers to write.<br /><br />the warm weather<br />lured them<br />with their kisses of fresh leaves<br />tongues of petal blossoms<br />the sweetness of flower<br />the unwined grape scent of wysteria<br /><br />so many girls in here<br />it's hard to breathe<br /><br />so many older men with braided grey hairs<br />a cultivated earthy<br /><br />so many wives in hippie pattern shirts<br />clothes that swoop and bags in lime<br /><br />so much suburbia crammed into<br />one side brick, one side bar, two sides window<br /><br />so many glasses hitting each other<br />an electric violin<br />a tuba<br />you would think it perfect<br /><br />never mind the scar over one man's eye<br />the too loud voices<br />the grating paws of certain mothers<br />the out of place<br />crooked planter<br />the art installation that gets knocked over<br />the girls clutching each other<br />escaping to split a brownie five ways<br /><br />this is the same town<br />where a nine year old found<br />solace in electrical chord<br />and the memory of him<br />floats outside<br />tucked in a shadow<br />or the lingering smoke<br />of a teenager's suriptituos lift of a wine bottle<br />the bar too frazzled to notice<br /><br />everyone's looking the other way<br />which is just how sinister<br />prefersNaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-65511358155582076892010-04-21T17:45:00.000-07:002010-04-21T18:13:45.074-07:0021.30 note from a scared fire girl in a very untied place pt.1(title inspired by tristan)<br /><br />this is written on torn notebook papers<br />already used as a cootie catchers<br />my fingertips got stuck there<br />a lot<br />and i could never figure out<br />the right palm slapping combination<br />young girls sang to<br />ominominaominominopscot<br />slap slap slap slap over under sideways down<br /><br />the cheerleaders were<br />a pack of wolves<br />short skirts, the colors under the pleats<br />flirting like gaps in fangs<br />they hit with these chanting games<br />as though they were secret spells<br />and jumped ropes without twisting<br />better than us of the sideline girls<br />rahrahrahrahand so and so, wink, flip<br />move arms,jumpupboobs,twirl and catch.<br /><br />sitting on the grass<br />we were beyond cheers<br />hash marks of yardage on a football field<br />we tempted badness<br />set fire to hay with emptying everclear bottles<br />(true story)<br />threw matches into snow<br />scritch, sshsh shhshh pop sounds of strike<br />whisperblow sizzle fizzle<br /><br />we solidly<br />didn't want to like anything<br />anyone else did.<br />we refused numbers on the backs of our shirts<br />and pom poms<br />had difficulty with letters of recommendation<br />our grades were average<br />we escaped notice<br />rode dirt bikes with boys<br />didn't giggle with archery bows<br />we were untied<br />and very very very<br />afraid<br />suspecting ideas such as<br />there may not be a christ after all<br />and the way he hangs there, all bound and bloody<br />kind of s&m<br />bloodybodybloodybondagechristonawall<br />no escape no exit, like sartre<br />like menses<br />christ was such a girl<br /><br />we moved like shadows and not-danced to<br />groups like nitzer ebb and depeche mode<br />suspecting<br />in a gray hued, early u2 video about nothing changing<br />on new year's day<br />that nothing ever would<br />all is quiet, nothing changes, all is quiet<br />nothing changes, not even on new years<br />it's interesting how quiet nothing changes<br />truly a hush hush hush murmur murmur murmur<br />over candle marked ticks of time<br /><br />swimming with aim of anonymity from small town<br />everyone knows everyone for year on end<br />under microscope<br />our mediocrity was about to take a big<br />senior leap into an even greater more invisible<br />yawn of meaninglessness<br />explained as postmodernism in college<br />meaninglessness without end<br /><br />i still have burn marks from matches in the snow<br />and i hold fear as the quietness<br />of unchanging<br />crumpling papers of check like me<br />check not<br />hush hush<br />the wolf packs are different now<br />i am still untied<br />girlNaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-20599090110311650112010-04-20T14:23:00.000-07:002010-04-20T14:42:52.592-07:0020.30 Corner Almanac, Pt. 2Forsythia yellows wink over to leaf<br />while white blossoms expand the color field of green<br />rain makes puce swirls in gutters<br />ink homemade paper waves to concrete.<br /><br />Spring. Spring with all of the sprigs<br />reinvents more than plant life.<br /><br />When it is this warm,<br />Big Daddy D comes out again<br />from wherever he rests<br />whether it's a nest of wood<br />or a brick framed hovel<br />nobody really knows.<br /><br />Big Daddy D<br />is seen in passing<br />or unavoidable on the corner<br />where Ponce meets Moreland<br />just where it becomes Briarcliff.<br /><br />He is like the four corners<br />of sign and traffic light<br />a signal<br />he flags his package in lycra<br />polyester-maybe cotton blend<br />biker shorts and tank top<br />sometimes with printed cotton excuse<br />for over shirt, sometimes not<br />carved cane in hand<br />or umbrella<br />he leans on stop<br />while always being on go.<br /><br />Big Daddy D translated<br />means warm weather<br />fewer clothes<br />bees, pollenating, the fucking of everything<br />but most of all<br />the persistence of pick-up<br />of want<br />of maybe someone<br />somewhere<br />will pay him<br />cool him off, feed him<br />or just get him lucky.<br /><br />When I saw him<br />unusual flower<br />bulge in cherry blossom<br />I smiled and waved<br />so glad he still lives.<br /><br />The jazz of his face played notes<br />of response<br />he waved back and smiled<br />a blessing<br />a wirey tree<br />still reaching for the sun.<br /><br />This spring will turn<br />into a hot, steamy summer.NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-44469933319631718822010-04-19T16:10:00.000-07:002010-04-19T17:30:47.164-07:0019.30 Neighborhood Fortune TellingThis corner knows me as eyes<br />behind a painted window<br />from budding blossoms<br />full leaves, nuded limbs<br />and in betweens.<br /><br />The intersection of four way stop<br />neon, twinkling party lights<br />coffee, bars, gallery and hop 'n'shop<br />will read cards to you better than<br />a woman wearing a scarf, fake eye patch<br />armed with decks of inexplicable wands and bowls.<br /><br />When the dog pees<br />on the planter closest to the window:<br />rain.<br />the middle planter<br />partly cloudy<br />furthest away<br />he's just peeing.<br /><br />When you don't see fancy man for a few days<br />worry about your sex life<br />it will be your own fingers for weeks to<br />not really come.<br />If you see him more than once in a week<br />pimped out in shined shoes, satin bright colors<br />and Fedora,<br />you will be twice lucky as long as he carries a bottle<br />in a brown paper bag.<br />If you see him twice in a week without a bag,<br />you will get close, but it will be meaningless.<br />If you see him on any Sunday<br />you will become attached.<br />Fancy man has his own deck of cards<br />and it's all suits of hearts.<br /><br />When the high pitched rent boy is around<br />drama is about to enter your life.<br />Duh. His.<br />If you manage to escape talking to him<br />or keep it short<br />other forms of drama will also pass you by.<br /><br />If people who work at the cafe show up<br />and it isn't their shift<br />you will have surprise<br />communication with far flung friends<br />you haven't checked up on through the internet.<br />If none arrive,<br />you will have a week emptier<br />of social plans than expected.<br />This is also read as a good time to catch up<br />with a movie, yourself<br />on chores.<br /><br />Don't think of yourself as a chore<br />or the man in the fuzzy American flag blanket will show up<br />and he will hang guilt from the eaves of your ribcage<br />in sighs.<br /><br />If a man rides by on a bike<br />with some enclosed shell contraption around it<br />well<br />that's just weird.<br />That occurance will likely cause<br />a more surreal element to your dream patterns.<br /><br />The white flamingos in the yard further down the block<br />will multiply when you see more wobbly children<br />pass on the sidewalk<br />than people running<br />or otherwise exercising with their leashed<br />canines.<br /><br />If you sit behind the painted window regularly<br />fueled by strong, locally roasted coffeebeans,<br />it's easy to read stories<br />into anything<br />that wanders into the frame.NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-46348873299330708942010-04-19T15:26:00.000-07:002010-04-19T15:51:54.141-07:0018/30 "21st Century Sunday" by Gus Wood<span style="font-family: courier new;">This Sunday,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Jennifer's parents went to Church.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">In their absence, Jennifer pressed</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">her wiggle finger in deep until</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">her bed sheets soaked through</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">and the bruises smirked</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">between her pubescent legs</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">like the God she knows wouldn't</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">dare judge her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">This Sunday,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Mark skipped out on the service,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">instead he shrugged off his pants</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">like Vatican vestments, hunched over</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">his young cock anointed with oil</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">as he tight-gripped up and downed</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">a prayer while the crimson</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">smeared love letter of Mel Gibson's</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: courier new;">The Passion of the Christ</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">cast its sticky familiar spell.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">In between cigarettes last Tuesday,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Mark laughs out a cloud of smoke</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">and tell me blood</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">is the best lubricant out there</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">and he can't wait to prove it</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">to his girlfriend next sunday.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I try not to judge.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">As her parents kneel in prayer,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Tori has acquainted her knees</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">with the rough whiskered cheek</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">of her living room carpet,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">and tuned her tongue to</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">the blessing of her best friend Amber's</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">body parts.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Young, in love, with no White Bearded</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Finger Pointer to tell them different.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">This is the closest two sinners will ever get</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">to seeing God without burning.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">They scribble prayers into the paradise</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">of each other's flesh, no English.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">In this Church, the faithful speak only</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">in Tongues.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Jeremy and Evelyn attend more swingers parties</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">then church these days.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Sweat-soaked, lust-drenched,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">desperate to muffle their moans around</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">something higher than human,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">they try to suck Communion white light</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">out of whatever floats past their parted lips,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">every sticky stream curdling</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">in the smoke scented air</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">like an off-key Alleluia.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">This is a 21st century Sunday.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;"> When the Church has shrunk too small</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">for real Gods.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">The only baptism is the lonely cold shower</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">for as long as it takes to scrub off the stink.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Our parents genuflect, arms folded silently</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">as we kneel before lap top pornography</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">fetishizing our demons into something</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">we can dance with.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Jennifer is the Virgin Mother to nothing</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">but wet bedsheets and bruises,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Mark is nobody's Messiah</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">but at least he's walking somewhere warm,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">with a Passion.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Tori and Amber are the only reasons</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I still believe love can last as long as Jesus</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">promised us it would .</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Jeremy and Evelyn understand forgiveness</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">and open arms better than I ever will</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">so go ahead.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Strike me down, Old Testament long beards.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Call me your devil, you water walkers.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Go ahead and nail me to something!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Let Us Pray.</span>NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-13085034132516329182010-04-19T14:11:00.001-07:002010-04-19T14:11:42.164-07:0018.30 NoveltyI remember when a hotel stay<br />was something special<br />ice bucket miracles<br />and the way orange crush<br />somehow tasted better, different<br />from an end of the hallway<br />vending machine.<br /><br />Every once in awhile<br />I remember learning how to drive<br />how it seemed like I would never<br />pass the DMV test<br />circling, jerking, parallel parking<br />driving backwards.<br />I probably couldn't now<br />but all those windows down miles<br />through small towns and cornfields<br />or sneak outs into the city<br />made wheels fly.<br />After the crunch<br />and pound of accident<br />the more than a month of stiffness and cricks<br />it's good to remember the joy<br />instead of fear.<br /><br />One of the pleasures of filling a journal<br />is the starting fresh<br />the binding crack<br />into a new one<br />the fresh scent<br />sheets of possibility<br />to mark how you grow<br />and stay triumphantly the same.<br /><br />These are the nudges<br />that keep me breathing<br />from tired eyes in travels<br />to the sigh of more paper trails<br />I doubt anyone will follow.<br /><br />This afternoon<br />it happened through a person<br />young man with wide open face of share<br />to have met more kin over the last few days<br />than he'd ever met before<br />revealing his isolation<br />over mediterranean feast.<br /><br />A table of us who could be called jaded<br />on a bad day<br />falling in love with being just found<br />the reason why poetry matters and connects<br />the novelty, the newness<br />like orange crush<br />like lessons learned toward freedom<br />like freshly opened journal pagesNaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-38939414542398579612010-04-19T08:18:00.000-07:002010-04-19T08:36:16.614-07:0015/30 "Goldilocks" by Gus Wood<span style="font-family:courier new;">No one stopped to wonder<br />about how you got there.<br />Why you were so desperate<br />for shelter<br />you dared to live in the woods,<br />huddle up with these<br />shuffling behemoths,<br />carve a niche out of a cave wall<br />poor girl,<br />where was your home?<br /><br />Where were the hundreds<br />of flickering torches razing the wood<br />to ash until you were found?<br />where were the roadside signs and offers<br />of reward?<br />Were you a milk carton girl<br />with your dimpled smile<br />and spiraled gold locks</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">sharing space with the nutrition facts?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Were you running away from home?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Or were you taken</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">by men too vile for your stories?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Bound, gagged, and made dirty</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">did you chew your ropes,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">crawl to your feet,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">and run to the nearest warm place?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Did you even have a home to run from?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">I've never stopped to wonder before now.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">But tonight I am pouring over your stories,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">every book of fables still echoing your heartbeat</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">in its pages.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">I'm straining my too open eyesto find more about you</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">in between the lines of big printed words,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">but the pictures are too prominent</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">for you to tell me your own story.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">When they came home from the hunt</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">with blood on their breath, bitterness </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">dripping hot off their chins,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">when they saw you,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">sleeping in their child's bed</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">like you were wanted...</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">their porridge sipped, </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">too hot,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">too cold, </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">it all tasted too much like home for you,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">didn't it?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Did they hind leg roar at you?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Show their claws, their teeth, and tell you,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">"Go away."</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">"Stupid human"</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">"Idiot girl"</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">"What made you think you'd find </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Home here?"</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Did you fall to the floor, then?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Poor child, did you plead on four legs </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">for their acceptance?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Did you tell them through your tears</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">about how that bed, that porridge,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">that place felt more like "belong" </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">than anywhere?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Did you tell them your story?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">When I flip the page, </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">the picture shows you leaving</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">in terror,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">famous fairy tale brat.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">What were you scared of?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Was it the bears?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Or the inevitable run outdoors,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">no place to run to,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">beasts too wild for bed-time on the prowl?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Goldilocks,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">I have heard your story hundreds of times.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Stopped short</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Cut off</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Muffled Early</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">and now?</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">I'm starting to wonder where you went</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Next.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Poor Girl,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">wind-swept, dirt-caked, </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">desperate enough to steal food</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">from three Bears.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Little Goldilocks,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">I'm beginning to wonder</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">where you went next.</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">What new grotesque den of </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Nightmares,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">do you dare call home,</span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Now?</span>NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-34350380996615411772010-04-15T08:55:00.000-07:002010-04-15T09:10:05.061-07:0017.30 Minty Freshness<span style="font-style: italic;">after Joanna Hoffman</span><br /><br />An alarm to Pavlov's dogs<br />the wretch to epicac<br />red to blood through oxygen<br />the arm to passenger seat in sudden stop<br />the football fanatic to beer<br />opening the fridge after arriving home from work<br />the cough induced by dust bunnies<br /><br />Reflex<br /><br />"I'm sorry"<br />is the bow release<br />from sensitive tongues everywhere<br />it's the bullet we hope will magic an end<br /><br />If letters could be punctuation<br />"I'm sorry"<br />would litter printer recycling bins everywhere.<br />If we said<br />"question mark"<br />at the end of every upturned word<br />at the end of every sentence of question<br />ears would tune it out as they do<br />"I'm sorry."<br /><br />It drools at the chin<br />activates salivary glands<br />and like forming new shapes<br />to learn French or Russian pronounciation<br />or to wave roll r's<br /><br />"I'm sorry"<br />persists<br /><br />A boyfriend once dared me<br />bid farewell to "I'm sorry"<br />for a weekend, a full week, a month.<br />At first, my hand slapping over my mouth became the reflex<br />and then a bridle at "I'm so---"<br />until at last<br />I felt a spearmint, a wintergreening<br />behind my chicklet teeth<br />not longer chewing at "I'm sorry's"<br />the cleanest my mouth<br />had ever felt<br />and one of the greatest favors done me<br />by a man.NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-2739583098835310522010-04-14T16:51:00.000-07:002010-04-14T16:52:43.205-07:0013/40 Tribute Poem #1 (Andi Kauth) by Gus Wood<span style="font-family: courier new;">I'm not one to chalk things to fate.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">The ecstasy of dice-shake roulette wheel</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">just holds more interest for me.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">But you, Windy City Woman, showed up</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">with armloads of survivor song and</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">perfectly placed step ladder plateaus of </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">common ground, every sentence</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">helped me ascend.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">You fire angel, Botticelli-faced word woman,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">held an inferno in your belly.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I watch the flames bellow from your gut</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">to drip out wild honey slow</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">until the stage rippled, baptismal font</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">at our feet.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I wanted to dive in so badly,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">grow gills,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">merman your blood stream</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">until your bones became the white columns of</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">an ancient city.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Your ribcage became my Atlantis</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">your words the bottomless ocean that held it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Most of your poems talk of falling,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">of knee scrape anthems of</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">almost making it.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">You talk of falling as if we</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">couldn't see</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">the majestic wings at your back.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Stretched to white-feathered infinity.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">You spoke of asthma, </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">unable to breathe,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">open mouth, </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">shallow lungs</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">as if every molecule of oxygen </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">traffic-jammed the highway of your throat.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Every molecule fully aware it will leave your lungs</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">changed, forever altered,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">transformed by your contact,</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Like all of us.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">No, I was never one to chalk anything up to fate.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I saw life as random shuffle but people like you</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">make me second guess that shit.</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">How can I not believe in God when </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">It sends angels from Chicago.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I'm glad we're friends, </span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">I'm overjoyed that I get to watch you</span><br /><span style="font-family: courier new;">Soar. </span>NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-33500916191757052882010-04-14T16:48:00.001-07:002010-04-14T16:48:59.576-07:00Writing Prompt #12Interpret the daily happenings of a city into an almanac of predictions.<br /><br />Focus on the quirky or odd happenings you observe throughout the day,<br /><br />is the living statue out today?<br /><br />how many cyclists have you seen?<br /><br />What does it all mean?!?<br /><br /><br />GO WRITE ABOUT IT!NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-758048304880051244.post-49684671506511507772010-04-14T13:27:00.000-07:002010-04-14T13:41:23.623-07:0016.30 productThe staff <em>meeting</em><br />is <em>kahki and blue</em><br />button <em>down and starving</em><br />black dress and belt <em>buckle skinny</em><br /><br />In the corner is <em>a girl</em> who <em>grew</em> up <em>on canned peas</em><br />she still has holes in <em>her underwear</em><br />and she actually darns <em>socks</em>.<br />She will never have a nose described as <em>pert</em><br /><em>accepts</em> her curves and doesn't have an <em>eating</em> <em>disorder</em><br />but she will always feel <em>like a</em> <em>church </em>mouse<br />quietly nibbling <em>at </em>the edges of the <em>free lunch</em><br />thinking to herself how <em>people are so slow to evolve.</em><br /><em></em>NaPoRhyMotimehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10689210356633271510noreply@blogger.com0