NaPoWriMoPoems I wrote during National Poetry Writing Month
Sub-Galleries 3
Literature
if i hadn't had the drunk luck to meet you
i’d have married every bedside witch from here to east dallas
i’d have glistened like a worm to their mescaline psalms
i’d have mired in sinuous wineskin, repentant spectra
i’d Om along in cooing groups, babble with freethinkers
all my endeavors would be gas station derelicts
all of my wrongs would be quasi-continuous
even the over-sought moon would protest
and i wouldn’t recognize one half of the universe
NaPoWriMo 2014
30
Literature
of you
wind caught red between the bricks
isn't wind
or anything.
the mind has made a home.
imagine this hole without its walls,
the anchor of my touch;
(we agreed to gather for it).
the roof would float away
and i’d be stranded where i stood.
is there sanctuary in this mud?
i’ve been in other cavities -
the moon will sound like any moon,
night will seed the same old terror,
fall fast to nothing
in a womb.
I belong inside . . .
NaPoWriMo 2013
30
NaPoWriMo 2012
30
NaPoWriMo
NaPoWriMo 2014 30
if i hadn't had the drunk luck to meet you by spoems, literature
Literature
if i hadn't had the drunk luck to meet you
i’d have married every bedside witch from here to east dallas
i’d have glistened like a worm to their mescaline psalms
i’d have mired in sinuous wineskin, repentant spectra
i’d Om along in cooing groups, babble with freethinkers
all my endeavors would be gas station derelicts
all of my wrongs would be quasi-continuous
even the over-sought moon would protest
and i wouldn’t recognize one half of the universe
It is enough
when workers douse their fires at 5
and empty the machine for night
that I am here, alone
to steer the fickle weathervane
into the proper wind drift,
when Siamese disdain
older than three houses
piles her caramel refrain
into my lap to die
that I will feed her warmth to bones,
when we meet ourselves for dinner
flexions of four energies
briefly pooling into mandalas
that I do trace your after-glowings
before you leave this atmosphere.
It’s more than I will ever want.
You cannot belittle the brainchild of your elements;
the eyes have steeped for a billion years
and by the rarest lottery of compulsions,
you are the russet prize.
Untitled Metaphysical Quandary by spoems, literature
Literature
Untitled Metaphysical Quandary
I
Who could know the two foot pine in the pot
would one day tower over shingles in the backyard
with the ghost of a shortleaf, high in the Ozarks
sweeping warblers from their strings?
II
Only the Adams I've looked on,
the concrete I've dug from old fence posts,
saw chains I've unstrung in sap,
the beasts I've gloved, given their salt,
only what I fondle with my inner eyes
will ever breed with space and time,
and only I will dissipate.
Principal among all totemic erections
presumptuous banners
poking through sunsets
pragmatic despots
lording over prairieland
bison wallows
Mexican brick huts
coalescing in a drunk tank
beneath golf tee towers
teenage starter trees
lined in paraphilic rows
beside
ubiquitous nail salons
wearing parking plateaus
like a petticoat,
I look for the salve that tempers utility
sleeved in perfect white
a Baptist cross
or Hong Kong Buddha
irrepressibly reflective
something flying in the low air
between hungry gray organs
and a chest of empty space.
Mauling the concrete in that sorrowful Nova
hesitant blue like an old mad eye
shivering in a steel trap.
Gerry Rafferty and the Bee Gees
left toiling in gelatin
on a long drive at night.
Somewhere between Garland and oblivion
we make it home. Mother makes
boiled eggs and butter
just before bed.
Find me lounging in the cafeteria
at the famous art museum
right off Paulus Potterstraat
damp and cool from a light rain
with bespeckled tweed sweater
comfortable black New Balances
fondling letters in the Het Parool
needed nowhere else, by no one
save for the dark haired Madonna
curled at the end of the smooth white table
whom I’ve followed through the avenues
and the globes, her every misstep
all the way from the plains of the New World.
I continue to grow, even into my middle life.
The glass of the eyes squeeze through their sockets
to dart through the dark. The skullbone protrudes
at the vibrating throng, a diviner that’s pulling towards
seminal moments. The face is a rudder cut
into the gale, folds and then doubles. The scars
are recast from the old leather knife. The children
are bold with the grief of the arms. The mass of
the dreams have finally bettered a spoon full
of blood, and fondness has spread past the finger
tips.
Prickly pears prepare their thorns for war down in the grass.
What terrors in these tiny worlds?
Paths of sunken limestone carry past the tyrant pikes
of yucca plants I dare not pare.
From our little patch of hard won air
nestled on the ground at the brink of the grid
we watch as a great lung coloured breath
pours out from the dark gray ash
like an ancient hearth billowing below the blue
with hairlines scintillating the façade of our reach
and storms encircle us like columns of wraiths.
On her face, a twinge of wonderment.
This is the miracle for which I wait.