You’re supposed to write a poem now because that’s what you’re built to do…

Hunker down now

With the molecules

Don’t let them know the face you’re making

It’s getting too dark to taste the water

So find a new naked self

You’re not going to find a better guitar in this lifetime

So play like the sound is real

Envelope envelope

Walking till the hairs grow thin.

NaPoWriMo #16

Becoming Real

I bought a web domain
to have a go at being real.
I’ve been unreal
for a long time–
living in odd places–
places where people
aren’t supposed to live…
open mics
message boards
Twitter…

Now I live in palaces in the sun.
Now I’m finally real.
My words live in houses of the wholly realized.

Contrary to popular mythos
there is love on the internet
and it comes from knowing there’s
a home for broken sentences
and calcified syntax.

NaPoWriMo 2020 #15

I don’t know if I’ve got it in me tonight.

National Poetry Writing month
takes its toll.
30 poems in 30 days.
Content burnout is real.

I know a guy
who lives in an adobe cottage
in New Mexico,
who lives contentedly,
is madly in love,
and writes like 3 poems a day.
I don’t know how he does it.

1 poem a day for 1 month
just about cracks me open.
That’s why I’m making this
diary entry metatext.
I need a break.
I need something easy.

It’s impossible to feel the muse
all the time
because she exacts a toll
and takes more than she gives.

Better to replenish oneself periodically
with a self-indulgent diary post.
It may not be good reading,
but it saves one from total burnout.

This may as well say “lorem ipsum”

NaPoWriMo Lucky 13 [video]

if we are living we are not made of stone.

if we are living we are not made of stone.
our bones are not broken yet.
we’ve made our houses in the shade
and our blankets are dry for now.
we dream of drinking light
and our shadows turn to bricks
with which we construct new libraries
and all the books are made of
our best stories
our best shelves

puddles splash forever
light crawls into pores
the sun is only softness
and never shades of brutality.

all business dies.
all business dies.
and the curse of commerce is lifted

NaPoWriMo #12 [w/ video]

Nocturnal Ode

She’s asleep in bed
dreaming of charging demons
and sugar plums
or whatever it is she dreams

I’m a night creature now
to escape the demands
of the day
where all the sickness of the sun
swelters clammy flesh to stinking
and the garbage takes on new
molecular forms to perfume the neighborhood
with coffee grounds and dead diapers
I’m allergic to the ultra-violent Texas rays

In a few hours the solar climb begins skyward
and I will climb into bed
where I will dream of cities made entirely
of dumpsters
I can’t stop dreaming of trash.
It washes in–
tidal
and soils everything pure.