First Fire-y 15 for Napowhinemore.

1,

Waiting for a package
celluloid spools
to remember for me.

All life balanced
on a spider-thread
and I find myself
wanting
to tell my story
to these random strangers
behind counters.

I'm on the road
without a map
and no map
is required.

These people
can't tell me
the way.

I question
what i'm doing
here
letting the rust and wreckage
fall away
to reveal brighter metal;
but still
metal
and no flesh.

I have more in common
with a flashlight
than these
human beings.




2.

Following the spring
this year
dancing the yellow line.

The Panamint daisies
bushed up and
showed their glory.

We witnessed birth
in the valley of Death
the sun beaming down
from a bright blue sky
and even Coyote
showed some respect.

Spring is a spirit of longing
this year.
Longing for an answer
to the great question.

Our brains flit and fly,
consciousness balloons
and snaps back;
everywhere a sadness,
everywhere an anxious
searching.

The sun rises
and sleeps
and rises again
over mountain
and plain
and ocean waves.

We strain
bicker
and scratch fear-y holes
in the fabric of dreams
waiting for
self-made deliverance.




3.

Years of frustration
trickle down
into the now.

Will I?
If...

Butcher of my own life
I select the veins to follow
and the bones to hack.

Blaming someone else
for these decisions
was far easier
than accepting the cleaver
in my own hand.

If we could see
each individuals'
self-vivisection
would it change anything?

Would we only find new
reasons
to go on cutting?




4.

Longing for the trance
that will lead me away from
all of
this.

Dreaming an endless
whiskey-soaked
desert-run
to finally remember how
to feel the wind
again.

In my mind there
were
moments of something
more
than platitude and argument.

To dream again
as though
you'd never felt the pain
to dream again
as tires cut the midnight
pavement and memories
eviscerate good feelings;
spilling their empty
out over everything
that could be.




5.

Gutted.
Peeled away and cleaned of
inside
anythings.

Each day
in the supermarkets
the traffic jams
the insane parking lots,
city to city across the continent
people are gutted
by themselves or
one another.

Gutted by
the 80 hour work week
butted by a payday which never
arrives,
gutted by parents
schools
governments
lovers.

They sleep against street lamps
or in banker's bedrooms;
the gutted.
The dead.
The blind and impossible
dragging their carcasses
between places to earn money
and places to spend it.

Their essence and flesh
gambled into paper
that speaks a lie of worth.

Gutted by children,
gutted by bills,
gutted by the thing that simply
will not
arrive,
or if it does arrive
it is always too late,
too late and too little.

Each day you must say:
I will look into their eyes,
I will not let them have
what is left of myself.

As the gutted ones come
with their demands
and their blameless
execution answers
you must say to them:
This is not it.
No, this is not it at all.




6.

Poems drip slow
where there used to be
waterfalls.

The drought seems to come
as I stand in a rain of experience
yet the stream
never swells.

Cactus and rock
and desert flat,
sun and frost
and rain, I
am submerged
and do not drown
am immersed and do not
accept,
preferring blank looks,
withering glances
and gravestones
for everything.




7.

Gray horizon.
Gray in my head.
I watch the tide rise up,
wondering about the ghosts
of places and
ancestors
long-dead
that may come forward
to aid me
or those newly passed
that arrive
like ravens in the dawn.




8.

Tonight
Orion peers down
from a blue-black sky
arm poised to strike
until he is covered
by clouds.

He's lead me
across so many skies.
Why is he upset tonight?




9.

Night.
The rain continues at 2 a.m.
with the sea growling
at the rocks
and the trees weeping
like I want to weep;
the sky doing it for us both,
you and me
separate
like this
or perhaps not so
as I recall the headaches
that were your barometer
on navy blue thundercloud evenings
in summer-thick Missouri air.

Do you hear the water
blasting in the crevices now?
Can you see the chalk
line of the waves with me?
Or are you flying with the night-birds
as the water tells me to
shush,
shush.




10.

The people are bent like wires
and the current hops
from one to the next.

Circuits of hate and frustration
arc and spray
fire
up the streets.

Do you know that your ideas
are droppered and spoon-fed into you
and catheter-ed and enema-ed
out of you
at a pace that keeps up
your entire life?

Your Ideas
are not
Your
Ideas.

Cities like circuits to the switch
and the people have stopped marching.

The people have stopped marching.
Trading their time away to
pretty lights and the message that
they'll tell us about
around the campfire of one million
i
phones.

The people have stopped marching
if for no other reason than
they've become terrified
of leaving the house
for fear they might miss
the next cat
photo.




11.

Who among you are the victims
of my kindness?

Who among you have visited
the sad nunnery of my soul?

Tear my doubts along this perforation.
Seal me with adhesive.

Does it scowl in you
like a rabid animal;
prone to bite,
or warm you
like a first spring sun?

Can your altruism
feed the hungry
or only Ego?

The green-bottle sea
and it's white breaks
handed me a highway vision.

What to do with it?
Would you?




12.

The waves gathered up
by the sky
while the gulls stop
in space
and a child leaps into the wind
atop a boulder;
flying, landing
flying again.




13.

Body, aged.
Mind, rapt.

As at twenty,
questing to become
healer
or fool.

Given coins,
I juggle them
and drop a few
here and there.

The gray sea
blowing in, now.

Haven't I meditated enough
on calamity?
I used to dream
of a life
this free.

Now that it has arrived,
I want to  box it up,
plane it flat
and make it something
other.

The dog of my head will not heel
to the whistle of the wind
this day.

The secrets are whispered
but I cannot understand the language.




14.

I have seen the crow
whiten
in the desert sun.
You were there with me,
though you did not know it.

How many others
travel with me,
catching the chatter of gulls,
the grit of the sand
and the solid crack of the surf?

I touch all my memories
and smile.




15.

I,
unmasked to myself,
a long train-whistle spout
of hot, humid air
into a dark, winter's night.

I,
unmasked as a thief of time
and the lament that washed
the shores of your yesterdays.

Unmasked
under the ancient forest walls
and blue ceilings.

I,
tearing pages and pages
from a book
I've not yet learned to read.




 

Ok, I lied.
A week at a time, folks, open up, here comes the piss!
Piss stream 2016 Oregon Ghost Napawhinemore.(whore)

Flash Fiction month

Get ready for the next piss-stream, Folks! Float down the yellow river of flashfiction with yours truly in june!

The End of the Month-long Piss. Napowrimo napalm (put out)

29.
What the hell is the matter with you?
I take you to the movies and you want to talk
I take you out to the bars,
the restaurants, the ghettos, the burbs
and
TALK TALK TALK
no censure.

You give me this flaming fucking
dissertation
like a junkey 'sermon on the mount'

Drugs Drink Pain and Misery
and you remonstrate, condemn
and give me stupid advices

So, I bring you to a place without hardship
I give you love, security, stability
and all you do is stare at the fucking walls!

What the hell is the matter?!?



30.
I'm staring
into the tessellation of
white hexagons and
feeling the water
in the bath
slowly drain
by millimeters

I have been in this position
staring unthinking
through many days

The pull of the water;
the scent of clean skin

I am enraptured once again
by simple things

NaPoWriMo Napalm Week 4

23.

The soul on an interstate

many by-ways

Two boys freed

from the weight of ideals

contemplate money

governments, the meaning of family

the source of true love

and triumph

On a spring hillside

wanting only freedom of expression

One, raises ardor

The other, Fervor

The bodies and minds 100's of miles apart

react and act in perfect concert;

Con-sult.

The ardor is assaulted with bodies

The Fervor is assaulted with minds

They Learn:

It is better to think, feel, do, see, know and live

Their revelations

are as old as

the waves

shaking hands with the beach

24.

The wine goes down like piss shivers and

a kangaroo to blame

Spring has her first orgasm:

the trees, the tulips, the hyacinth

coming purple pink yellow and white.

(all this talk of global warming, I didn't

think another real spring would come)

The sun is still a trick, though;

the birds haven't returned.

(spring is still masturbating off

the end of a hang-over, waiting

for The One to hang roses from her vines

and berries and tomatoes)

She is completely unconvinced

without her fruit

24.

The letter from my father tells me

his new bees have arrived.

He is planning their hives, strategically,

around his home.

He eats, drinks, shits and shaves there.

I wonder about his cats that live in the barn,

and the bees that must quest and guess

at his window.

Take a picture from your memory

It contains each chamber of your heart

in equal measure

25.

It was the first Irish pub I had been in

with dart boards, but no darts.

They had been relegated to a glass case

somewhere, relics from a better time.

On the television, there is a football player speaking,

who is also a Rhodes Scholar.

I make notes for my next incarnation,

"Don't stunt your growth"

"Remember all this anatomy"

"prepare"

but then,

i recall that these are still lessons

i have to learn in THIS lifetime.

I decide to leave my next incarnation

some better instructions, then,

i turn off the television.

26.

I was seeking aimlessly

through the jars of my life.

I found them in a dream,

these great, magic urns,

one containing butter, one, milk

others filled with grains or brass or gold.

I was looking for the lids, in order to cover them up

but i could not find even one.

Sometimes, I would spill a little and

sometimes, I would return from elsewhere

to find them empty

This caused me a great deal of anxious sadness

just sitting there, looking into the empty containers

that once held my life

I woke up some time later and checked the clock

10 pm

I had not had a drink in several hours.

I needed a drink.

So,

I got up and

produced shirt, pants, keys and shoes.

In the car, I shifted to reverse and then to "D"

then

drove down to the local bar.

Dream dream Dream

My feet slide over the flooring.

The light addresses my eyes.

It's a quiet night, Tuesday, and

the bartender has the beer and shot set down

before i get there; smooth

mechanical.

I slide a ten across with my wrist

and get the shot in

and that dream stares out from the strange eye

at the bottom of it

and it slaps me where it hurts most

so I motion for another round

and toss the full beer back with a grunt

and tell myself

over and over

that there is a way

to forget these things.

27.

hold onto that soul

dont let you

take it from you

28.

Look at all the profitable vacancies.

Look at the vacant lots earning

money for people.

Look at that grey patch of dust in the corner of the room that used to be you.

(Maybe your eyelid or your palm)

Someone decided for you and then said "you can't decide"

(and you believed them)

but you live in a free country.

Can you think of morally reprehensible acts and then drive to work

or buy something from an expensive chain-store?

Is the mirror vicious, or is it just you?

Is the mirror angry that it has to look at you?

Take time to study instead of arranging.

Take time to feel instead of analyzing.

The dead dog in the street once belonged to someone,

Maybe it's your turn

to get out

and bury it.

NaPoWriMo Napalm Week 3

16.

Kind of like when

you smoke a cigarette

(because she's having one)

to kill the flavor

(same negates same)

but her mouth

still tastes like a gravestone

the inside of 200 stale hotels

and you stick your tongue into it
anyway

like you mean it

then she pulls away and says

I love you.

yeah, kind of like that.

17.

The Christ in your love

turned all the bulbs to

'Off'

while the cat grunted

and leapt onto the couch

to stare into the pouring rain

as if some new destiny were reflected

in the puddles

Then, the 8 year old acts incredulous

"you mean you're not a Christian?"

and I feel no reason to tell her anything except:

NO.

While the spring breeze pushed the petals against

new leaves with a whisper

and everything is stacked against a grey sky

waiting for the champagne POP to come

Necessarily unguided, mis fortunate we

still only sitting here

watching

18.

It buries the blade

Home

The double-entendre

the flip-over switch

meaning

Left you speechless

didn't it.

19.

The black cat

looks up at me narrowly and

voices a complaint.

Buddha raises his foot

uncertainly to his ear,

then back to the floor.

As the dark comes on

As the Israeli sleeps

at the wheel of his dreams

As the sun rises

somewhere

Sets

somewhere

As Burroughs, in Heaven,

eye-fucks a heavenly pool-boy

As the cross cracks and spills easter eggs

into the street

As the wind rushes through the house

sounding like waters

As she sleeps beside me

20.

The answer is:

not yet, Not Yet.

but

ever so slowly

one finger on the tin shutter of the lamp

the light within the boundary

and

this time

there will be no eye.

21.

As I lay in bed

it used my ear

as a doorway

and with my heartbeat

i can hear

the hum of it's viscera

working

tunneling

pervading my thoughts

sometimes it becomes crazed

in that animal way

that even dogs bite their masters

and it bounces around

where I cannot crush it

stinging the backs of my eyes

Now, i refuse to accept

the will of this interloper

any longer, as my own

22.

A spell

Rejected.

All these cities...

and

I stalked the streets for fights

never getting more than the usual talk

until

they heard

the summons

and came down

with their machines

smashing me flat, broke, conscious

in the middle of the street

without a sound

NaPoWriMo Napalm Week 2

9.

I've come back from a long journey

Sought to know myself in times of victory

Sought to know myself in times of doubt

I have found out

It is better to love

And

That I did not have to seek for that

so far and wide

for it was with me

all the while.

10.

The graves that were his eyes

shut out the light

coming from the better days

Even though we knew better,

we faded into promises,

false faces

and names that were not our own

Play the castanets, you fucking vultures.

Let's see how well you can dance without legs.

Give me a thread to run me through

or a threat to start me living again.

The graves that were his eyes went out

with a soft, stuttering fall.

Better leave the blaming to nobody;

we like it best

that

not this

way

11.

Ramble not, Time

lest we falter

and fall in

behind thee.

I wasted years.

(thats a sound admission)

I no longer feel anything about it at all.

I'm much more interested in watching the birds

c d

r o

u w

i n

s

e from newly budded tree-limbs

Much more interested, True, in just about anything.

12.

I want to be a dervish

so that I may drink wine

The flat golden compass

that points to the poems

Exiled from your light

I would suffer

Reunited with you

I would rejoice

But it is the same

Instant to instant

exiled and rejoined

I brush the sun and dive

brush and dive

Never melting the wax

in the wings that you crafted

13.

Wheat:

when you look out there

on a summer's day

you can see every war that was ever fought

and every love that was ever won.

14.

Green spark flying-

rivals-

snake specimens for comfort

slick jade skins sin

Eloquent waters

belligerent with thickness

tempts sent Magdalene

to reject the christ

and flee with John

shrieking

"I never knew him!"

Bend time with effort

quick silk smooth

soft shining symbol

Sigh like sad eyes

fires eagerly hiding

on the dying side

15.

Burn the nova streets

into a worn and empty dawn

Stamp out the stars for shoes

Look out,

Chicago

Memory plays a better tune than your trombones

and

"don't care if I do, but I'll get some all the same"

We could tack this up against the night sky

among all your excuses

for lights, you little pricks

but

we'd still wind up hardly breathing

hardly living

and

complaining

complaining

complaining

Napowrimo Napalm 2010 First Week

Here are new poesmesasdf

The first sacrifices to spring and the Napo gods.

1.

This night

is like a lot of other nights;

I stare at the ceiling and dream

or grit the teeth that are left

Spring, a blowtorch;

first, i was freezing

now, I lay here naked and sweating

waiting for:

an empty tomorrow

a cold bottle fix against my hot head

and a morning that I actually want to wake up and see

Spring,

you're great at promises;

lets hope that tonight's abortion

was simply that:

a lapse in judgement

a hurried and sloppy rebellion.

2.

The highway sings better than

the train

That's why I chose it

of all the methods

of all the ways

3.

The desire for renewal

is wet and

so we roam the streets

in search of dreams

the soles of our feet slapping the sidewalk:

our concrete dance-floor

We do not ask for directions

or speak to the passer-bys.

It is too much.

We just capture tiny images for our safe

and walk the tight rope cracks

on the surface of our world, back

Back to our upper story post

to fix ourselves with laughter

and wait for the next dawn.

4.

The sun rose like a golden coin

cut and scarred through the underbrush

And I photographed the stick she held up

And I chased the Kid with words

We have chili and eggs

and I stroll down to the sky blue bathroom

(to shit)

while some young couple

(flagrantly)

tries to fuck

in a back shower stall

Even so,

everything looks good today

and with the sun on my neck

and the camp torn down

I wait, blank, for a reason to leave.

5.

She chose survival over true life

and although, I can't fault her

I can learn from her example.

6.

Looking back on that place

those days

it's a wonder.

The broken lens of the present

scans the broken lens of the past.

We fall apart as lovely

or as ugly

as we think we do.

7.

There are 3 used condoms

in the green cup

on the nightstand

Spilling over the side

like dying

translucent flowers

I had spent all day on my knees

polishing the hard wood

and when the doorbell rang

for the first time in 20 days

I knew it was bad news

I am getting older.

The flick of an eyelid costs more than it used to.

I look out the window

into the blank, black night

and listen to the traffic roll by

like whispers.

8.

The blank surface of the road way

worn slick and unforgiving

by people looking for destinations

that they will never find

and and never exsisted in the first place

delusions, delusions

make a list of your confusions

dead dry sober

and lift it up to the sky

point it at the passing clouds

and wait for your answer

Napo Napalm 5

HERE ARE THE LAST NAPOWRIMO POEMS
NO MORE, DAMN YOU, I SAY NO MORE!

twenty-one.
look at that hilltop
while you sing me a suicide
the spring peeks out
300 feet overhead


Twenty-Two.
Goddamnit i have forgotten
again
i am walking out that parade
and love is in with the spring

the sky sings slow water
but i'm not listening
in my basement room
i'm just growing older

with a headache, no less

that patch of sunlight
in my memory
never moves
and that's why
its easier to stay there

here in the lamplight
with the dog overhead
just doesn't offer up
much
in the way of meanings

clicking nails on the linoleum
at nine a.m.
or
I should become a coffee drinker
are not new
or my
thoughts

this place is always killing something
i'll be damned if its me, this time


Twenty-three.
your flippancy
lack of care for anything
cuts me from long distance

i cant scratch through the space
between us
to give you a meaningful wound

you who are like the world
i who am the earth

we've got plenty to fight about
but you don't even bother to address
your hatred for me

you dress it up in terms like
progress
civilization
necessity

can you tell me
whats civilized or necessary
about torching my forests
blowing up my mountains
and poisoning my waters?

i have shaken
murmured
sent the winds to speak with you
but it seems you've forgotten even the simple languages

what will you do when i finally wake up?


Twenty-four.
he looked into his coffee cup and waited for a cigarette
the blue glass of water was unusual
everything had a preternatural glow
he scrubbed at his face with his hands
rubbing his eyes

green tea, this isn't, he thought
''i should have known my fortunes
would be told in black coffee'' he said
''what?'' she said
''nothing, just babbling the usual madness''

the waitress appeared to take orders
he stuck with coffee
they talked about her recent trip
in metaphor and simile
she could barely complete a sentence
she spoke in the shallow vagaries of spies

''well, i just noticed that people there were different''
she said
''different how?''
''it was just interesting to see how our lives had changed''
''in what way?''
''i don't know''

it went on that way
he looked around the place
it was like a dream
fog and fluorescent lights
everything shiny came off with a blue light
the empty diner twitched
and flickered

blue the color of leaving
blue the color of knowing
blue the color of mind
blue the color of my life
he thought

she finishes eating
eggs, sausage and fried potatoes
''are you ready?'' she asked abruptly
''sure''
he drained the rest of his coffee

they stepped out onto the handicapped ramp
after she paid
they lit up simultaneous cigarettes and expelled
smoke that rose up and curled around the pink neon sign
that flashed 'Mt. Joy Paradise Diner'
the color of pussy
the color of tongue

they burned each other down
line by line and breath by breath

she makes me as shaky as a month without booze
he thought

a final kiss that was not final
that wanted more than itself
and then they parted

they were freight trains
all jumbled up
off the track and gone

as the road evaporated in front of him
he searched for a song on the radio
not knowing

not knowing


Twenty-five.
maybe i have not understood at all
in the yellow evening
when the city falls through streetlights
and the dust settles silent
on the hood of my memories

i carry in-complete sorrow
to the well
and pitch it in
to taint my water for days

i'll call you Michael or Titus
and sweat you out
like any sickness

i'll write Shakespeare's tragedies
on your photos
and scrape the duckweed
from the forest pools
in your eyes


Twenty-six.
while lidded eyes lead me into damnation
dreams of walking into church
naked
and skulls of silent fishes
Sunday skeleton grottoes
with policemen i half recall

daughter me
soldier me
naked me
how many more me's have i got to become?


Twenty-seven.
so i dream of a you that is not you
and i have returned to our home
we make love in front of my sleeping father
and it my dreams
i do not say goodbye to you


Twenty-eight.
when black kettle rode down the Missouri
in search of buffalo
there was no st Francis
to speak to the wolves in his dreams

to speak to the white wolf and take its paw
and to council the wolf to pledge that all should live
in peace

the white wolf had overrun the land
stripping it out with loud-speaking guns
that made the mountains shudder
and his people disappear

We want a lasting true and honorable peace
he said we wish for the white wolf to stop
killing our children with muskets and bayonets

The Great Spirit made the Cheyenne and the Blackfoot
He also made the White wolf
There is room for us both, for the land is as long as the sky

But there was no God
No st Francis to silence the fever in the wolf's blood
not for the Cheyenne or the Sioux

A false Devil for sunrise
meet me in the powder river basin
so that we may mourn our losses
and die a good death on a good day


Twenty-nine.
to pull your hair into my fist
with the sweat licked
from the nape of your neck
the rhythm of your jugular heat
pressed to my swollen lips
rocket together
slipping through the candlelight
perfectly oiled machines
with fingers to rake the
debris of lust
and cradle your ass
in it's animal palm
when our real bodies
take breaths
deep enough
to split atoms


THIRTY.
I am the dawn of dawning dawns when dawn dawns madness in the dawning dawn

I am buttered toast
I am chocolate shoes
I am rose skulls bloomed from skulling roses
I am Garcia Lorca's fingernails
I am in the kissing with you
and you have been in the inspiration with me

as for the idiot under my scalp
he is unconcerned
and will keep shut
if he knows whats good for him

we can be strange stars
better than Eliot's ragged claws in silent seas
he was too much of pessimism anyway

there are NOVAS!
see?

Napo Napalm 4

Here are my dirty and unedited NaPoWriM0 Poems (Fourth Set) as linked from my Deviantart Journal. I always appreciate critique, so, comment away.



Sixteen.

I stare into the sun

blinking back the everything

the 30 days of sleepless dis-ease

that walked around my dance

the ampehetamine circle

that drowned the future

and it is much

too much

to forgive



the green spaces

are better than

nothing





Seventeen.

Good morning to the portions

of the world that still

believe



Here's to real love



Finding yourselves

Not worrying



Here's to having better sex

than the rest of the population



Here's to self-discovery so that we can have

real discovery





Eighteen.

i must be addicted

to kissing in the rain



Help Wanted:

do you like to kiss in the rain?

but, no

that never works



i find better opportunities

through waiting



modern-day Siddhartha

i can wait, think, and fast



what else is necessary?



i find myself believing in hope

i find myself refuting hope

both with words



this experience is unsayable

any words are empty



take something with you that is real





Nineteen.

While we play our soldiers off

as superheros

i watch the crushed-out butts

of the prom queen and the

football captain

take their hangovers to the bank

and the salon



the economy is wrecked

the plundering continues

there's no one left to punish

but ourselves



while karma bay be another lie

like a literal hell

there is a cyclic nature

to every beginning and end



i want to push further down

I'm done playing Sisyphus

this rock is to heavy and pointless

I'm giving it up

going to be free





Twenty.

i'm tired of waking up to cat piss

and bleeding eyes

Wednesday morning hangovers

from yesterday's near-death experience



she is at my left and the cat is curled

in the crook of my arm

to my right

i stretch a little

the cat makes a protest

and scampers out for water



im 15 minutes late for work

and i need a shower

i call in for an argument of excuses

turn on the hot water

i get the bottle of jaeger out of the medicine

cabinet

have a few swallows

within minutes the fog has cleared

i feel real and human again

i scrub vigorously



she's awake now

while i'm pulling on my pants

talking in her squeaky slur

those blue eyes look at me terrified

i love you, she says



i take my keys out of the golden bowl

next to the marijuana

and leave

without repeating such an obvious lie

Napo Napalm 3

Here are my dirty and unedited NaPoWriM0 Poems (Third Set) as linked from my Deviantart Journal. I always appreciate critique, so, comment away.


Eleven.
Every time i turn on the light
something goes wrong
the picture sways
i bang my skull

it might be better
to live in the dark
half-awake
half-aware
but i like the burn
too much
to drop the match

the vision has become
more important than comfort

well
let's get to it

at least i can see


Twelve.
i will carve you from me
because you are not worth
bearing the stink of me
around the house
with your lapdogs
at your feet
and your truest friends
1000 miles away


Thirteen.
The train disappears
and brings the world with it
in a rush of whispers
that collapse and fall
up the tunnel
an afternoon pulled away
by a nap

my third eye watches
with your teeth in it

you devour my vision
with the vanity in your smile

he blinks these visions away
he laughs and shakes the bottle at the demons

i have nothing to do but sit here and write
fuck a subway schedule, it's spring

the wind on my neck is enough of a reason
for anything

one horn signals another in the street
the city makes it's own jazz


Fourteen.
smiles disappeared with the whether
ensconced in the marble halls
between my feet and my head

I watch a chrome photo of me
turn old and decay
behind a mask of no sleep
behind a dream
behind the smiles of women

i laugh with a sound
that barely resembles laughter
until the 17th hour

now i sit under a lamppost
and a black cat sits
where my death would be
and blows jazz from a baritone
sax
my smile disappears with the whether
and returns with the same


Fifteen.
Staying sober
is harder
than the fist
i would use
to knock your
teeth
out

Napo Napalm 2

Here are my dirty and unedited NaPoWriM0 Poems (second set) as linked from my Deviantart Journal. I always appreciate critique, so, comment away.

Six.
the line is
the season of the rats
like spinning plates
in the house
in a heartbeat
i caught myself
staring
into my memories
again

i tell you this radio music
doesn't help at all
just like the blue bottles
didn't
wash your face
out of my mind

ive sat down
with this conundrum
too many times
now
my heart only flickers

so i tell the new her to walk
what else?

everything i think of sounds like an excuse

i know im supposed to want this
i know im supposed to feel thankful
that someone
saw a spark of beauty in this
abandoned echo

something like that
well, you keep that pretty cage
for another bird
i still like to fly


Seven.
they flew in perfect synchronicity
while the learn'ed of our age
still
consider them inferior beings
while the wealthy among us
still
pollute the streams and the air

we see hope in hybrid versions
of the same old bullshit
and we get progress in ten percent
reductions
instead of one hundred percent
cessation

it carries over

i dont drink much, anymore
i only beat my kids when they piss me off
i only lie a few times a day
pass the excuses
im hungry


Eight.
i dont need a rider

the universe leads me
around, out and back
like a wounded dog

i'm in need of this rehabilitation

i know something
its an inexpressible beauty
to seize your own freedom
to throw off the yoke of other people

i know that i need not betray myself
a second time

i know that i am emptying
to be filled
and
empty

the only thing left to do
is
fly


Nine.
i am about dead for today
besides
that tuesday morning
with its empty eyes
is no worse than


ive spun as many circles as i care to

this third dimension isn't all it's cracked up to be

i keep waiting for that train though


Ten.
it carries him through to september
the weeds and the wild nights
the ravens and the women
and each round
he grows or he shrinks
with the law of diminishing returns

"If you look aournd you'll see lots of poeple
who aren't burdened with their fate, who
make the most of everything,'' she says

''ignorance is bliss,'' he replies
butting a black cigarette in the ashtray
he looks around
lights
glassware
bartender

the pool-table
languid under red lights

no couples kissed
none of the young men
exuded anything at all

he tipped his head back
and poured away the last guinness
he had been in this dive
all day
but still drank with a great thirst
''you ready?''
''sure,'' she replies

on the way home
they argue
about some petty incongruity

she tries to leap out of the car
onto the freeway

he stops her from dying
and she hates him for it

he isn't angry or upset
just reflecting
learning

ten minutes later they are
at the liquor store
exchanging glares
over the aisles of wine

they paid, returned home
and while she sat in the bedroom
smoking hit after hit out of her pipe
crying
he's sucking down another guiness
smoking
and cooking chicken pesto

He felt like his mother
looked into the pan and grinned
he poured another beer and chain lit
a new cigarette

is this all there has to be?
yes.
is this all there is?
no.

the questions came in on a click track
running the line of reason out
to where the decisions
cast themselves back

''i'll leave tomorrow'', he says.

Napo Napalm

Here are my dirty and unedited NaPoWriM0 Poems as linked from my Deviantart Journal. I always appreciate critique, so, comment away.

One.
Spring stomped in
pitching her shawl down in the rain
frowning up at the clouds

It's not as i expected it either...

On a cold Baltimore morning
while the factory workers count the days
in half-cigarettes
the dogs rise up with shirts and new Jeans

Accents or not...

While i vaguely fumble with the latch over my heart
glimpse what tomorrow could be

I inhale the moon
and exhale the sun of my childhood
the sun of slavery

While i vaguely fumble with ideas
nonsense words
things of less and less value

I eat a handful of garbanzos
and worry my tongue over a broken wisdom tooth

how damning
how appropriate


Two.
I'm awake at one a.m.
I think you could use a better slogan
I eat eighty-eight percent cocoa dark chocolate
so maybe it will make a difference

I used to cast lightning out behind the convenience store
with a stolen joint in my cigarette box
because this artistry shit is a dangerous business

I'm tired of walking in your circles
world
with your diseases and your dramas

Stop holding out your hand to me

If you don't want freedom
then go back to bed

Stop wasting whatever might be left of me
with your empty promises of stupid satisfactions
through endless repetition of

The mean ideas and lousy symmetry you've been relying on
aren't going to wrap my hazy dreams up in some non-descript package for sale

So, how to continue?
do i Dare
and
Do i dare

My eagle eyes have seen you
in the trance
in the sky
from the other side of the world
and all it is
is
shit
shit
shit

From you
From ME

You're willing

Stop Lying to me

Lay back
and take it


Three.
In the glass box
singing funeral songs
I feel the vibration
of those casket days
ring through me
That subdued, dampened organ
in the front, there

rock of ages

other songs i recall

the preacher tries to speak
over the wailing that builds
rolls
builds and rolls
like a freight train
Mama
carrying my sadness
and a ticket to somewhere else

those snapshots
flicker through me
like light coming down
through the trees
and the wind comes
off that freight train
like it could blow me to pieces

but
its just the memories
shouting their last
call
a bitter farewell
a 'fuck you' as she drives away
that dry crack in the february morning
that let me know


Four.
They carry you out
amidst all that
all of the you's
and they climb you up
in that cadillac
in half a suit
because sudden
rarely pays the bills

we ride out to that place
where the best trees in town
always have more to say
and the cops don't bother you
on friday night

well
they put you down
for the last time
and i didn't stick around to watch
with the big blue tarpaulin
flapping in a cold breeze
and the sun never shining
and the sleet and the slush
is filling up your shoes
and you walk away without anything

not one memory different
from the rest

to swing and stew
in a cold room
in a black suit
as you stare out at anything
and you ask the candle questions
but at least for today
there are no more answers


Five.
We have mounted a peak of soul killing jobs
and won't come down for anyplace

SHAKE, TITANS!
Minimize Humanity!

Say your prayers to the maggots
they'll hear you

no time left but to get in the ground for new eden
and dig in
this portion's bigger than you wanted

suffice it to say
starvation
is only
partly
physical

Mohammedan dreams for the dying wanderer
and you know the closer we get to death
the better we FEEL
Have dreams, Revelations
Devils, Goblins and Angels

too bad fevers are so few

LOOK OUT!
HERE WE COME!
and we won't take your
''We had that brand LAST year''
as any kind of normal excuse

just keep praying

if we could get the priests to start bitching
maybe we'd finally have something