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