Wednesday, April 16, 2014

npm: 04.16

04/16



Sun, mad at moon, never rose. She tried old tricks of counting backwards from 10, 20, 4.6 billion but nothing worked. Steam still brewed from lash and knuckle. She took a walk and burned the woods. She considered prison but melted lock and bars. To the whiskey, huddled in a bad way. Around her shoulders a blanket thrown, full of stars and stains.

End this feud, the rain chanted. The clouds linked arms. Grass grew in, the color of forgotten lemons.

Moon, crooked above, craters all full of blood. The waves get worse. Dams are deceived. I apologize, she writes. Bird wing dipped in tar.

A waitress brings it, impatient, marked with hemisphere of condensation. Another round, mugs melted. Sun reads, waits, smiles to lap. The soft in her lets it go. One day she will consume and collapse. There is no time to hate a waning gibbous.

The two meet somewhere, undisclosed. Craters drained, our girl rose. World squints a parade.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

npm: 04.15

I thought about going back and writing some poems for the days I missed, but figured I would keep going forward instead.

04.15

Between waterspots there is reflection. A sort of thing I know. I can check the guest list of freckles, can note the lips split nightly by smiling. I marvel the liquid bit of road map hinting under light and surface. One could travel from my temple to my toe if every turn is a detour into new tributary. A branch of blue in my chest, the invisible birds that weigh it down. What is this sulking?

I stand all thief with the goods piled high on the ankles. No sweat. Just lean into it. This sadness is all thick and thumbs. I follow on my hands and knees until I find a weed. I exhale her dry. I pull her with teeth.


Patterns
(Renee reading at Sphinx Cafe)

Monday, April 14, 2014

npm: 04.14

(I'm a few days behind due to being out of town and then getting the usual head pain).

04.14

you don't want to see it
so of course
it's everywhere.

shot off at the mouth
but
even bullets
carry compacts
filled with mirror.

the trash smells like pennies.

floor a minefield of fallen attire,
body
refusing
to stop
shedding

prior self melted
your hunch of shirt with billowed neck,
demure cross of empty leg

every minute a bit of us gone--
cells dead
bad roof
peeled wind
rubbed raw
new leaf

Sunday, April 13, 2014

the busy life

Poems for Saturday and Sunday will be up shortly--hang tight. I was out of town this weekend soaking up lovely time with the family.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

in the neighborhood

Came across this scene in the neighborhood:



This guy was trying to make a run for it.

npm: 04.10

04.10.

Photo fuzzy,
like captured bad reception
rabbit ear
let go
leaning
to left instead of right.

A circle of night,
a clue,
pigment in the snow.
Body vintage,
doll's lidless gloat,
finger bones of ghosts
point out shadows,
lumps of shade taped
by toe, curved wall--
Plato, plastic
4 by 6//some by none//beat by quiet


red so red is blue


loud so loud is silent

dark so dark
there must be
light--