"There's not much doubt in any of our minds that no complete idea springs fully formed from our brow,
needing only a handshake and a signature on the contract to send it off into the world to make twenty-five billion dollars.
The germ of the idea grows slowly..." - Walt Kelly

Wednesday, April 23, 2014


Day Twenty-Two (late): Writing a riff on Arthur Sze's Here.

There eyes water in front of a screen.
There the morning light arrives too early.
There a flock - no, a pack - a pack of birds sounds angrily.
There a great distance.
There a need for a new bridge, something healthy and
        safely suspended above the fray.
There a great fire.
There something else too hot, drowning.
There something dying, emptying into an ocean.
There an open wound.
There a promise.
There a series of broken bones.
There retribution, justification yet unclear.
There a man who has yet to find his way, and yet he
        searches in the dark.
There the final hour.
There the clock that keeps it.
There its dead batteries.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
The Staves, Pay Us No Mind

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

A dagger to the heart of the city

Day Twenty-One (late): Writing a poem in the style of the New York School.

You come to my mind, then,
as the air in midtown -
toxic and withering,
filled with too many consequences,
too many wrong turns,
and not enough choices.
A death in the family,
and some wonderful rebirth -
trapped in the monotony
of rush hour traffic
and screeching brake pads -
the Columbus Circle of life.
And it has always been official,
not a chance, not a doubt.
Not a second before the lights
all turned to bloody red.
Not a second for me to think,
"Well, maybe, just maybe..."

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Bombay Bicycle Club, Leaving Blues


Day Twenty (late): Catch-up haiku!

The depth of our faith
is interesting, in a
broken kind of way.

We have considered
following regulations
and posting a sign.

Just try diving in,
but please do not crash your head
into the bottom.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Yasiin Gaye, Inner City Breathin'

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Atlantic turkey wing

Day Nineteen: Pretty interesting - use one of the seashell names here as inspiration for a poem. The one I picked is in the title. Seems like a pretty ridiculous name for a seashell, which, I think, is why I like it so much.

It isn't snowing anymore,
but the cold still creeps in
through the windows,
especially the ones that have
been in need of new insulation
for the past several holidays.

We can feel it prickling our skin,
drifting through our pores and then
pulling them out so our arms
look like vast, dune-pocked beaches.
The meal rests anxiously on the table,
calling quietly out to our eyes.

We're lucky in this family,
to be so unconcerned, so nontrivial,
to have an understanding and
a firm grip on what stands tallest.
No desire to fly away, not now -
hunger motivates too strongly.

Quick Links and such.

Randomly found this excellent poem by Mark Cugini.

Zach has kept it going in this very honest short poem.
And this excellent one - he's good, folks.

Leonard wrote another good one, as well.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Shad, Stylin'