"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

Thursday, April 17, 2014

All part of the job

Day Seventeen: Don't know what this is about.

At the scene of a murder I
cross my I's and dot my T's
and then I can't tell any of them
apart in the report I'm trying
to compose while my idiot partner
mumbles in my ear, his coffee-
breath flowing in the wind like
radioactive isotopes that won't
dissipate for another few half-lives,
something like months or years,
so until then I am writing incorrect
letters on my clipboard and he
is crinkling his nose and saying
something about "symbology"
and then I am not writing at all,
I am picturing Willem Dafoe
standing on a bloodstained, white
wraparound couch, mocking him.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Passion Pit, Carried Away

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

A hard day's work

Still Day Sixteen: DOUBLE POST. OH MAN.

Can we manufacture potential?
We would come home every day,
eyes and ears weary from
too many lights and sounds.
We would discard our dirty clothes
and wash our hands for dinner,
tiny, leftover bits of potential
drifting down the drain
in a slurry of missed opportunity.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Kendrick Lamar, A.D.H.D.

Whatever you need to tell yourself

Day Sixteen: Combining the prompt, which is to write every line as a lie, and Three Word Wednesday (which I haven't done in ages). The words are animate, impassioned and pervert.

I have never let money
pervert my decision-making.

I am far too moral for that.
I have never felt the desire

to scream loudly from a rooftop,
to mock those I disagree with.

I am far too understanding for that.
I have never been so impassioned

that I almost ruined a relationship -
that would mean I argued against

my better judgement, which I also
would never, ever do, since judgement

is an unquestionable strength of mine.
I am far too reasonable for that.

I have never fought the urge to
animate the dead, to bring them back

for a good slap in the face, to ask,
how they could justify leaving the world

in such disorder? My perspective is
much too realistic for such trivialities.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Yasiin Gaye, Peculiar Mathematics
(mashup of Mos and Marvin - spectacular)

Tuesday, April 15, 2014


Day Fifteen: Using yesterday's prompt, which was to write each line as a question, except the last.

Where did the first flake fall?
What was it made of?
Who caught it on their tongue?
Did they yell?
Did they vomit?
What new flavor did they discover?
Did they write it down?
Is there a recipe we can follow?
Could we recreate the magic?
Would we want to?
Are there any strings to grasp at?
What dangling beauty can we pull down?
And how to preserve it?
How to keep it clean, keep it safe?

The chemicals blend just enough to mask the taste.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Pharoahe Monch & Black Thought, Rapid Eye Movement