"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 30, 2014

The hero fantasy

Day Thirty: Patchwork poetry - piecing together a line or phrase from each of my last 29 poems, which I think is a very fitting way to end the month.

Conspirators abound, and history
ties their black hearts together.
There is a world behind the glass,
all this fullness of thought,
comfort in the shade of an old pine
and loophole avoidance.
We hear it through the walls, so dry and thin,
there, something dying,
emptying into an ocean.
Where did the first flake fall?
And what, then, is the worth
of an empty pair of shoes?
Now the divine is real -
the grandest mystery borne
in the arms of lovers or
the mouths of scholars.
We have considered following regulations
and posting a sign,
a ceremonial decapitation,
a small scandal, an attack plan,
an ocean of usable air.
At the scene of a murder,
hunger motivates too strongly,
toxic and withering,
as bursts of exhaust roast the air.
There is no art in this,
the drowning of a man,
a slurry of missed opportunity
too far from the sun, and too late
to turn and fly back.
I tread lightly in the sunlight,
a mess of scar tissue and bloody forgetfulness.
I have never fought the urge to animate the dead
(the flames reach out to teach them)
or to break our glass house.
When the screen goes dark,
we see ourselves in true light,
broken in, like old leather.
It's a great deal, you know.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Sufan Stevens, Casimir Pulaski Day

Tuesday, April 29, 2014


Day Twenty-Nine: Only one more left.

There is no art in this,
the drowning of a man.
The ripples that stretch out
reach nothing, no rescue
and no dry land nearby.
The hands that hold him down
belong to no one soul,
but the whole consciousness
of some new, imagined
group of dark oppressors.
It is too bad, really,
that he had been hoping
for such a sorry end.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Grizzly Bear, About Face

Monday, April 28, 2014

Extremist sonnet

Day Twenty-Eight: I really liked the curtal sonnet from the other day, so I'm doing another, with a slightly different rhyme scheme. Yay poetry!

Two fires have been lit, both roaring now.
Between them stand two children, born as friends.
The flames reach out to teach them, show them how
One day they each will be the other's end.
Each child receives a spear, some sharpened bough,
The other's dastardly attacks to fend.

The children hold their weapons, purpose clear,
But cannot comprehend how this could be.
"That's him, my dear friend, whom I hold most dear!"
But the flames burn hotter, force them to see:
          "He is not the same."

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
The Tallest Man on Earth, King of Spain

Sunday, April 27, 2014


Day Twenty-Seven: Today the prompt is ACTUALLY a picture prompt, and not just me being lazy.

photo by Jean-Baptiste Sinniger
It's a great deal, you know.
Trust me - I'm not a doctor,
but I'm even more powerful.

You'll feel the value right away,
and I'll stand to profit even more.
Just scan that bar code here,

and you'll fit right in, I promise.
We're a very welcoming group,
so long as you've already

done the required shopping.
Just keep in mind that any doubts
are a sign of your own corruption,

not a flaw in the system, of course,
because the system is without flaw,
from my flawless point of view.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Maps & Atlases, The Charm