Of life

NaPoWriMo Day Thirty. The end, for now.

What a beautiful

commodity. 

Stock and bond, sale and trade,

eyes overworked and quietly

yielding a tear - not of sadness, 

or at least not of loss. 

There can be no such waste,  

not when there is so much

left to do, still to push - price tags 

need printing and sticking, 

inventory... Well, who cares 

about inventory, the computer 

can just make more, 

can just pinch and remodel

forever and 

ever, 

until all we have on offer 

is a famished facsimile. 

But imagine the profits!

Mahwah

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-Nine. Loosely on-prompt. 

This well is a memory -

no, wait, scratch that, reverse it - 

and it is as deep and dark

as sleep-ridden eyelids, driven 

to the brink by a slurry of

mid-class bourbon and small talk. 

It was worth it - captured in

the twinkle of fairy lights, 

drawn on in scribbles by a long

exposure and the shake of a 

deft hand - thank goodness. 

Where are they now? Too many 

sunsets have passed, too many 

moments have gone unshared, 

too much bourbon sitting corked

in the back of the fridge - someone

should drink it, but it wouldn't 

be true justice to do it alone. 

Rest in peace

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-Eight

Dust accumulates on everything, 

drifting death deposited in even layers. 

Who are you, then, with the audacity 

to wipe away these resting places? 

Philosophy only gets you so far

in an onslaught of turbulent sneezing. 

Steps one through five

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-Seven

are identical, both to stress

the importance of the issue

at hand, and also to slightly

pad the size of this booklet, 

because otherwise we'd all

be done with it far too quickly. 

Plus my production assistant

wouldn't have had a job to do, 

and in this economy you really

need to siphon as much available 

funding as you can reach - I prefer

to have a hand in the redistribution

of wealth, as much as I can. Anyway, 

Steps One through Five are as follows:

“Think it over." Then comes a crucial 

Step Six, oft neglected: "Do nothing." 

Ars poetica

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-Six

It is reaching, 

like an early shoot

in spring, 

unaware that

one more frost

is forecast. 

It is clawing

for a breath 

of fresh air, 

fingertips away, 

but the tide is

coming in. 

It is searching,

eyes bloodshot

and screaming 

at midnight, 

and the candle

burned out.

It is fighting

until the hands

are raw

and calloused, 

and the blade

is as un-honed

as the reflexes, 

and the mind

drifts to madness, 

and words 

finally pour

as a great flood,

drowning most

who had not

boarded

an ark. 

The first crushing wave of high tide

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-Five

The first crushing wave of high tide

carries life and death as though they

weigh nothing at all, delivering each

promptly and with all the horrible force

of a hundred thousand iron hammers. 

But to what ends are these elbows bent?

Brass tacks or steel nails? You'd think

the choice of fastener would make more

of a difference, but once you butt

the two ends of an argument together, 

you'll notice a magnetic kind of separation, 

like the edges of a canyon slowly drifting

apart, the rivers of miscommunication 

whittling the rock down into fine sand.

They'll press on, attempt to build a bridge, 

but a very specific kind of engineer 

must be on hand to certify its construction. 

None of them have used a phone book 

in ages - who among us has - and so

little progress is made. No permits are

cleared, no beams are transported, 

most of the wood is eaten by various

campfires build to simulate an intimate 

kind of warmth - like in those closing

hours when they might both realize 

how far awry the lines have shifted, 

how much beach has been dragged

back out to sea, grain by grain by grain. 

And then the moon raises its anchor 

and the tide crawls back out, lifting and 

rolling what it carries, out to the dark

pressure of oblivion. It will take much

away, but also leave something behind. 

Something small, something growing, 

something that has been waiting just

for this moment, when it can be most alive. 

Dream waltz

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-Four. Loosely on-prompt. 

once u-pon

one half moon

here we sleep

Hyp-nos' boon

in these hours

dreams they keep

back the dark

things that creep

but this night

some-thing breaks

thoughts leak in

our mis-takes

what is this

bloom that swirls

lifts us out

spreads in whorls

each of us

trapped in time 

can't quite mesh 

sense with rhyme

two by two

then they come

up from hell 

make us numb

screams we cry

as we sink

pulled from view

past the brink

could we stay 

must we go

through the fire

down be-low

The poison has been drunk

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-Three

The poison has been drunk -

a sweet and malicious brew. 

The ship will soon be sunk. 

Don't hurry, no rush to pack a trunk,

there's nothing left now to do - 

the poison has been drunk. 

A wavering voice may try to debunk 

this as rumor, nothing close to true, 

but indeed the ship will soon be sunk. 

Men have tried and failed, their ego shrunk

to dead and angry things - for them, too, 

the poison has been drunk. 

No land left to run to, no precious hunk

of earthen heaven, complete with view.

The ship will soon be sunk. 

No more heroes, no hooded monk, 

no last chance leap or fated coup. 

The poison has been drunk, 

and now the ship will soon be sunk. 

Sistence

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-Two

So you've finally done it,
built yourself a crown of splinters.

Comfortable, are we?  
I'll get used to it - 

dribbling blood
can only blot out so much.
As ever, life will go on.
What kind of life?

The kind I deserve, I suppose. 

The kind I never dreamed

I'd ever be subjected to - 

but it turns out that some things

are more inevitable than we hope. 

So fully defeatist it is, then? 

In the face of all of this, 

everything you could ever

gesture broadly at, 

you'd settle in and make a home? 

No. Some things cannot be held

at arms length, and for those  

we have... alternative means

of solving serious problems. 

Intriguing. Seems like a lot

of spunk and determination 

for someone who insists 

on listing into the sunset

like an unrepaired sailboat.

Don't get clever. These are 

entirely different circumstances.

Oh, sure, of course. In that case, 

let's see if we can kill 

two problems with one bullet. 

Only question - which caliber?

Oh please, with such frivolous 

instigation. Do better. 

You first. 

What type of water are you?

NaPoWriMo Day Twenty-One

I. 

Tide pool

is for when

you're feeling isolated

and temporary,

but perhaps also

more interesting

than usual, on account

of all the new things

you learned

scrolling Instagram

this morning.

II. 

Strait best applies

to very specific

circumstances, but also

to far more 

varied happenings

than you might think - 

it is the catch-all

of nature's maritime

dividing lines, 

not quite unique

at all. 

III.

You might consider

lagoon for those moments

when a barrier

feels appropriate, 

such as

if you'd prefer

that Alex from

three cubes over

not share the stories

of his inauspicious

romantic enterprises

at 8:24 in the morning.

IV.

If the heaviness

of mankind's

myriad misadventures

begins to chip

your armor, 

perhaps canal 

would not be 

the appropriate choice - 

best not

to dwell on it

any further. 

V. 

In the mood

to mingle?

Then estuary

fits the bill - 

intertwining

disparate realms, 

in a way that 

feels productive

and natural.

But be warned, 

such machinations

are often fragile. 

Pincers

NaPoWriMo Day Nineteen. Off prompt.

Depth is felt

best by those

who have already

been crushed - 

and now, 

all the more ready

to catch another

in the vice grips, 

like an enormous

crustacean, 

presently reddening

in the pot, 

eager to share

its buttery grave. 

The Rockies

NaPoWriMo Day Sixteen

Maybe you can imagine

one deafening crash

after another, and another, 

the movement of two or more

boundlessly large objects 

grappling in violent collision.

Maybe you can see now, 

in the space where these objects

were once peacefully separate, 

skyward growth, sharp and

treacherous, towering over

entire continents that surround it. 

Maybe you can hear

how quiet it's become since then,

how only the leylines of the wind, 

the hiss of ever-falling snow, 

and sparse traffic of humanity 

now intersect upon it. 

Maybe if I idle here - beard frozen, 

skin dry - for silent eons enough, 

these peaks will speak to me. 

Buried treasure

NaPoWriMo Day Fifteen

Love is
a cast iron vessel
left empty

a time capsule
buried 

wherever you think
only one intended person
will look
sealed to
outlast generations
of feckless weirdos

Turns out
the weirdos have
metal detectors

Swipe to fill in

NaPoWriMo Day Fourteen

      Help
comes in many shapes - this 

one happens to be a

too-many-fingered hand, 

slathered in chocolate 

sauce, rolled in some off-brand 

sugar cereal, and 

held out to tantalize

      me

as if any pool of 

desperation could be 

deep enough for me to 

shake it. Its syrupy

filth would soon seep just as

liquid-hot slag into 

every syllable I

      write, 

setting it and all else

aflame. But take comfort, 

friends - the war is elsewhere, 

and soon they'll bless us to

reduce ourselves to sleep, 

and dream of the ghost that 

animates the machine. 

The lake

NaPoWriMo Day Thirteen

The lake produces

paltry waves, but enough

to take the dock from 

left to right,

front to back, 

and it rattles against

the metal poles

that brace it to shore.

We drop

our grandfather's ashes

in remembrance,

a pittance

to whatever god

carved this crater, 

filled it with water 

and fish and mud. 

Something

bubbles up from where

the packets sink - 

an acknowledgement 

perhaps, or

recognition of belonging, 

desperation to return 

to the surface. 

On a silver boat

NaPoWriMo Day Twelve

In a glass case

rests a silver boat

On a silver boat

rests the soul of a man

The man wakes

from time to time

and remembers who he was

The man remembers

who they were - 

the people that surrounded him

The man remembers

where he took them,

the man remembers

what he taught them,

the man remembers

what he built for them

The man remembers

that they remember him

Now the man rests

on a silver boat

in a glass case

and he reminds them

Morning

NaPoWriMo Day Ten

No surprise - the sun has risen

yet again, and at just the right angle

to upset my fidgeting non-sleep,

a brazen intruder in my room

who sets my splintered nerves alight.

What do I regret most? (Nothing,

none of this was really your fault.)

Your comforting words are an insult. 

What do I regret most? (That you 

were weak enough for second chances.) 

The wise among us say it is possible

to find mastery in your own undoing, 

to process the crumbling. But all I feel

is a spiteful itch - it has drilled inside,

beyond the most intrepid scratching. 

Neighborhood pine

NaPoWriMo Day Nine

There is 

an offhandedness

to this death, 

because

we know it is

temporary. 

I am not

unaffected, 

but a few spent

needles

is of little worry - 

I persist. 

All winter

they freeze

and harden, 

retreat

within themselves

until spring. 

I watch

their solitude, 

planted in

neat rows

as if beauty 

never

came naturally. 

I am dead

NaPoWriMo Day Eight

I am dead.

Every breath I take is like

taking a drag on a seething inferno

laced with cyanide. 

I hack and sputter

as I transmit my lunch orders

to distressed-looking waiters

at my favorite café. 

I am dead. 

My sleep is perturbed 

by painful memories and 

bothersome distractions like 

pop-up ads in the corner 

of my mind's eye, floaters

thick as steel cable

bounding from edge to edge

in an unhinged parkour routine. 

I am dead. 

Every day is exactly the same. 

I drive past the same 

mini-malls on the same

highways through the same

overcrowded stretches

of colorfully blinding vacancy. 

I am dead.

I can think of no other explanation, 

no reasonable cause

for my lifeless wanderings, 

ambling like a restless shade

at the unopening gates of Hades. 

I am dead. 

It is my most closely-guarded

secret - I am afraid to tell even

my friends, for fear that they already

know, or perhaps even worse, 

that they are all dead, too. 

Lunarcy

NaPoWriMo Day Six. This one is ridiculous. 

I used to do most of my 

best thinking lying on my back

in the shallowest part of the ocean. 

No, not the one you're thinking of, 

near the old landing where

that guy's boat pulled his truck

right along with it into the waves - 

It's the other one, you'd know it

if you saw it, but I'm having trouble 

thinking of a suitable landmark. 

Anyway, I pondered some of life's 

most minor worries in that spot, 

decided what to wear to my

ex-girlfriend's wedding while

halfway covered in sea water. 

Her dad invited me, always liked me. 

Didn't want to disappoint the guy. 

So anyway there I was again, 

but this time it wasn't working. 

For the longest time I could tell

something was different but

couldn't pinpoint it exactly, 

and then it finally synced up - 

every time I breathed in and out, 

the water was moving up and down! 

Who could think straight trying to

relax on a watery roller coaster? 

I was frantic for answers. I looked up 

and saw the moon doing woosahs. 

I raised my arms, incredulous, 

like when someone cuts you off in traffic, 

but you know they can't see you.

It's barely noon, I screamed, you're early!

The moon turned with an exasperated

stare, fixed it's craters on me and asked, 

How else do you want me to make it

through the day? Do you want a tsunami? 

Because this is how you get a tsunami. 

Morning bell

NaPoWriMo Day Five

What is life

if not for living? 

It is certainly not

best spent sleeping, 

and yet - 

my most fervent curses, 

my most hate-laden

"fuck," 

I reserve

for the always-too-early, 

cringingly gentle

(like it's trying too hard), 

inescapable calling-upon

that it is time

to wake up. 

Frost bound

NaPoWriMo Day Four

The last door left open

slams shut in a chilling breeze. 

Thermometer's not broken, 

but it has given up a few degrees. 

Nature's alarm bells have rung

to signal oncoming decay. 

No more the plantings are sprung -

they're gone, dormant, out of the way. 

The first crisp on the grass, 

just a dash of a much stronger brew - 

not soon will adversity pass,

just hold on - a warm fire must do. 

Unraveling

NaPoWriMo Day Three. Off prompt today. 

Here is an unraveling 

of all things. 

     (a sufficient reminder

      to vet your tailor well) 

Threads lay draped, 

limp as drying spaghetti, 

but as portentous 

as a coiled boa. 

Here is a needle

that will pass through

the eye of a camel

     (or any other livestock 

      you may have close at hand) 

and leave it whole - 

far more should you fear

what is to follow. 

Head egg

NaPoWriMo Day Two

There is no elasticity
to karma
but there is plenty
in an air-filled
sit-on bouncy ball
raised up as a shield
to your older brother's
playful (I swear it!)
baseball bat bonk.

There is no surprise
greater than physics
or more impactful
than a somehow unforeseen

Uno Reverse of that bonk
to your own forehead.

Misalignment tankas

NaPoWriMo is officially on - here's Day One.

I. 

Donate your spare time,

the "extra," the un-needed. 

Donate your organs. 

Will your actions match your words? 

Is there peace, or reckoning? 

II. 

Call them pre-modern, 

as "primitive" is uncouth. 

Even the past cries. 

Preserve their uninformed means

of navigating the world. 

III. 

Before noon, we cried 

to witness the end of time. 

Clocks were unwelcome. 

Necks crane to find an angle

along which there may be meaning. 

IV.

Behold the canyon, 

an opening of spent flesh, 

pothole of the gods. 

There will be no deepening, 

no energetic myth here. 

V.

Open eye or mind, 

but mercy - never try both.

Hearts are frail enough. 

Give speed to the tumbling, 

and prepare to greet the ground. 

I got a rock

For NaPoWriMo Eve - prompt here. 

This commute is killing me - 

pronounce me dead

at the water cooler, entomb me

with my half-empty coffee

and remark that I passed

doing what I loved - 

bringing truth to absurdity. 

(Or perhaps the reverse.)

Ask Camus if I am like his hero, 

steadfast in pushing my boulder, 

smiling in descent

after it rushes back past me. 

They tell me it is unwise

to build a existence upon

a foundation of the mundane - 

I wager it far more foolish

to end my own life

and persist only in servitude.