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. 

Seven questions

Day two. Today's prompt was to ask questions about a selection of words, ie: "What is ____?" Then, come up with abstract answers to those questions, and combine those answers in a poem My words were acorn, gutter, longing, generator, river, seaweed, and owl. 

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An emblem of possibility. 

Some ancient folklore's favored thoroughfare. 

The body we buried with all the others. 

Only a dream, a future left to rot. 

Pack mule of the sky. 

Unbloodied blades sinking through time. 

An emptiness below the stars. 

Baby steps

And now, a poem for Day 28 of NaPoWriMo. Today's prompt is to write a "concrete" poem - one that is written so that the lines take the shape of the topic of the poem, or mimic it in some way. 

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First

it took an

age, or perhaps

more than one - in any

case it was quite a long time. 

Then, 

it was fast, 

critics might say

too fast, even, but that

is the curse of modern amenities.

Finally,

it was most

sudden indeed, 

like losing focus mid-

motion and tumbling

                                off the

                                        next-to-

                                               last step. 

Dust yourself off, check in, 

no grave injuries incurred. 

But then, one would surely

be forced to concede how

akin it truly is to falling. 

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

Sight lines

Day 18: Don't want to write a lullaby, so...it's Three Word Wednesday (dependence, kept, rumple) and I have this weird thing:


Make the screen darker -
we'll slide in with new bones,
bits to whet the appetite
while the better meal roasts.
This dependence might cost us,

a point well made between
bites too large to chew and
sputters of our freshly rumpled
existence. Were we to realize
the year is past, might we make

a better run of things? Defeatist,
we imagine a backup plan
kept in accordance with the rules
we've made, cursed, and spat
upon, our wise and dearest friends.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
The New Pornographers, Letter From An Occupant

Death

Day 11: Write a poem using all five senses (and in my case, since it's Three Word Wednesday, the words draft, locate and serenity).

The air turns sudden around me.
It's there.
It isn't.
It's there.
It isn't.
It swirls and the hairs on my arm stand up,
at attention, a deep prickle rippling across my skin.
It settles and disappears, and the world sounds
missing - someone yanked the plug from the amp.

A deep serenity separates me from my surroundings,
but I'm on the wrong side of the line, the passenger
who missed his stop, now adrift in a sea of loss.
The taste is new, a sinister, too-sweet mixture that
makes a harsh blend with my swelling, drifting tears.

I can see this scene from the outside, as they often say,
an interloper, casual and blunt, looking in upon myself.
It's an empty place, this dorm room desk, callous and cold,
a place to rest your head as it descends through the aura,
cutting a path as cleanly as a samurai would, sword
tweaked and tuned like the finest musical instrument.

A draft of dry air sharpens the notes, and it smells of winter,
cool and with a twinge of firewood, long since burned -
curling through the scent receptors with an easy haste - 
to some a life and to others a pyre, steeped in tradition.
In it we locate our own, the one we've lost and cried over.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Emanon, The Words

A dog without a crown

Day 4: Chose not to follow the prompt today...didn't feel like writing a blues poem. Instead, 3WW for NaPoWriMo using growl, hype and justify.
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After the rise
comes the second rise -
no, not right, but correct.
The dark growl
of progress is shuttered,
sound-cancelling headphones:
"We spared no expense!"
What's left is only
to justify the thought.
So here goes:
"You see," he coos,
"I have an explanation
for this, I do, I do."
He scoops up the hype,
gathers it in one big net,
smashes it overhead
and calls his soldiers
to our graves.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Shad, Yaa I Get It

Not on an empty stomach

Three words for today are fragrant, jostle and remnant.
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To say it was "a mistake" would have been too obvious. Instead, Alby chose to remain silent, staring at me across the diner table as I buried my face in a plate of fries that were still too hot to eat. He took thoughtful sips of his soda and I could see that he was wondering when the spotty remnants of formerly boiling oil on the fries would finally do me in. I stared up at him and spoke with a mouthful.

"What, asshole?"

He raised a bushy eyebrow, unimpressed with my vocabulary. "A bit confrontational this evening, aren't you?"

I contemplated throwing a handful of fries at his face, eventually deciding that I was too hungry and the loss would be too great. Instead I returned my gaze to my food and ignored him. He waited a moment longer before speaking again.

"Max, you know you can't go home after what just happened, right?" He gave me time to respond, which I did not utilize. "I'm just saying...you fucked up pretty bad."

I was running out of fries, which meant I was also running out of good excuses to not respond to him. I snuck a glance around the restaurant, hoping a waitress would be nearby so I could order another plate of anything food-related.

"Max, you need to knock it off, right now."

I picked up the last strip of potato and held it in my hands like it was the Holy Grail. I turned my head sideways and stared at it, watching a grain of salt tumble off the side into the palm of my right hand. I began imagining it was a man in a barrel, plunging over the tempestuous edge of a more delicious version of Niagara Falls.

Alby's hand rushed by my face like a rocket and crashed into my hand, catapulting the last of the french fries toward the diner window. The wooden blinds clattered with the impact and the fry fell to the table, its journey ending with a dissatisfying thwok. I grasped my hand in pain and rose from my seat, staring down at him with all of the fury I could care enough to muster, which was not that much.

"Whatever, man!" I shouted down at him. "Just...whatever!"

"Whatever?" he shouted back. "Are you serious? I know he was a massive jerk, but seriously? Whatever?"

"Yeah, man, whatever." I sat back down, pouting. "I just couldn't do it anymore. What's the worst they throw at me? Juvie?"

"That might be the best you get."

"Thanks, Al. Best friends should always be as good at this as you are."

"Wow, dude. For real, just shut up. You have no idea what you just did, do you?"

I crossed my arms and did my best imitation of an impudent child. A waitress passed by carrying a burger and fries. My head turned on a swivel to follow the fragrant dish to the back of the diner. She delivered it and walked back past our table.

"Excuse me?" I said. "Could I get another plate of fries, please?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart." She smiled at me and kept walking. "Just a minute."

I turned back to Alby and saw him frozen in an incredulous shrug.

"You really don't have any idea, do you?"

I returned his shrug. "Can I just eat some fries?"

"You can eat all the fries in the world, but it won't keep you out of prison."

"At least I'll be full."

"You're already full. Full of shit."

I pounded my hands on the table in succession, then lifted a spoon and tapped Alby's glass to simulate a rimshot.

"Well done," he said. He settled his arms at his side and adopted a sour look. "Well done."

I sighed and turned to the window, wedging a few fingers between two of the wooden slats to get a better view of the highway. I could see the faint glow of faraway police lights bouncing off the streetlights in the parking lot. I sighed again and withdrew my fingers, letting the blinds close in a disruptive clap. Alby saw the lights, too, and his eyes widened as he turned to look back at me.

"Max..."

The waitress returned with my plate of fries and set them down on the table in front of me.

"Anything else, hon?" she asked.

I shook my head, not even bothering to look up at her. I didn't hear what she said after that, but I saw her walk away out of the corner of my eye. I picked up a handful of fries and stuffed them into my mouth, letting one or two spin out of my grip and onto the floor. The police lights flew directly into my vision now, and I squinted to concentrate on my food. In a few moments three officers jostled through the diner door and made a precision turn toward our table. One of them grabbed Alby by the arm and guided him out of the booth. The other two stood by my side.

I kept eating, taking care not to lose any more fries as I nibbled on one at a time. One cop's voice buzzed in my head like a broken stereo speaker, then stopped. Then buzzed again, and stopped. Then began buzzing constantly, and I saw three more fries plummet onto the smooth tile as the second cop grabbed me and pulled me out onto the floor. I felt the handcuffs slap on one at a time and I was lifted to my feet. I barely noticed the terrified look on Alby's face before I was in the back seat of the police cruiser, slumped forward.

I shrugged, for no one but myself. At least I was full.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Deerhunter, Helicopter

Sensibility

 
Words today are amateur, diligent and nurture.

Oh, and also this from Marco Mazzoni, done entirely with colored pencils (which blows my mind):

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Do you remember
where we left off?
The dark hail
of insults,
the diligent joy
of our agony.

Don't forget
     to trail the string
          of flawed, empty logic
behind you,
nurturing a clear path
upon which we'll tread
after you,
feet leaden
with anticipation.

When you stand
with your wings burdened,
amateurish attempts to lift off
over and done with,
meld back in
with the pinks and blues
and let the last memory trail out.
At last! A solar flare.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Lauryn Hill, Doo Wop

And the angels sang out of tune

 
Three Word Wednesday! Please help me get out of my rut! Today's words are angelic, foster and ruin. Just imagine me saying that in a game show host's voice. Awesome, right?
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The top frame of my glasses spun and flashed with the glow of the dancing neon lights above me, like a thin, striped caterpillar was racing across my forehead. I watched it run, the never-ending trail lulling me into an otherwise unjustified daze. If anything I should have been wide-eyed, fearful of danger, whatever animal instincts I had pulsing harder and faster than any of the giant-sized billboards that transfixed me. But it was not so, and I hardly even noticed when she stole my wallet.

She stole my wallet?

The alley was darker, and so was my memory. She led me here, I think. By the time I found her she was already seated comfortably on a chair that had no business being in this part of the city. It glittered obnoxiously amid the various degrees of ruin that surrounded it. I watched her face, waiting for the cue, waiting for her voice to ring out in sweet, angelic beauty. She licked her lips and opened her mouth, and I tensed.

"You're missing something," she said.

I raised an eyebrow. Her voice didn't match her face. She was pretty. That's really the only word for it. Not gorgeous, maybe, but certainly attractive. She was dressed in plain clothes that fit her perfectly - fashion without even a hint of strategy.

But her voice? A woman's, to be sure, but lower, more meaningful. It wasn't high and golden; it wouldn't draw any forest animals from their homes. If it was any color, it was most certainly dark blue - something deep and pulsating, coming in waves like an ocean. Her face didn't tell me anything about an ocean. I was confused.

"What am I missing?" I asked her, acutely aware of what I sounded like. I sounded like a whimpering doberman.

She smiled, baring perfect, white teeth.

"It's not your wallet, that's for sure," she said. She motioned to my back pocket. "It's been right there, all along."

I patted my pocket suspiciously. She was right. She had never stolen my wallet. That's why I didn't notice. But if that was true, what was I doing here?

"It's something to foster your belief, isn't it?" she said, her smile twisting at the corners. "It's something to bring you back to where you need to be."

I stared at her. And then, suddenly, a loud laugh burst forth from my throat. It surprised me, and apparently her as well. Her smile shrank and then disappeared. Her eyes narrowed and settled into an intense focus.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," I said, coughing my way to composure. "I just find it interesting that you seem to think you know so much about me." I turned and began to walk out of the alley. "You may need to rethink your approach."

I made it to the very end of the corridor before she spoke again.

"She's gone, isn't she?" she said, her question not even really a question at all. "Just like all the others."

Her tone said it all: I know what you won't admit, what you can't admit. I swallowed hard, clenched my teeth, my nostrils flaring.

"She'll be back," I whispered. "Someone will come back."

I felt her smile return, a grimy surge of satisfaction radiating down the alley.

"It's time to stop waiting," she said. "It's time to take control, to be aggressive. It's time to make the world do what you want it to do."

I turned to retort, in some small way to take her advice, but she was gone. A grizzled homeless man stared up at me from a small nest of cardboard and blankets he had built at the mouth of the alley. His eyes were wide. I nodded carefully at him and walked back to the street. The lights were still flashing, scrambling about on the horizon. I hid my eyes.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Feist, Gatekeeper

Picture it

 
Staying at work for an event tonight and waiting for my dinner to get here. So, I give you a late creation for Three Word Wednesday, using naughty, tactic and zenith, while I wait.
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Do you
find it as
appropriate
as I
to see your
reflection
in another?

Our tactics
have changed,
but the
desired result?
The same.

In the
walk-through
of our city
at night,
a naughty
gleam
in the
rainswept
sidewalk's
eye leaves
so little
to our
imaginations.

And by
the end?
May we only
reach
the zenith,
but not
our own.
Preferably,
it will be
something
greater.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Fleet Foxes, Blue Spotted Tail

Cryptography

 
It's all in the translation,
the careful deduction of meaning
and divination of intent.
Impossible, you say?
To transform our machinations
into something real, something good,
takes but a moment
and a degree of demolition.
Then we'll know what we see
and what we mean
when we make a resolution
not to go through this again.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Timbre Timbre, Creep On Creepin' On

Pitchforks: check...Torches: check

 
Well, that's the end of that. I came up a little more than 2,700 words short in my quest for NaNoWriMo greatness, although I do take a little pride in the fact that I spilled out over 13,000 words yesterday in my last minute push to make the deadline. As I've been saying about my favorite sports team for the last 14 seasons: There's always next year.

In the meantime, back to writing the smaller stuff. Here's a new post for Three Word Wednesday (yes, on Thursday, I know). The words this week are behave, jettison and mob.
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Dearly beloved,
we are gathered here today
to burst through the confines
of this thin Blue line.
Our mob shall spill forth
as blood rips free
from an old wound.

In our eyes we shall behave
as revolutionaries.
In theirs,
as menaces to society.
If they refuse to see our power,
will we change course
or stagnate in protest?

We musn't be persuaded
to jettison our faith,
no matter the odds against us.
We can hope for change,
but hope carries little pull
when the world turns to shove.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Paul Simon, April Come She Will

When there's nothing left to burn

 
Needed to write something other than my novel for a bit. Maybe it will get me going again. So for now, I'll partake in another edition of Three Word Wednesday - impetus, solace and vindication.

Also, a bit of shameless promotion - 50 to 1 is looking for submissions, so send something in! Have a look at the guidelines and see if you've got what it takes to pack a story's worth of impact into one little tale.
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Our impetus
has carried us forward,
hasn't it?
How else
would you categorize
our newfound lust
for microchips?
When at last
we've climbed
the impossible mountain
to stand at the frozen edge,
we'll mouth a question
to the wilderness.
"Your smartphone
is a nuclear bomb,"
it tells us.
"Destructive range:
ten miles."
We'll smile,
like this truth
has bestowed upon us
some kind of vindication.
In our solace we'll know:
we must set ourselves aflame.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Bon Iver, Re: Stacks

Like legend

 
More writing for Three Word Wednesday. This week the words to use are figment, inclined and vulnerable.
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In those times
we were unafraid of ourselves
and pulled to action,
when our minds were so inclined.
We might as well
write our tomes now,
commit ourselves
to lyrical poetry
and sculptors
studying our shoulders.
It could be
that we're better served
at home with the help,
made vulnerable
by the undying prayers
of a nation,
their thoughts lingering
on the edge
of black madness,
horrifying history
strewn about our lairs.
We've buried our own opinions
in harmonious lies,
a backward gift wrapping that reads,
simply,
"A figment of your imagination."
And perhaps it's all true.
Perhaps our obsession
with the oddities
is a savior, an answer,
a found ten dollar bill
in the back of our wallets.
Or perhaps those figments
are really our own.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Arcade Fire, Black Mirror

Flyby

 
Really enjoying this Three Word Wednesday thing so far...but late on this one. That's what happens when the World Series is on. The words for this week are breach, ember and tentative.
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Tones dance across the auditory cortex,
steps tentatively taken at first,
then gripped by passion
and shoved hastily forward.
A split-second to recognize
and another to react -
a shifting of cooling embers
stirs just enough in the breach
and fire is lit;
adrenaline flows warm
and comforting.
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Some great Quick Links from last week's edition of 3WW:

Jae Rose has written a nicely complex little poem: Book.

Monica details the horrible tension of one woman's Quiet.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Blu & Exile, Good Life

Beginner's luck

 
Another edition of Three Word Wednesday. This week the words are admire, follow and piece.
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"It's been four hours, Kopack...FOUR HOURS." Andrews clenched his teeth and growled for emphasis through his last two words. "And what have we seen?"

Kopack turned from where he'd been monitoring the warehouse out the passenger's side window, stopped mid-chew with a mouthful of slightly warm Snickers bar. He glanced over at his partner carefully, as if expecting his apologetic gaze to be met with a right hook.

"I'm sure they'll show up," he mumbled around the sticky caramel. "They have to pick it up eventually, right?"

Andrews let his head drop onto the headrest of the driver's seat, sighed, and shrugged sarcastically.

"Well sure, they'll have to..." He tensed and turned to focus on Kopack. "...if your crackpot theory is even right."

When there was no immediate reaction from the junior officer, Andrews finally couldn't contain himself anymore. He let loose.

"Look, I know the chief is obligated to put a little extra stock in your investigations since he's your father, but isn't this overdoing it a little bit?"

Kopack admired the contours of the last unchewed peanut left in his mouth, trying very hard not to pay attention to his superior.

"I know you'll probably tell him everything I say, but at this point I don't really give a fuck. If he was any kind of cop at all, he could see plain and simple that your evidence is all circumstantial, at best, and that accusing a legitimate, well-respected, squeaky-clean local businessman of counterfeiting hundreds is completely absurd, especially in this town."

The peanut finally met its end, and Kopack swallowed it slowly, nervously. He had been sure of his theory, as sure as he'd ever been of anything since graduating from the academy. Andrews kept talking, proceeded to poke holes in every little pontoon of evidence Kopack had built. He felt himself sinking. What was it that always happened to cops who failed? He thought for a moment, then nodded slightly to himself. Traffic duty. He'd get bumped down to traffic duty for sure.

"And I know you always hear in TV and movies and whatever the hell else you kids watch that the guys with the perfect records are always hiding something, but in the real world, people actually do go a very long time without getting in trouble." Andrews stopped to breathe, his complexion noticeably reddened with frustration. "Are you listening?"

Kopack nodded vigorously, but with a tinge of sadness.

"Yeah, and you're right," he said breathily, letting the last of his confidence escape into a fog on the inside of the windshield. He turned to the side window again, stared blankly into the growing murk of nighttime. "I guess there were a few more checks I should have done before I went to my dad..."

Andrews threw up his hands in sarcastic joy.

"Thank goodness, the young lad has learned his lesson," he said. "And it only took up four hours of my weekend to make it happen. Glad to have volunteered my time." He nodded at the keys in the ignition, motioned out the front window. "Shall we?"

Kopack looked back at him, nodded sadly, concentrated on the pieces of dirt nestled the fibers of the floor carpet. Andrews sighed again and shook his head, then put his hands to the keys and turned. The engine rumbled back to consciousness and the cruiser's headlights popped on, spewing dirty yellow light across the front of the warehouse and the road in front of it.

Andrews saw it first, and groaned loudly before slapping his palm to his forehead.

"Mother fuck..." he said, enunciating each unbelieving syllable.

Kopack looked up and followed Andrews' gaze out the window. Standing frozen in the road, red-handed deer in the headlights, were the legitimate, well-respected, squeaky-clean local businessman and two of his associates, each shouldering as many duffel bags as they could carry, the occasional hundred dollar bill fluttering out of an open zipper onto the dusty asphalt.

The young policeman felt his skin stretching as his smile grew wider and wider. He turned to Andrews, then back to the counterfeiters, then back to Andrews, who looked up with disbelief still stamped on his face. Andrews could see that Kopack was still searching his brain for the right procedure, trying to dodge the clouds of euphoria that interrupted his judgment. Andrews' expression finally softened, and he smiled at his partner's elation.

"All right, rook," Andrews said, his tone bordering on fatherly. "Go book 'em."
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Also, Quick Links to some fellow Three-Worders whose work I very much enjoyed last week:

Thom gives us a disturbing look at Another Thursday Night in the 'Burbs.

Dee eloquently touches on the subject of the 99%.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Pharoahe Monch, Free

Three Word Wednesday!

 
New online literary discovery! Thanks to one of my 50 to 1 submitters, I've come upon Three Word Wednesday, which I shall now proceed to take part in as often as I can. Today's words are eject, impact and render.
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Not much can be asked
of harmless impact -
it has already given
so much of itself
to fighting its own
energy, the blank
slate of the universe.
There we've written
lifeless stories,
our whole world cut up
and thrown out,
a dead rendering of reality,
and now

unable to eject,
flight controls failing,
ground coming up
faster than the will to act.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Little Brother, Dreams