April 9th Poem

This is my poem for day 9 of NaPoWriMo (I’m catching up-skipping day 8 prompt until it’s complete!) 

Take any random song play list (from your iPod, CD player, favorite radio station, Pandora or Spotify , etc.) and use the next five song titles on that randomized list in a poem.

 

East Side Squatters

They don’t make dropouts like you anymore-

pretty boy calling all the basketcases

to convene round the blazing crash-lands, as one

beating this brat of brain damage,

casting shadows on hawaiian woodrose beds, while your dead

choking on mediation 

sawdust spills from you gums

but still 

dry is better than drowning

mayor of St. Marks but you say you’re stepping down and

it would do you good, finding refuge for your lonely,

your brothers paint stained hands

this city’s had some revision, out there your blue eyes and

burning aeroplanes are banned

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few days late, need to catch up. April 8th’s prompt- a famous poem given a personal spin, is in the works and I’ll be posting that as soon as I’m content with it :) 

 

Harps in Drag

The prompt for April 7th of NaPoWrMo was to write a love poem to an inanimate object. I didn’t get to it yesterday but here it is! This is my unconventional love poem to an inanimate object.

 

I’ve been meaning to crack open your spine for some time now

weave nylon cords through your breaches 

preserve your nature of sinless charm, though it’s only

reputation through which you’re sanctified-

you and I could change the looks of this place

I could take your tangled wires, cork them into busted amps,

I’d augment you a thousand times over

till the arenas discord of turmoil and

blood ignites the pending windowpanes and melt

the portraits of you embraced by angels upon cathedral ceilings

we could shake the rage

dragging from the tips of these kids fingernails,

hold the transmitter

to the masses of chapped lips, let them crash 

on our couches, urge them

to blast  X, Minor Threat, Bad Brains and to also

dress their harps

in drag 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Street Light Bodhi Trees, Poem For April 6th

The tail of his sentences waved up, an inflection

too kind to be local

and much like the way I envision figs

to have fallen on Siddharthas shoulder, cab headlights

scattered about his contour like moonbeams

illuminating his smooth composure.

it is 2am

sitting on the first tier of steps in Union Square

Bringo is not drunk or stoned or lustful

someone, he said

built these tiers with strong hands

with his soul gleaming past his bones, can’t

you feel it lingering?  it’s beautiful, he said

that you leave traces of yourself

on everything

you touch.

April 5th, Golden Shovel Poem

The last word of each line in the poem makes up a different poem. This form of poetry was invented by Terrance Hayes in his poem, The Golden Shovel. The last word of each line of Hayes’ poem is a word from Gwendolyn Brooks’ poem We Real Cool.

This is the poem I chose to include in my own

Watermelons

Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.

-Charles Simic

 

Biking with Nobu in Kyoto

Roving through the green

backwoods of Kyoto, I see Buddhas 

woven on

to the 

fabric of foliage, under their mudras are offerings of fruit

at the base where they stand

I grow tired so we 

retreat.

one pedal of the 

bike has broken, but you only see the handlebars curved smile

I am American and

only spit

English, but I’m sorry about

your bike and unlike mine, the

fruit will stay nestled between your teeth

 

 

April 3rd

the emission
of oceans echo from dawn
defends my condition
she suggests I stay in bed-
restlessness and three days without medication
reminds me of isolation tanks in Boulder
and that it’s there where I decided
to never die
nothing irks me more than
arbitrary inertia
especially since even dragons
wrapping their tails around teacups
can animate with the right use of
eloquence
it’s been a while since I burned my tongue last
but I still bite nails
and pen caps
and metrocards and
distract myself long enough for stream
to forsake the kettle
I’d like to return to Colorado
and give inaction another shot
but maybe I’m wrong in thinking
passivity
is an invitation for
composure

April 2nd

There are men that have gone blind in space
and stay clasping
just because
they are still breathing.
I wonder if back home
they’ve got a moon, a mars, a saturn
to love
and if she’s only admired like
the other space oddities
they only ever appreciated
through finite senses

April 1st

Waiting for the spectral suicide
I indulged in the perdition
of the fissures in your skin erupting
and what calamities will be buried
underneath you
it’s hard to know your flaws
share your sheets as their
parasitic tendencies eat
the parts of you
that ever feared them, and  religion
had nothing to do with it
actually,
religion had everything to do with it
since it claimed you too small or strong
to crack open God.