30 Poems in 30 Days

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1-2

repetition
in pure passion
is left in its
natural state
of a hasty lustfelt
urgency
no spellcheck moment
there
just copy paste and click
that typo i was
oblivious to
meaning over matter
conveying those instant
thoughts to you.
 
1-1

Once again
I find myself outside your normal sequence.
In response you offer a silent rebuff
To my attempts to explain.
Too often of late I’ve found
My ability to read your mind
Is lacking.
You accept no excuse.
I accept your silence.
Better that than an extended diatribe
On my many shortcomings and failures.
Thoughts run through my mind
Patterned on the jagged tear
That runs through what is you and I.
Unable to sense the flow
Of when to turn the switch on,
When to turn the switch off.
I wonder if you realize that I am beginning
To no longer care.
How many more times will I let you
Turn off this switch
Before I leave you sitting in the dark?
 
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1-2

Three numbing years
have darkened
fog-gray eyes, paled skin
colder than winter here
could ever be-

the lazy half-warmth
of a backyard crawfish
boil, chilled
by that disdainful laugh
as you immersed

yourself in idealism,
found it lacking-
the pictures too neat,
the canvases too dirty,
smudged by the stained

hands of those who
see each skirt shorter,
each girl as empty
as the box of plastic-wrapped
photo albums

hiding in your closet.
 
1:2

The Noise of the Traffic

Under the bridge
he sits wrapped in boxes
of card, dank and damp
the dark his companion
for family gave up
the reason to care,
to carry their aid.
Woollen blankets and soup
bowls stacked on the ledge
gifted by strangers.
Gifted by strangers
who viewed his dwelling
at 100 kilometres per hour
donated their spares
and spent time in persuasion
to no avail.
He likes it there.
He answers to none,
is beholden to none
under the concrete bridge
where the noise
of the traffic
drowns his nightmares.
 
1-2

I'm yearning for the summer sun
for meandering sunlit walks
bathing in stupefying sunlight
being childishly happy in a sunburst
sunbeam chasing in the woods
cooling salve on careless sunburn
I'm yearning for the summer sun...

...and you!

:cool:
 
1-3

Why don't I get outta bed
and start filling my head
with sunlight and crystal meth.
(Or maybe it's snow? It's been so
long since I ventured far enough
to know for sure.)

Hello day, be gentle with me,
bur please to too kind, I need
a slap in the ego to remember,
you are there, tomorrow morning.
 
Soul Fleet 1-3

first the Barry white went down
so large and forceful down to the bottom

then the flagship Ray Charles sailed
its darken voyage to the point everlasting light

this year the Lou Rawls a ship of hope
with velvet boilers sailed way into the winter's hawk

now the Pickett Wilson is gone
engine exploding at the midnight hour

how great a fleet destroyed in my lifetime
the kind of vessels that paved the waves
for British ships launched by the.....
unforgettable sounds of the Blues Line
then left in mothball fleets to be
tended by so few of us R&B dinosaurs :rose:
 
1-2 Five Weeks Pink

“The floor is fucking dirty”

“Why is the floor so fucking dirty?”
‘Who’s been trimming their beard
and not cleaning up the fucking
leavings, this is bullshit, why do
I have to scrub the fucking floor,
why am I cleaning up leftover beard
at three AM, God, there’s not enough
bleach in the world for this,
the fucking floor is dirty, the floor’s
dirty, god, the floor’s dirty, the floor is
dirty”

It starts out Red,
Valentine, leftover PMS,
badge of courage, Tylenol
red.

But, eventually, there is pink everywhere.
A thousand shades of cliché,
cotton candy, communion dress,
first kiss on a hot day,
apple-pie, girl next door
pink.

It’s late and she won’t go to the hospital,
says she doesn’t need it,
It’s just because she hasn’t slept,
that’s why she fell asleep in the tub
that’s why there’s still a wire and still whiskey
and why the floor is still dirty.

In the movies, you never see who cleans up
after a murder.

Rationale is the first thing to go. Motion becomes everything,
as long as you keep moving, man, as long as your hands never
stop and your legs keep getting more tired,
you’re ok. You’re ok, until you have to admit that this
happened, but as long as motion is confused with progress,
you don’t have to admit anything to anyone,
because the floor’s still dirty and you can’t think
while the floor is dirty and the bathtub needs scrubbing.

The bathtub.

I want to tell you this isn’t real. I want to tell you that
people don’t do these things, that this isn’t how people
get broken souls.

After you’ve cleaned her up, walked her to the door
after you’ve put the girl in the car with her mother,
after you’ve handled things, after you know
she isn’t bleeding, anymore and that she will
be ok and she will go to the hospital and
she will make it through this,

you start to wonder if you can say the same.

Then scrubbing, because you have roommates and
they’ll only be asleep for so long and
Merry Maids sure as fuck isn’t going to
come out at three in the morning
and just whisk this away for eighteen bucks an hour.

There isn’t enough elbow grease in the world to
get the idea of blood off the floor,
and the tub rinses clean so fast
it’s almost a joke, it’s almost funny, and
“the floor and the goddam sink, how’d it get on the sink,
the toilet, I can understand, but the sink?”
You can’t scrub questions and their answers
or memory
out of your head

I am still kneeling on the floor giggling and cleaning the tile,
the bachelor fucking tile, and blood makes the foamed soapy bleach
pink.

Cotton candy communion dress,
apple-pie, girl next door
terminated pink.

A girl says,
“You have no right. You’ll never know what it feels like to walk out of that room
with the pain in your guts and the shame in your chest.”

No. I won’t. But you’ll never know what it feels like
to have all that potential
under your fingernails and in the hair you can’t keep your hands out of,
never know how it feels to taste the smell in the air
on the back of your tongue,
the mouthful of pennies,
nickel-plated taste of horror.
You feel it,
You. Fucking. Feel it.
but you never see it and you’ve never had it on your hands.

You can still hang your shirts on wires in closets full
of pants that’ve never been bleached from the knee down
because you can still stand to look at the twist below the hook.

The smell of bleach fades from your hands
and you buy new pants.

You comb your hair,
do what you have to
in order to forget about it,
which is a lie, you never forget.

Sometimes, when I chew my nails
I want to puke.

Bleach, a thousand showers,
all the hand washing, hand sanitizing,
bullshit wiccan cleansing rituals
scrubbing salt between your palms
can never make your hands anything
but pink.

~Ross
-Fucked up!-
 
1-3

The storms hit last here,
Riding the eastern seawall
Up and then off to Maritimes,
Iceland maybe.

I prepare as only I can,
Indifferent to the Lion.
The roar of tires and the snowsky morn,
My hands are stiff with the words,
As my tools lay poised and I sense a
Call to action.
 
Fairy Snow Glosa 1-3

Fairy snow, fairy snow,
Blowing, blowing everywhere,
Would that I
Too, could fly
Lightly, lightly through the air.

~ Snow Song, Sara Teasdale

Fairy snow, fairy snow is not the nature
of duplicitous brutality set down one
little cat's paw here, one fragile white
straw stowing there and stacking, growing

everywhere hypocrisy is blowing, blowing
liar's lacework beautiful and slippery
deception that will bow my pines, ice
the step and unsettle the very air outside

my frame of reference choked in subtle fury.
Prehistoric plows lurch by and in their wake
the day is piled still. The day is dead
beyond my sill. Would that I were born

among a kinder grain, my form were lain
on a soft dune that slopes to lapis seas
and I embraced warm in a sultry breeze.
You, too, could fly from such unruly sprites:

you would! If these be fairies they are imps
consumed with spite, their toothless bite
eschews all care to leave us longing for a clime
that kisses lightly, lightly through the air.
 
1-2

She offered me a dichotomy
Illustrated in smoothest silk.
Blue, I think it was.
Yes, because it matched her eyes
Or so she told me.
Presentation being the key
She lay suggestively sprawled
Upon an ivory comforter
With hair in careful disarray
And legs carelessly displayed.
But it was merely window dressing,
Offered up to satisfy the occasional passersby.
And she was just a mannequin
Molded in posed plastic
Curves in all the right places,
Comfort offered in none.
 
1-3

passion relocated
thoughts of hallmark holidays
and long distance
devotion
a rolling ocean of
sentiment
tides come in and
saturate the dry sand
of solitude
its true
space of a thousand miles
still doesn't come between us.
 
1-3b

Neobolical
is his new name if I
fall from grace one day
one damn day I'm 1-1
again, locked in this thread
forever a new recruit,
waiting for neogodot.
 
1:3 Mermaid

Too easy for me
to get caught in the net
and pulled to the surface.

I want to be a mermaid today
and explore these watery depths
instead of trying to sprout legs
to chart new territory up there.

A fish in water doesn’t know it’s in water.
Always trying to get back to what we already are.

Just call me Ariel.
 
1-3

Who is in the Bowl?


They float looking out
at me, watching
as I look in at them
envying their oblong world
where floating is first
nature. Soft pump waves fan
their tails as they twist
and turn within the confines
of 28 litres of rain water.
Their eyes magnify
and my reflection is a warped
wobbly being that fascinates
them as they follow my steps
from study
to kitchen
and back,
as they follow the steam
from my decaf,
as they follow
the cat to the couch.
Or
is it that I forgot to feed them
this morning?
 
1-3 Pixel Pig

It's too easy to merge and save
rename the file
get lost in the labyrinth of folders
My Documents
My Pictures
some are hidden, password protected
but they all take space

I glut on JPG
always asking for one more bite
just one more
(please) I shouldn't

but I do

Pixels fill me up in no time
a kilobyte at a time
I compress to fit every surface
inside my gut
layers on layers
every one opaque

except for the top, its 50% transparent
so I can see the bottom
so I can feel sharp edges, cutting
while I press photo flesh

Picture It! resize to 1024 by 768
its pixelated, in my face
but it's all right

REM fantasies are rendered
behind closed eyes
where I jerk off to sepia sex
 
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Fly 1:1
This place is a bungee cord. So are kids.
And jobspousebillsguitar
friendinthehospitalsick what I need
is a lover, someone to pull
this fabric taut in the middle and give me
reason to smile at the pain.
 
1-3

Torn

I am but the transient spark
that flares there on the wick
of candle, candle burning
through the waning of the light
and puddling, waxy, in the dark.
Tear these nails down to the quick
as I rip my yearning
into the thickened night.
 
1-4 Tightrope Conversation Behind Closed Doors

Fireworks,
flashlight,
anything that brightens up the night.
We trickle candlemass
and stick like candy floss
to what feels right.

Cavemen,
trilobites,
history is greedy, guard your rights.
I rewind for primal want,
but nonchalant you speak
from holy heights.

I heard you say I'll die for you,
but who would really do?
I heard you say so much,
someone talks too much,
but is it me or you?

Shut up,
contemplate,
luring prey is easy when you're bait.
So will you pray for luck
or get stuck with the hook
when it's too late?

Fireworks,
flashlight,
anything to sharpen the delight.
We bite for better pain,
forget again of morning's
burning white.
 
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1-3


Each day, spent

forcing
corn cobs into
gas tanks, smoking
three packs a day,

ranting
on the madness
of the oil industry,
the logic of fascism-

spouting
the ideology of ethanol
to the too drunk
to care.

Have another cigarette.
 
1-3 Lifting Fly's Lines

you were listening to the Talking Heads
I was wearing my blurred thigh av
with photoshop polished scuff marks
from the time I caught the heel
on the metal frame of the bed
(this never happens to porn stars)

we tap and waltz and tango around the hard drive
looking for the next new thing to make it better
we are all the same distraction
with newly restored virginities--
whatever tightens the belt
whatever mimics satisfaction

You run by like an Italian with a torch
and I hold out my hand to touch yours
release my static charge
as you make your way through the crowd
All you hear is the comfortable hum of a hundred languages
For now, I am neutral

and the bungee around your waist
stretches past its point of extension
quick! grab the hand of a lover
rested, strong
one who can hold you from snapping back
at least
tonight
 
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1 - 3

safe behind locked door
public persona in disarray
scattered like Autumn foliage
longing for a lover's seduction
shamelessly ready to be ravished

footsteps upon the stairs a tocsin
reality prepares for its invasion
the turn of a key in the door
suppressing true desires
hiding deep within you

"Have a good day at the office dear?" :eek:
"No Gertrude, I've had a rotten day!" :mad:
"Sit down, I'll make you a cup of tea" :rolleyes:
 
1-3 Cold Snap

coldsnap fingers
brittle wristed, i am
broken handed

he said
“Si vos diligo mihi vos mos servo mihi.”

i said
“i don’t speak latin, but
you could actually save

me.”

aren’t you my heart
brittle bitter and bitchy?

aren’t I your home
sprained limping
foolish and waiting
with warm blankets?

she said
“i want a tattoo of the eye of horus
on my back, because then i’ll have some idea
what’s sneaking up behind me.”

i said
“so, you’ll have hindsight
but no depth perception.”

she hates me being clever
but when she looks back
she doesn’t see between the cracks.

coldsnap love
chasing you with
broken hands
won’t hold on to anything
 
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Lenore 1-4

Lenore is a nice girl even
my mother would say that
because Lenore's hair is processed.
She doesn't wear hot pants
or Queen Helene. If she
has Pride she carries it
in her purse, tucked away.
She buries whatever she feels,
locks it behind a smooth cocoa face.

I think she's pretty with cupid's bow
lips and a quiet smile, but God forbid
I bring her home because even
my beloved grandma says
shvartzas make all the trouble.

Now I can't see how Lenore
is troubling anyone. We just
walk by each other in halls, run
up and down the girl's gym, pass
a basketball without touching.
She doesn't smell bad
or even different, and what the fuck
is my grandmother talking about
anyway? Her in-laws are burned,
ashes, kaput, no markers anywhere
to show they ever even lived.

I walk downtown, peer into faces,
wonder if they might be my family
because when you have no history,
you make one up, imagine it
in strangers or ally yourself
with storybook characters,
daydream. There's plenty of time
for that because no one
comes to my house, stands by the side door
to yell my name. I don't look different,
I don't think I smell bad. My hair
is smooth, my nose straight, just one
tiny bump near the bridge
says I'm chosen for an exile
I don't understand.

Daddy tore up my paint-by-number set.
His face was red, he was shaking,
and he screamed
This is not who you are
because the woman in the manger
with 3s and 7s on her skin
held a baby that looked like any
one before you put colors on it.

When I went back to school
everyone who never talked to me
wanted to know what happened?
They stabbed her, right?
She was a prostitute, right?
Was your sister a prostitute?

Lenore didn't say anything
even though I knew her sister
was dead from a coat hanger
and her mother, who cleaned houses,
looked smaller every day,
bent over her shopping bag,
waiting at the bus stop.

Lenore never said a word,
but she looked at me once
and I thought we could have
been sisters if the world
had let us.
 
Dick Soars In Polls 1-4

Somewhere down in the heart of Texas
Home of all George Strait's ex's
Dick went hunting for some Quayles
So goes Ms. Armstrong's tale
As reported to Diane Sawyer
He had a good day shot a lawyer :eek:
 
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