NaPoWriMo (12)

$: Don’t let wedlock intimidate you, son. You’ve just gotta march down that aisle, say a few things, pop the ring on her finger and you’re good to go!

#: Excuse me, old man. Just who do you think you are, and why are you breathing scotch–cheap scotch at that–in my face like that? You’re lucky I respect my elders.

&: Honey, don’t be so harsh on the man, he obviously just wants to see you have a good time at your own wedding. I mean, look at you, you’re stiff as a board!

#: What are you doing here, babe?! We’re getting married in a half an hour!

&: Well, you know how those sitcoms always do the wedding treatment, right? I figured I’d give that a shot. Where did that old wedding mumbo jumbo come from anyway? Shouldn’t it be our decision to celebrate it any way we want to?

#: Jesus. Fine, yes. While we’re at it, we might as well sneak in a quickie and shit all over this sacred day.

&: Wow, wow… that was really harsh. I’m having second thoughts about marrying you if you’re going to have that attitude about it.

#: … what a great day for a full 180°. Fine, go ahead and walk away. I don’t know where you intend on going.

&: I can sense from the edge in your voice that you’re not kidding. Honey, I’m just kidding! Please relax, baby.

$: That’s what I was trying to tell him, sugar.

NaPoWriMo (11)

Inferior squabbling tracks down
your peeves and pets them
until you’re all bottled up–
rage turns to passion, often
aggressive creation, callous
ignorance in the face of reason (looking
up at you, practically pouting), and
you hate what you’ve become, but
look at what you’ve done! Masterpiece.

NaPoWriMo (10)

We cage ourselves
and our situations. Though
the walls have large gaps,
we pretend not to see
friends’ adjacent troubles–
we constructed these borders for a reason.

Some of us prefer to swallow the key,
though I leave my cage unlocked.

NaPoWriMo (9)

Veins configure, snaking,
coursing under skin, hot
and full of blue blood,
converging on Route 66
headed for the heartland,
where the earth pulses
and breathes red creation,
supervising the bellows,
thumping life forward,
a fixture of any good body.

NaPoWriMo (8)

They say
intuition waxes
and wanes, where
sometimes you feel
earth’s breath and others
find you pounding
concrete, seeking answers
from a mischievous psyche,
never keen on letting
go a good inference,
always hungry, always
awake through the night,
prescribing my dreams.

NaPoWriMo (7)

Negligence costs you,
I always say to my elbows,
the prominence despicable
yet always intriguing–
cows flourish on
grass and sun, take
their grazing seriously.

“Wherever you take me, I hope it’s not too cold there.
My hands have poor circulation, and if they’re bound up
with three feet of rope and stuck into a sixty-five degree room,
I’m likely to lose them for good. That almost happened to me
during my brief POW stint in capture the flag when I was ten.
They bound me up and threw me into the medical trailer, or ‘jail’,
whereupon I proceeded to chatter my teeth and scream for twenty minutes.”

“It’ll be plenty warm where you’re going, bub. Don’t you worry.”

NaPoWriMo (6)

The clock is ready, Herr Doktor!
No need to address me that way.
Apologies, my liege, I was merely–
My liege? You’re trying too hard.
I understand, but this is my nature!
Do you have a family, Morris?
Yep, wife and boy, 31 and 3 respectively.
I should hope so. Do they get tired?
Of course, they’re always connected at the hip–
No, I mean, do they get tired of you?
I should hope not. My wife likes me this way!

NaPoWriMo (5)

Nary a storm cloud, though I do feel quite shitty.
It’s never the weather that turns me this way,
though cold and damp conditions certainly help.
The thought of a feather scraping through the air
in a constant updraft–dropped by a vulture
as it circled around suspected prey–calms me,
tells me the world has its order, its reason to live,
and if I can’t accept that, I’m buzzard bait.

Catchin’ Up

I’ve got a large sum
of belated brain burps,
destined to come out
whenever they’re meant to be.

Today will show why
poems carry the mind
through the twisted gates
of the soul’s indefinite struggle.

NaPoWriMo: Day 4

Stalling media circuses smell like grandiose gestures made for clowning, not
necessarily a healthy way to spend your last fifty cents. Though most agree
with those policies, I figure one fish against the current can’t do much,
unless it plugs itself into the wrong end of the influential vacuum, cutting
off its own air supply to free all its kind from a straight march forward
through nothingness–they can veer, spin and smack fins at the novelty of
free motion. The preconceived pathway vanishes before their eyes, and to
their amazement, they may putter along in any old direction, even the one
from which they came! The more sentimental creatures return to the scene
of the crime, their once vital friend limp, head still serving as a cork–
precedent and history, its friends give thanks and praise, as is proper.

NaPoWriMo: Day 3

I had a few stubborn teeth
as a cub scout-aged kid
that threatened never to come out.

My dentist took X-rays
of my overbiting jaw
when I was nine [going on ten]–

I lack several adult teeth
from the day I was born,
so the next logical step

would be to pull out those
orphaned, anchoring pearls
before they fused to the bone.

NaPoWriMo: Day 2

toe chunk gone:
smells like pizza now
every day [every day]
until it scabs up
a helmet– [A HELMET]

bounce off, infection!

like bullets
across the grey sky
traveling, [traveling, traveling, traveling, traveling]
consummate servants;
happiness [happinessssssss]
means target’s been hit.

NaPoWriMo: Belated 1st Day

Late, and it’s already gone.
The time for appropriation
left with the stage coaches
when the buffalo all died.
Skulls, ribcages, femurs rest
their weary bones on the turf–
muscle-laden monsters munched
upon the delicate roughage,
sure to save enough for later–
The grass is enshrining them,
filling in the rib spaces and placing
flickering votive candles on the scene.