NaPoWriMo 2015 — VI: The Underwritten Malady of our Species; Proper Neighborhood Etiquette

Sigmund Freud
told me in a dream
that all things are

to be the way they have always been
for the sake of humanity
and the underwritten malady of our species.

I took his words

more as anecdotal than anything,
and continued
washing the windshield of my car
with vigorous clockwise scrubbing patterns.

Those damn birds will never understand
proper neighborhood etiquette.

NaPoWriMo 2015 — V: For the Paradise of the Ganges Stallion

Stencil in the fairy mist Tarzan aroma
for the paradise of the Ganges stallion.

We may not signify just what it is
that allows us to circumvent the traditional symmetry,
but we can try, can’t we?

No, we mustn’t try,
that would only cause heartbreak
and serious malaise for a time
where we do not understand the nature of things
as they should be, constantly unfolding
(beyond our control and happily flawed).

NaPoWriMo 2015 — IV: Nail After Superfluous Nail

Jimbo handles the hammer as though he’d been meant to take on such responsibilities before he was even born. Of course, this is a preposterous notion. No human is predestined to wield implements created by other humans in a bygone era, at least not evolutionarily so. But try telling that to Jimbo as he pounds those nails into the linoleum. The fluid motion he successfully demonstrates on nail after superfluous nail just proves how our species has throttled survival of the fittest. The floor doesn’t even need any nails pounded into it today (or any other day for that matter), but that doesn’t stop Jimbo from banging away. Logic will only get you so far in a world this mad. How can a person be faulted for performing the task his hands and sweaty brow demand? Besides, once the hammering is complete, Jimbo will set up an intricate web of twine trip wire designed to upend even the sneakiest of midnight fridge robbers. “No more,” says Jim to himself as he mindlessly pulverizes nail after vindicating nail. “No more rat bastards taking my bread pudding.”

NaPoWriMo 2015 — III: Rampart Peddler; The Sleazy Details

Step on it, rampart peddler.

You may have the acuity to build a company like this
from the ground-up, but I can see how you’re pulling those strings.

You don’t have to tell me to keep quiet, mister.
All you need to do is grease the wheels of justice,
and I’ll be rolling my way out of your sordid affairs.

How much will it cost you to keep me on your side?
You’re clearly more creative than I am in these matters,
so I’ll let you figure out the sleazy details.

Seven thousand dollars and a year’s supply of Playboys?
Okay, I’m listening.

NaPoWriMo 2015 — II: Bubbling Babblers

Who even much cares for
rudimentary road maps and hackery
imported from the minds of drudgenous drones?

Refinement falls to the critics, does it?
You put something out and get an issue in return,
to be repeated ad infinitum
for the good of the paying public
and the pauper poet.

perpetrated by years of aching bellies
and glowering doom receptacles
we’ve come to know as the media–

you, Filth, are responsible
for the illiterate cauldronful of bubbling babblers
that belittle each other every chance they get.

NaPoWriMo 2015 — I: The Swallow

Near and dear to our trough and crest wavelength
sits a swallow of indeterminate proportion
(likely due to a lack of perspective).

It coos the way only a swallow can,
taking all of its learning into account—
that’s right, all twenty-seven hours and sixteen minutes
of learning administered by its very own mother
before unexpectedly losing nest privileges.

Every note tinged with sorrow
for losing its childhood home,
the swallow innately understands
that tragedy begets beauty. So it belts.

It takes all the air it can possibly pull
into its feathery balloon body
and churns it into the equivalent of church,
every chance it gets.

It sings along with everything it hears,
understanding the whirr and the hum
of all life around it.

It nestles between the blankets of noise
it’s always encountering, placing harmony in chaos.

Few swallows have been given
the gift of self-awareness,
and this one dreams of being a performer.

Every day it sits on a wire by itself
in a crowded urban-industrial area
for the sole purpose of chasing away its demons
with interactive improvisation. And damn, is it good.