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.
The Whole Kit ‘n’ Caboodle
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!
Pity.
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.
WHARVED 