I think a poem/day will be all I can muster.
Ghosts, slipping
treelike through forests
populated by people
looking just like they
once did. Slowly
dissolving, windborne
gossamer, 'til people
look through them.
Haunting not others,
but themselves with
each mirror-ward glance.
Remembering when
they treated ghosts
similarly, in
youthful vibrancy.
13/100
Angry
Drunk
Driving my pickup,
Six-pack beside me.
Timing my throws to
Hit empties into the
Truck bed. Blind, thinking
Endless thought loops.
Years later.
Angry drunk.
Driving miles while still
Sitting in my chair.
Still timing my throws
Of empty thoughts to
Capture blind thinking:
Endless thought loops.
More years
Still angry.
Still drunk.
Tired of driving
Mental miles worn
Deeply in my mind.
Emptied soul tiring
Of postured thinking:
Break my thought loops.
12/100
I’m just not going to make a poem today. My brain feels so scattered, I think the only thing holding it together is my skull. Heat? Maybe. More likely the increasing difficulty with being older and watching the world change into something we envisioned only not like this. (non sequitur? no.) Life now resembles a city’s marathon, only you’re not in the race anymore, in fact, you’re not even on the sidewalk watching. You’re up in your apartment looking down and saying, “I wonder what they’re doing down there?”
In lieu of posting nothing, I took a walk around the yard.
There you have it. Perhaps my melancholy intro will produce a poem later tonight. Time to get down to the pub.
A meditation on what makes a couple
Oyster
sits and spits.
Mollusk-as-grass,
rooted, muted,
colored in
good enough,
in sedentary.
Snail
glides by:
mollusk-movement.
Purposefulness
imbues her,
stubbornness, her
going-ness.
Can these opposites
attract? Or,...
What if Crab
tiptoes past
them both?
What then?
Who pines for
legs? Who clings
stubbornly to
Life As It Is?
11/100
Every day
I want 24 hours between today and tomorrow:
Breathe
I want to quit feeling this tightness across my chest:
Breathe
I want my stomach to desire food as much as my mouth
Breathe
I want to enjoy beer as food not medicine
Breathe
I want to feel as if I know what I'm doing
Breathe
I want to feel less as if we're doing something wrong
Breathe
I want to get out of here
Breathe
Full of breath
I ran screaming; mere hellish jobs looked great
Compared to my hell-hole.
10/100
Squirming thought-worms writhe
Licking cranial insides:
Outwardly normal.
9/100
I didn’t post yesterday’s poem for which I feel profoundly guilty since my intent had been to post two poems. The day intruded and at 5 p.m. I decided a beer with my wife took precedence over composing the final two lines…and then dinner…and the Home Run Derby… Still trying to catch up to the date: maybe #30 on the 30th? With a two-week vacation coming up, I fear I’ll fall behind again.
Whatever shall I wear today?
I've far too many clothes to play
This game on ev'ry waking morn.
Perhaps something already worn
On days just past; but then again,
I'll think that they'll remember when,
(Though I've no thought for theirs).
This 'problem' stems from when I pay
To 'fix' some fashion gone astray.
Perhaps more neutrals? Then I'd mourn
Outfits bold which would adorn
My daily jeans I've donned since when
They came bell-bottomed—way back then—
And I still had my hairs...
9/100
Every day a poem:
Dawn's introductory stanza
Sets me up—better, worse, or
In-between. By Breakfast's lines
Attitude starts setting, casting
Today's foundation. Theme, style,
music, tone, harmony, dissonance,
all proscribed by this early start.
Takes composer's interference to
Change this line, this development.
Afternoon either resolves all notes,
or abandons them to dissipate into
"well there's always tomorrow."
8/100
In my childhood we peered between
[FCC: public airways belong to everyone.]
slatted media-control fences, won-
[We cannot allow any but market forces to]
dering where these LP's we saw came
[dictate who will get licenses, who will be]
from, artists we'd never heard, never seen
[allowed to own a broadcast station, what]
over our airwaves. Sometimes these fen-
[those stations will play. If young people]
ces presented themselves as white, snowy
[represent compelling market demogra-]
static on those TV channels which deli-
[phics, market dynamics will act as incentives]
vered no signals. We scoured back
[to serve them.] [Record exec: one cannot]
pages in magazines, looking for 'just one
[suppose your average teenager knows]
more' to satisfy our latent curios-
[good music from bad. We don't truly get]
ity. Our comics straddled two worlds to sur-
[this so-called music ourselves, you un-]
vive. Real good ones, 'too offensive,' hid in
[derstand; certain performers make]
head shops near bongs, fringed
[better stars than others. We help main-]
leather jackets, patchouli oil. Even shows
[tain morality, give kids something to do,]
we liked fenced us this way, making us
[keep them from getting into trouble.]
endure dog acts, plate spinners,
[Sure, we pay to get our records on]
Borscht Belt comedians to catch
[the air. Capitalism's the name of the]
three minutes from "Today's Latest
[game, baby, how the world works.]
Greatest Group, the..." Yardbirds.
[You don't mind if I light this cigar?]
Troggs. Beatles. Elvis. Lovin' Spoonful.
[Your local politician: Zoning laws]
Car radios came with buttons, we
[can be used creatively to keep this]
thought, to facilitate quick-punch-
[craziness in check. If you really don't]
ing from 'that awful song by...'
[want your child to listen to this...stuff,]
only to hear it anyway on our city's only
[don't let them buy it. It's how Ameri-]
other pop music station. We saw fences
[ca works, donchaknow? {wink}]
everywhere: Midwest, small towns, the
[Now remember to vote for me next month!]
South, anywhere without "a scene".
We chipped at, kicked at, hammered
at, pulled at those fences. Bit by
bit those slatted boundaries fell.
[Where ya bin'? I've sang these words]
Ninety-minute TV concerts at
[every day. Never saw you here before.]
midnight. Imports in our record stores.
[Listen to me. This ain't jazz, it ain't classi-]
Lyrics about living, loving, dying, in-
[cal, it ain't nutthin' but music, dude!]
stead of "wake up little Susie" or
[Ya payin' attention? Hey! I'm talking]
"Tell Laura I love her...", we heard
[here! Ah, forget it. You don't get it.]
Woodstock's Fish chant. We cheered
Making up nickel bags. We sang
"let's spend the night together."
We gave Peace a Chance. We
looked around suddenly, re-
alizing those fences were gone, but
we'd changed—we've fenced ourselves
in, we've fenced those who come after.
7/100
"I used my best project
management skills! I had
sub-projects, dependent
tasks, timelines, mileposts! And
deliverables? My God!
I had 'em comin' out
My ass! But scope creep
blew it up. Mileposts changed.
Life wanted new measures,
new deliverables. I
couldn't make sense of it.
I adapted, changed, tried
to be successful, but
when my project finished
I'd delivered someone
else's project entirely.
Now I'm just confused:
Am I a success or did
I fail miserably?"
6/100
all the voices in my head 