Schism—that beautiful word.
Listen to it! Hear it?
Ripping through what once lived
whole? Its glorious "skuh"
scissoring toward schoolish "ism".
Feel its sanctimonious
surety? How pulling
apart gives one purpose,
direction, somewhere to
stand? So much easier
than moving toward that
Other Force. Loosening
rather than tightening.
Accepting difference
without judgment. Giving
SCHISM nowhere to live.
There's a reason those
yin/yang symbols have those
oppositely colored spots.
54/100
The older I get (and others I presume), the more difficult it becomes to fight against the tide of habit. For a borderline obsessive-compulsive, it’s extra hard.
Habits beget habits,
rituals, rituals.
Unfortunately,
predictable.
Grasp inspiring
spark, informer of
our ruts. Use its
spark, its flame,
burn away time's
accumulated dross.
Re-enter one's
original intent,
one's sincerity,
one's honesty.
Live there.
53/100
Pop quiz: young man below (who hopefully will not be recognized because I doubt he will be flattered) was a real-life grad student. This photo represents what?
Summer, nineteen seventy-six,
living my self-realized dream of
poverty, danger, emotional
confusion combined with
dead-end work. No car.
Walk two miles to work,
six days per, rain, shine.
Three of us with Crazy
Pete supervising(?),
performing work long since
killed by technology's steady
advance. Loaned co-worker
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle
Maintenance precipitating
his mental descent, believing
himself to be Jesus. Nearly
killed my roommate, here now
first confessed. My defense,
your honor, has to do with
his pistol-waving girlfriend,
sister to his wife—plus their
side business, stealing pills
from our state mental ward
to sell them later. Thinking
America's Bicentennial
would prompt Jefferson
Starship plus Grateful Dead
to perform freely in
Golden Gate Park, headed
south with friend Ray, driving
one-oh-one down entire coast
(nearly killing us when his
bald-tired Vee-Dub spun
circles on twisting roads
through California's
redwoods). No concert
transpired but our good
friend entertained us
from his expensive digs
above Oakland, serving up
ridge views with top-flight
drugs. Returning, faced up
to first failure as freelance
writer of fiction, looked in
my mirror, predicted, "If
you don't get your ass back
to college for some kind of
degree, you never will."
U-Dub to my rescue,
restoring my transcripts,
enabling graduation
in five college quarters.
Postscript: afraid to take
summer off (because I'd
drop out again), attended
said institution for nineteen
months, grabbed its
sheepskin after Christmas,
proving to myself how one
can be right/wrong
simultaneously.
52/100
“Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheat’ed?”
—Johnny Rotten on “No Fun (excerpts)” from Troublemakers, an anthology album
This should be my
second childhood.
I remember
childhood, or I
think I do. Days
shimmered, each one
full of promise:
unbounded time,
more valuable
than gold, silver.
Complaints only
when I heard THAT
call: "time to come
in"—"time for bed,
young man"—"c'mon
it's time for church".
I still rail, still
complain to The
Adult, but he
lives in my head
now. I want to
subcontract my
adulthood so
I can play through-
out my adult
childhood. This role
requires timely
attention to
details of my
life without one
whit of bother
to me...ah, but
then I would need
to hire someone
to watch that first
one. Where would it
end? No, better
to restrain my
adulthood to
its bare, needful
minimum, let
my child command
ev'rything else.
51/100
To celebrate my 50th poem in 50 days (technically fewer than that), I wrote an electrifying poem.
Riding currents presents
particular demands
first, avoid feedback,
second, don't overload
your established circuits
which crave more input
than they can handle
third, befriend surge
suppressors but make
sure they know their
threshold for cutting in,
fourth, remember those
legacy circuits which
support your healthy
function, even if they've
become touchy, in need
of constant maintenance.
Keep in mind voltage
may vary. Assure your
optimum performance
by under-promising
this circuit's potential.
50/100
HALFWAY THERE! YIPPEE!!
This poem would have been way cooler posted on August 18th when it meant more. I drafted it near midnight, and couldn’t bring myself to polish it, find a photo, etc, until today.
Penultimate:
bridesmaid
celebrated faintly.
Always announcing
never announced.
John the Baptist to
Jesus the Messiah.
Loved by writers
For its erudition.
Why this focus on
opening act before
The Headliner? Who
decided this needed
a word? Why mark
the race's last mile?
Today we trot you out
to perform yet again
your ultimate function:
forty-ninth of fifty,
thus almost halfway.
Thank you, you're done.
49/100
I feel bad because I’m breaking the chain for real today. I had planned to write a poem as we flew eastward, but I chose to finish Hamnet instead… and sleep. Then I thought, “I’ll dash it off at home.” We walked into a house without air-conditioning! 😲😰 It was 60 degF as we walked to the Seattle airport. We dropped into 85 degrees with over 70% humidity here in Raleigh, NC… And the house was the same.
I love the East especially the southeast of North Carolina where we landed, but I was raised in Eastern Washington where hot days didn’t carry that humidity and were balanced by cool nights. This was reinforced by our recent visit there. (Of course all the smoke from fires and the dry, dessicated grasses reminded me why I like the East. )
I will get drafting right now!
Technological threads
wrap tightly. Despite
rich promises, every
third trial brings
misery, frustration,
anger, despair.
How can society's
linchpin fail so
often, so wrongly,
so spectacularly?
Flip switches, lights
light. Turn keys, car
starts. Water plants,
they grow. Turn on
computers, hold your
breath 'til sure no
obstinate refusal
to load one simple
operating system
occurs, no twirling
apple-logo twirls
indefinitely, no
screen fails to light.
Progress? Or have
we simply traded
one stubborn mule
for another?
48/100
A bit trite and a bit short, but this will have to do today. An Irish stout has designs on my mind!
Adrift, but found
my course plotted
without my ken,
without approval.
Yet when my course
pointed me to
where I'm now,
I found this port,
suited me just fine.
47/100
Twice in two days my wife has caused me to take a good photograph. Yesterday it was, “whale! there!” and I snapped the photo that graced today’s poem. It was one of those point-shoot-hope-you-have-it-pointed-right kind of things. Today almost occurred the same way. She pointed to a swooping bird and asked, “Is that an eagle?” Yes, it was, and thankfully I resisted the urge to zoom in with the telephoto. I don’t think I could have captured the bird otherwise. Better to zoom in the editing phase. (Thank you, digital darkroom!) Not that I didn’t zoom, but the above photo represents only 50-60% of the original.
all the voices in my head 