Almost every day, he said, my
glass seemed more than half full,
but a fly would dance on top. When
we came into home, winging away
from sunset, I saw one cloud-like
nuclear explosion. My trip's
symbolic, beautiful resolution.
57/100
Different voices have defined “found” poems differently. Here, I started with the opening line of a poem I drafted over a dozen years ago, then used random web pages to suggest a few words from which would spring the next line. I let whatever revealed itself in my creative half exist without immediately squashing it, merely shaping it, translating it from my interior language-without-words to a poor imitation in English. My Editor insisted on punching meaning into it, which I allowed. At the end I decided it needed to come full circle, thus lending meaning (I hope) to the final lines. In a way, this process worked similarly to something I’m getting ready to post (non-poem) when time allows.
We wear patchwork clothes, stitched by sadness
not to have seen snow leopards through our
blizzarding genesis. Inspired by writings we
don't understand, we personalize them
to make everything obtain meaning
where none existed. Welcome to your mission:
to drive home meaning to others while
pathetically struggling to find your own,
exhibiting your confidence which betrays
your lack of understanding. "the mic is yours,
Ken," as if he thinks I'm important. Games,
games fill cracks left when motive, meaning
dried up. More valuable than playing? Being.
Staying within where we find nothingness
imbuing everything-ness. Boldly facing it
without doing, comfortable in this. Yet,
in here we wear patchwork clothes,
satisfied they're stitched by sadness.
56/100
People become semi-strangers over
time, distance, lack of shared
experience. Reacquaintance
brings pain, ripping some kind of
bandage from maintained relationship.
I can't pull this string-can telephone
any tighter due to Earth's curvature,
certainly not through Einstein's
space-time fabric bending thingy.
I want old things to pop from
just-opened cans, fresh, familiar,
just as tasty as before. Is that
too much for me to ask?
55/100
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!
all the voices in my head 