Earplugsmight helpto avoidpermanently lostauditory functioningfrom the never-ending concertof bad news cycle
#29 of 30 Poems in November to benefit Center for New Americans!
Earplugsmight helpto avoidpermanently lostauditory functioningfrom the never-ending concertof bad news cycle
Writingby the numberin a chaos of kidsand life and newsand of course catsseems impossible.Wouldn’t it be greatto poem by number--metaphor here,enjambment over there,or fill-in-the-blanklike Mad Libs(no adjectives)and voilĂ !Your point is made,beautifully expressed.
All done, well done, finis.
Swallowingin the din of inhumanityabout women and doctors and workerswho deserve to be gunned downfamilies who are turned awayto certain death in plastic boatsbecause they threaten our way of lifethere’s so much to protect herecheap electronicsplastic shit and freedom friesthe right to be gunned down by copsor lunaticseach one is somebody’s heroI’m speechlesspowerlessretreating for solace in a book of verseremembering how naively I thoughtour children would enjoy more freedomsI don’t know what else to write
Passerbydream-treaderyou floated to meitinerantfreecrouchedIndian-stylethe earth at your earpresented giftsof yourselfI learned to keepfor myselfwith no apology
They saywhen one window shutsanother openswhen one passesa new soul is bornbut we comecryinginto this cold worldaloneas we leaveand it’s too coldfor that open windowafter darktoo lonely for tears
I feel a rant coming onabout how entitlementdrips and spreads and sullieseverything. Today it’s about guyswho think their stones are so bigthat they can say any damn thingto anybody. Even to a womanwho says I don’t like youand don’t talk to me and stopcontacting me. Even that woman,or especially that woman.Entitled bastards sure knowhow to sully up lovely things,I’ll give you that much. Nice going.Now fuck off, entitled bastard.No doubt tomorrowI’ll have a new subject for ranting.
Morning breaks on crooked arm,From dreams I resist sun.(Wake, wake, you slugabed,Work needs to be done.)Very greatly, lassitudeTethers me to bed.(But without your work-a-dayChildren won’t be fed.)In a slumber well intactFortunes visit me.(To collar me in dream-landThey beg on bended knee.)Sleep-dismissing day and work,Spirits drag me down.(You’ve no use for daylight.Sink, sink and drown.)Last-ditch fury, roil the quiltsOf my tender sleep.(May as well stop fighting.Laugh, laugh the deep.)
Yesterdayour veins ran with itIn an houranxiety will sticklike leeches on the brainRight nowlet’s invite the plaqueto settle inclog our valveswith the milk of our marriageConstrictConserveColor
What if the proper etiquettefor thismy denouement,requires obnoxious panderingaccepting reprimandInstead of shufflingdownturned eyesthe earth to glare uponI’ll rise in solidarityand be already gone
Wishes to becurled up in your laparms outstretchedPettedthere thereeverything’s all right
Eight birdsperched on a lamp-postextending over the highwaygrip against tremorscaused by wind upriverand the Prime Chix truckroaring underneathPremiere Poultry Distributionall the way from Foodmart RoadEight birdsperched on a lamp-postwish they were someplace elseanywhere but this lamp-postsquawk incessantlyabout their outrageand seem to have forgottenthe prime directive about birds--they know how to fly
Sunglassesturning autumnto technicolordon’t provide shadeagainst atrocityStaring directlyat the sunonly burnsthe memory of violenceon my retinasNo amountof hippie peace musicdrowns outthe wails of warFleece can’t warmthis NovemberMy childrenare listeningThere’s no avoidingthis
Kitty in my lapwriggles & shimmieshead-butts & kneadskisses with a cold wet nosewags her tailsettles down & round againblinksgives me that lookLOVE ME for crying out loud
Gripping the sidesof the plastic boat,tight in her father’s armsfor now, a little one looks upand prays that the crescent moonshould toss down an anchor,signalling land.
The same crescent moonis spied by my daughterthrough her bedroom window,high above the backyard maple,upon which to makea young girl’s fervent wishbefore I tuck her in.
Goodnight, moon.