Friday, April 24, 2015

Day 24 - bus route 202

image source: Google

bus route 202

scraping by on fleeting carnal comforts
the morning sun interrogates him into
enough consciousness to grapple with
the reality of waking on a stranger’s couch

“hey, you,” a feminine voice peeks from
behind a bedroom door with the awkwardness
of hastily-introduced forgotten names
she’s cute, but unrecognizable in her
curve-suppressing flannel

“you left these on the floor,”
she squeak-whispers, her arms
cradling oversized blue jeans,
a crumpled polo shirt still scented with
cologne, nightclub sweat,
makeup and made-up pickup-lines that landed
with the subtlety of so many disco strobe lights

“oh, sorry. thank you,” he snatches and
dresses himself with one fluidly-awkward motion
both avoiding eye-contact during the process

“would you like some breakfast? all I have
is cereal,” she unconvincingly deadpans
as if this sort of thing was commonplace
and totally no big deal;

this type of thing
happens all the time as she is a sucker for
lean guys who move well and know how to
whisper compliments over decibel-shattering

guys who know how to go with the flow,
even though he knows she’d ask him to flow
towards her, the direction he wanted to go
in the first place;

guys with natural honey-hazel eyes,
even though they’re clearly colored contact lenses

“sounds good, but no thanks,”
he whisper-compliments again
“I should probably figure out how to get back home-”

“the bus route 202 stops about a block from here,” she
offers, pulling her fiery birds nest into an orderly pony tail

“yeah so… thanks for… uhm…” his voice trails off
“I had fun!” she quickly offers, adding “I don’t regret-“

“me neither! uhm… I mean… me too!” he feels the
blood racing to the capillaries in his cheeks


he reaches out his hand as she goes in for a hug
she audibles to a handshake as he swivels hips to hug
the awkward ritual evolves into giggles and a kiss

“I forgot your name”
               “I know. me too”
“take care.”

               “you too.”

No prompt. Another freewrite.

Thursday, April 23, 2015

Day 23 - the art of sucking at multi-tasking

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the art of sucking at multi-tasking

trying to get along in this harsh vista
boxing-up each hurricane of displaced still-life
labeling each box though we all hate labels
stacking mountains of labeled hurricanes
wondering why Pau Gasol didn’t pass the fucking ball!
Jesus fucking Christ! Rose was wide-open!
how fucked you gotta be to blow an eight-point lead?
oh good, we won… so… uhm… boxes
overflowing with keepsakes and unspent aggression
await the closing of one chapter
and the opening of another

also, let’s go Bulls

No prompt today. Someone might have mentioned a freewrite based on playing cards or something, but all my stuff is packed away for this weekend's big move, so... you know... whatever.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Day 22 - the art of sucking at flirting

Image source: Google

the art of sucking at flirting

she was a vision of wretched beauty
molded with fast-twitch sorcery
a twisted, monstrous knot of want

her siren song urged me to forget
her fingers pressing into my dark clay
clawing out my caution

her scent assassinated physics and reason
cooing into my ear all I wanted to hear
with the skill of a sand scorpion

succulent lies poured from her smile
daring me to taste for myself
knowing I would devour her if asked

with a wink, smile, and affirming pinch
she sauntered towards the exit
pausing to peek at her netted catch

and I stupidly did not follow

Inspired by imaginary garden with real toadsThe perfect love poem prompt, but not followed completely. I loved the idea of this prompt, but then again, of course I did. All too frequently, I knock around themes of love, loss, betrayal, love again, and love for a third and fourth time. Love themes are pretty much my favorite pair of shoes. 

But then I thought, why don't I explore lust? Again... been there, done that. 

But then I thought, what about all the times as a young man when I picked up good vibes from an attractive woman, the attraction was mutual, but then I screwed it all up by being... you know... myself? (read: passive, low-confident, nerdy, etc)

So yeah... writing about my past romantic awkward failures is fun... or something...

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Day 21 - triolet for leaving

Image source: Google

triolet for leaving

the morning birdsong I’ll miss the most
but not the sound of her haunting cries
one song for lovers, one for a ghost
the morning birdsong I’ll miss the most
the other mourns as a spirit flies
sharp absence pierced in notes most morose
the morning birdsong I’ll miss the most
but not the sound of her haunting cries

Written for dVerse poet's 8-line prompt, but not shared there. We're preparing for a big move this weekend, so I won't have much time to read the great work of others. I barely have time to write. It's insane to me that I'm still going strong with all the added stress, but wifey and three of my closest literary friends insisted that I try. 

I'm glad I listened to them.

Monday, April 20, 2015

Day 20 - Reflections

Image source:


I was a small child the first time I saw a sailor
It was on an elevated train in the Chicago Loop
His dress blues made him resemble a Greek deity
Though I couldn’t determine which one
He smiled, winked, gave me a Fonzie thumbs-up
I could see my wide-eyed reflection in his shoes
Sometimes, I can see the future
But I don’t always know it when I see it

Seawater can be used to exchange heat for cooling
Seawater will dehydrate you if you drink it
Dolphins love playing in the wake of warships
Flying fish exist; they aren’t just suicidal birds
King Neptune sings the greatest lullabies
I am numb to the buffeting sea wind
The salty sea-spray preserves my youth

I allow kids to find their own reflections

Written for NaPoWriMo's Day Twenty challenge; write about things you "know" (actual facts, or beliefs). This was a fun, meditative, and nostalgic poem for me to write.

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Day 19 - landay for the lonely voice

Image source: iStock

landay for the lonely voice

I find her garden’s half-twisted strands
revealing her thigh, she beckons to me with her hands

for she, like me, is a lonely voice
she is denied many things, cloaked midnight forms her choice

halfway across the field of poppy
new moon won’t betray us if longing makes us sloppy

she shows me where the smoothness meets soft
our muffled duet sows the seeds, budding, climb aloft

am I man enough to feel her bloom?
her garden’s an oasis; if she shares, I’ll consume

exchanged cloaked kisses in silhouette

we’ll fuck among flowers till night ends our suffragette


Written for NaPoWriMo's landay prompt, and imaginary garden with real toadsGoing Halvsies prompt. The following is exerpt from the page which describes the landay in great detail:

"A landay has only a few formal properties. Each has twenty-two syllables: nine in the first line, thirteen in the second. The poem ends with the sound “ma” or “na.” Sometimes they rhyme, but more often not. In Pashto, they lilt internally from word to word in a kind of two-line lullaby that belies the sharpness of their content, which is distinctive not only for its beauty, bawdiness, and wit, but also for the piercing ability to articulate a common truth about war, separation, homeland, grief, or love. Within these five main tropes, the couplets express a collective fury, a lament, an earthy joke, a love of home, a longing for the end of separation, a call to arms, all of which frustrate any facile image of a Pashtun woman as nothing but a mute ghost beneath a blue burqa."
While my effort certainly doesn't come close to the the essential nature of true landay, after reading about the history, I felt compelled to at least try to provide some kind of voice to the voiceless.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Day 18 - Love's Deception

Love's Deception

“I’m touched by the idea that when we do things that are useful and helpful - collecting these shards of spirituality - that we may be helping to bring about a healing.” ― Leonard Nimoy

is love just a construct?
is love ever just enough?
is love something coveted
but received like a gambler’s bluff?
when lovers declare themselves
do they just receive lover’s lust?
or should they prepare themselves
for when they deceive lover’s trust?

is love just a loser’s gamble?
is deception inevitable?
is perception an interception of senses
as eyes wander and ramble?
will she stay by your side
or give in again to love’s phoniness,
flaking on your schemes, while faking their holiness
like living a dream, awaking to loneliness?

and if she’s true to her word
and you live happy ever after
there is no written foreword
of happiness beyond the chapter
in the best-laid schemes of morality of the heart
what awaits our dreams is mortality, then depart
how do you justify the consent to heartbreak
when you must testify to resentment and ache?

I submit that I love,
and love the power of love
in totality; noun, verb, sound, reverb
spirituality pound, serve, found, unnerve
nerve endings hardwired to beginnings required
I’d even choose love with dying breath that expired
if love is deceiving me then I choose the deception
cause love’s never leaving me
as my muse for reception.


Written for imaginary garden with real toadsThe Legacies of Nimoy & Pratchett prompt. Both men passed away recently. Our challenge was to use one of their quotes as inspiration for a poem. As a huge fan of Mr. Spock, this one was a no-brainer for me. 

I took Nimoy's quote above as an insightful observation on unconditional love and then meditated on the nature of all love in general, and specifically, romantic love, the risks, the inevitable outcomes, wondering if it's ultimately worth the trouble, etc... 

My depression blocked me yesterday, so it's always fun to rebound the next day with an idea that seems to just fall out of my head.