NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty One, Poem Thirty One

30/30 Fail Haiku

Failure, failure and
failure, failure, failure, and
add twenty five more.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty One, Poem Thirty

Poem

Wail or well
the hardest
lesson
to learn.

The more
cast off
the more loved
you are.

You've never
believed
last words
less than now.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty One, Poem Twenty Nine

New month's first morning
and a late-to-work April
calls May up to cry.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty One, Poem Twenty Eight

Law of The Open Mic Host

If a man slams into your body
while taking the seat adjacent to you
refusing to let you up for your stop
until his pants are completely filled with shit,

it's safe to assume that he's a poet
with one (self) nomination
for a Pulitzer under his belt
who deserves your respect
and can bring friends to the next show.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Five

Scene From Out of The Blue

Cat is too bored
to entertain
inattentive man
throwing wordless paper,

Stays till the end
of Amiri Baraka poem
before leaving
audience rude with fawning.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Four

Redlined
E.H.

Bloodied
bullets blaze
beyond missed shot.

We live though
sped by
and bys

with doses of
friendly howz
itgoins.

Eventually, you
build resistance
to courtesy,

a wild hose
everyone let go
long ago.

Fellow lonlies
we run by afraid
to feel other wounds.

Exiled with
no benefit
of cast off,

we almost lack
nerve to handle
ourselves.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Three

Reasons I Fail at Slam Poetry

Ran 
out of
roommates to rake.


Suspect
for Occupying 
my own space.


Can't
champion cause
without foot notes.


My 
hip flask 
filled with caffeine.

Too 
many exes
scattered in scene.

One 
night stand
already turned many.


Already
turned 40
before twenty five.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty Two

Poem

Learn
a palate 
of platitudes

weaned 
regurgitation
recycled comments.


Your dietician
dines
on smug asparagus.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty One

Unswallowed Vomit

Bad students telling you
you were right to an answer
just given to them.


Toastmasters 
torment busy hosts
while sipping their wine
 
 Editors compliment
words they wrote into you
and nothing else.


Lovers thanking you 
for giving into
their ultimatums.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Twenty

This Is Just Too Lame

I have written 
one more 
William Carlos Williams
parody

after
admitting I had
not read
Kenneth Koch's


Sorry guys
it's 30/30
and now
it's meta

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Nineteen

Poem

Why do incompetent
have so much love
to talk about?


Those who snail
trail
their 
mess
always first to bless.

Enshrined are
the dirty laundry movers 
forgivers of broken vases
in countless antique stores.

The drivers who read manuals
on the highway
name their children after
the first and last policeman
to wave them on their way
with a to-be-bloodied hand,
 an unfilled pad.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Eighteen

Sunday Evening

I write in in my broken binding book
since the laptop taunts like a math teacher
and Margaret's washing machine's spin cycle


times my writing like a swim coach.


I write for thirty poems in thirty days
while she writes application essays.
Her right arm's hand grabs the others' wrists
as if to force herself to keep seated.


While I still freefall into our future,
she flings forward, fills out for financial aid.
I pay for dinner, scarves to keep her warm,
but I still freeload for time.


I quiet Molly onto the couch next to me,
convince her to  write haiku while her mother
stays at the keyboard, my mouth steady.
Saying nothing will be my only good tonight.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Seventeen

Haiku

windblown shopping bags 
parachute down avenue
quiet carnival

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Sixteen

Poem

I  have no secret shames
anymore, only smaller
and larger ones,

clear as stains
in the fronts
of my pants.

I can talk again
once I realize
silence hides nothing.

You celebrate
until I don't
remember why

growth doesn't
feel like growth
anymore.

NaPoWriMo, Day Thirty, Poem Fifteen

Bacon

My girlfriend is vegetarian,
but lately there's been problems.
Not with  temptation, 
but with intrusion.


Bacon is drawn to her
despite no mutual attraction,
happily serving tofu strips
to her daughter at breakfast.

Bacon is a childhood 
she never liked, avoided
in the school cafeteria.  
Recently, it's gotten intrusive,
bacon bits in her saldad.

This after years of
artful dodging with waiters.
This was the worst yet,
the rabbit in the stove pot.

I share fruit cups
to put more blockades
between her plate and mine.

Three bacon strips barside
at my table's end
keep to themselves.

Both of us paranoid,
I brush my teeth
after every breakfast.

The mint on my breath
tells her it's me
protects her violation
and me from mistrust.

NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty-Four, Poem Thirteen

Ji'Saw


Ron turns
my haze
to phrase


need no
new 
spell(ing)s

give up 
on sense
at top

who's Ron
other side
of sunny

Keith only
needs (space)
for punish

meant
for table
Nate reminds

questions
resolve but
answers don't leave table.

NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty-Three, Poem Twelve

To begin in form
does not guarantee good end.
Lake Titicaca.

NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty-Three, Poem Eleven

Anniversary

Confessions call for olive oil,
sentences with swirling bread,
spoons flip me back from legs that dance

around the truth, which tries to dance
towards me, easier to catch oil
with a spatula, or baking bread

in my hands. You say I should break bread
to ask and give thanks, not just dance
with my fingers, nervous as oil.

Bread-maker fingers slide like oil in my hand to dance.

NaPoWriMo, Day Twenty-Three, Poem Ten

Self-Portrait On Break From Getaway


My scorched earth hair
pleads with the sun
for color to camouflage.

She waits while watching
more episodes of The Office
I've never seen.

I let to drive by
our parking spot twice
in not yet our jeep.

My world's a yard sale puzzle
This is where I'm laid out
another while.

I walk to The Who's "Slip Kid,"
to mark the days till forced
to say I'm almost 40.

Too loud for the hotel, yet
if I go in to Miles Davis,
she'll ask who's fumbling at the door.

Ticking down to pick up
take out, my turtle neck
first sees Spring sun

I rub its back, remind myself
I need a comb-over
of the soul.

New rhythms help me forget
my bowels make more free style jazz
than my fingers on her nape.

NaPoWriMo, Day Nineteen, Poem Nine

Disclaimer

The Anti-Muse
doesn't want the love
it didn't already squander.

It doesn't want the hate
it's used to giggling at
to evoke modesty.

It doesn't want your thanks
overflowing the shelves
below the row
of your apologies.

It doesn't want approval
from your current muse,
though there are attempts
to

All it wants
is your attention
in each line

immortality
without effort

your veins keeping
another's blood warm

your fingers massaging
a lazy heart.