Where to pillage, what earth
has been destroyed, or
called phenomenon, lateral
purple touch top- ill age
stick jam fingers, later all
fun on, in on- continued please
dwindle or consume seasonal
treats, see null: tree
heats continuance. dunce
cap corner champion, duh
hence Capricorn camping
on corner’s line, the
aliens aligned to kiss every
zodiac in treason, holiday
spirit, two days of oil
burned one morning
-fields
smoke break word play. straying serious.
short poem a hardly recall writing in the middle of the sleep
Gates coughed up the
saddest eyes, crushed in
whole & they stared watering
for the Mothers disapproval,
they coughed another natural
disaster, beyond relief funds, hoping
to integrate likeness in eyes
& hope. The reiteration that this disaster
caused by the Mother’s empty
home caused by the
child who isn’t a child
as money is exchanged & the
child’s eyes are of the same.
writing a poem a day 13
Forgive me grandmothers, mother’s, caregivers,
words. For i do not
knowingly exist in extremities.
The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd
Sir Walter Raleigh, the Kanye West of the 1600’s
What do you do with your morning?
“
It was an old theme even for me:
Language cannot do everything-
chalk it on the walls where the dead poets
lie in their mausoleums
If at the will of the poet the poem
could turn into a thing
— Adrienne Rich “Cartographers Of Silence”
Books I want to finish this month along with at least one poem a day
“
THE OLD WOMAN’S DESPAIR
A WIZENED little old woman felt gladdened and gay at the sight of the pretty baby that every one was making such a fuss over, and that every one wanted to please; such a pretty little creature, as frail as the old woman herself, and toothless and hairless like her.
She went up to him all nods and smiles.
But the infant, terrified, struggled to get away from her caresses, filling the house with his howls.
Then the old woman went back into her eternal solitude and wept alone, saying: “Ah, for us miserable old females the age of pleasing is past. Even innocent babes cannot endure us, and we are scarecrows to little children whom we long to love.”
— Baudelaire “PARIS SPLEEN “
