Karma spawned a litter.
Itza grew to be in charge
of guilt.
Her motto was, "Do bad, feel bad."
Serial killers need not apply.
Dworka became
the purveyor of property,
which he distributed unevenly
as a matter of course.
(We all know why.)
Achmanna was relegated to health
and her twin brother Lothalzha to pain.
Together, they spread themselves like butter
across the world.
Hypochondriacs and masochists rejoiced.
And Quarapha ended up with love
but, since he was selfish,
gave it to no one.
He did, though,
allow us to believe we had it,
were in it,
had lost it.
He'll get his.
ewr
28 February 2009
27 February 2009
Day 58/365
A single hair falls at the pace of a single hair. It breaks gravity as it hits the second dimension, swirling into an ancient planetary collection spun off as a new galaxy. Light travels as slowly as alcohol ferments beneath the surface bubbling through petroleum tar. The oracle refuses work now because of The Matrix. Its words disintegrate with brain matter lost in the presence of amyloid, though this began long before mad cows split atoms in radioactive laboratories. Can you hear the song? The ringing may as well be silence, in dance halls, opera houses, coffee houses with public address systems purchased with piggy bank savings. I heard you read one time, two years ago, among stacks of mildewed books, as you tried to tell yourself you work was your worth. We tasted apple pie in a late night diner to laugh and giggle and sigh over our own twisted sense of sense of humor. We were not murdered later in the back seat of a car parked beneath a street light of JFK Street in Springfield where we all live. Some need to shower in the morning before work.
ewr
ewr
26 February 2009
25 February 2009
Day 56/365
Reenact the scene from Hannibal
in which Anthony Hopkins
removes the skull cap of Ray Liotta,
carves out a bit of virtual brain
and drops it onto a saute pan.
I'm tied prone and ready.
Take more bits, if you like.
Send the remains of my remains
to some apartment building in Indiana,
where we dumped Dad's cremains.
into a man-made pond
while a non-indigenous minnow
breathed him in
and dashed away to escape
his carbon ashes.
I can't visit a grave
if I can't remember where it is.
The only flowers there
are algae blooms in summer.
ewr
in which Anthony Hopkins
removes the skull cap of Ray Liotta,
carves out a bit of virtual brain
and drops it onto a saute pan.
I'm tied prone and ready.
Take more bits, if you like.
Send the remains of my remains
to some apartment building in Indiana,
where we dumped Dad's cremains.
into a man-made pond
while a non-indigenous minnow
breathed him in
and dashed away to escape
his carbon ashes.
I can't visit a grave
if I can't remember where it is.
The only flowers there
are algae blooms in summer.
ewr
24 February 2009
Day 55/365
hedoesitbecauseitisinhimhedoesitbecausehehaslearnedtore
acthedoesitbecausehehasadreamhedoesitbecausehecanhedoesit
becausehehatesmehedoesitbecausehehateshimselfhedoesitbeca
usehisdogpissedonthefloorandhesteppedinitbeforecomingtosc
hoolhedoesitbecauseheisnothismotherssonhedoesitbecauseiti
sexpectedofhimhedoesitbecausenooneelsewillhedoesitbecause
heiskarmaspawnhedoesitbecauseheknowsheisrighthedoesitbeca
useheknowsiamrighthedoesitbecausehestillgetsintroubleforw
alkingdownthestreetwithisbrothershedoesitbecauseheisangry
overslaveryheneverexperiencedhedoesitbecauseitalkedaboutb
lackpeopleliketheywereblackpeoplehedoesitbecauseobamawase
lectedhedoesitbecauseitisinhim
ewr
23 February 2009
Day 54/365
It's over.
I've won.
You've won.
We've won.
You're one.
They're one.
There's one.
Here's another.
Hares, another.
Prayers, brother.
Stairs, mother.
Sally Struther.
Struthers.
Mrs. Houdini.
Harry's Houdini.
Poof.
ewr
I've won.
You've won.
We've won.
You're one.
They're one.
There's one.
Here's another.
Hares, another.
Prayers, brother.
Stairs, mother.
Sally Struther.
Struthers.
Mrs. Houdini.
Harry's Houdini.
Poof.
ewr
22 February 2009
21 February 2009
Day 52/365
Instead of nurturing the honor roll
his vocal chords choke out
the rules of past participle
to slap the future
with pregnant teenage girls
whose fetuses have higher IQs
until they're popped out
and plopped in front of
Hanna Montana
singing about her la-la-life
and boo-boo-boyfriends.
his vocal chords choke out
the rules of past participle
to slap the future
with pregnant teenage girls
whose fetuses have higher IQs
until they're popped out
and plopped in front of
Hanna Montana
singing about her la-la-life
and boo-boo-boyfriends.
His shoulder cramps,
hand buckles,
wrist creaks
typing verse
no one will
ever
read
into ewords
that disappear
as they're posted.
hand buckles,
wrist creaks
typing verse
no one will
ever
read
into ewords
that disappear
as they're posted.
There's no sex
like no sex.
like no sex.
Property as abstract concept,
he has everything,
but none of it is his.
He lives everywhere,
but there is not a place for him.
He loves everyone,
but he is alone.
He is everyman,
but
ewr
20 February 2009
Day 51/365
In the maddness room i stood beneath the broken chandelier that wouldn't light the candles of the groveling stones thrown beyond my aorta as I drip down the page
into
a
line
of
singularity
and
regularity of words I never use, like "cordon" or "anathema."
soften
often
offend
and give to me
my century
and swallow
indecent
undocent
indictedness
indolferosity.
ewr
into
a
line
of
singularity
and
regularity of words I never use, like "cordon" or "anathema."
Swirling dresses
frou frou faux jus
into the path
of an oncoming anatomy
stinking and thinking up
ways to grow
ways to bray
stiffenfrou frou faux jus
into the path
of an oncoming anatomy
stinking and thinking up
ways to grow
ways to bray
soften
often
offend
and give to me
my century
and swallow
indecent
undocent
indictedness
indolferosity.
He said that it's never that simple.
It's not a one to one, allotment kind of thing.
It depends on the person's mindset and emotional growth, and the fit between people.
I never hold that against people.
ewr
19 February 2009
18 February 2009
Day 49/365
Do robins flock?
The back yard was riddled with them today.
Under a gray South Jersey sky,
they bobbed randomly,
Geiger counter brains
concentrating on the rain-soaked ground
beneath their tiny wiry feet.
This February afternoon
was more like an October morning,
and it's warmer now
as I prepare for sleep
than it was the whole raw day.
After dinner,
angel hair and bolognese,
I bent myself into a question mark on the couch
before clicking off to sleep
for an hour
and missing the Cold Case Files
I'd seen before anyway.
I dreamed the story of a woman,
gray with middle age,
accused of murdering
the man who murdered her family
two decades before.
Her first love
who stabbed her mother and father,
sister and brother to death,
stabbed her, too,
split her spleen in two
and left them all for dead.
She'd survived the attack,
and spent her life
tracking down the black hole
the police couldn't get near.
In a tragic denouement to the story,
she used the bed linen in jail
(women aren't supposed to do this sort of thing)
to fashion a noose
and drop herself off the stainless sink.
She hung for an hour
before a female guard
dressed in flannel and a wader
found her accidentally.
The rod clacked to the concrete floor
as she ran to the red emergency phone
and called the code.
ewr
The back yard was riddled with them today.
Under a gray South Jersey sky,
they bobbed randomly,
Geiger counter brains
concentrating on the rain-soaked ground
beneath their tiny wiry feet.
This February afternoon
was more like an October morning,
and it's warmer now
as I prepare for sleep
than it was the whole raw day.
After dinner,
angel hair and bolognese,
I bent myself into a question mark on the couch
before clicking off to sleep
for an hour
and missing the Cold Case Files
I'd seen before anyway.
I dreamed the story of a woman,
gray with middle age,
accused of murdering
the man who murdered her family
two decades before.
Her first love
who stabbed her mother and father,
sister and brother to death,
stabbed her, too,
split her spleen in two
and left them all for dead.
She'd survived the attack,
and spent her life
tracking down the black hole
the police couldn't get near.
In a tragic denouement to the story,
she used the bed linen in jail
(women aren't supposed to do this sort of thing)
to fashion a noose
and drop herself off the stainless sink.
She hung for an hour
before a female guard
dressed in flannel and a wader
found her accidentally.
The rod clacked to the concrete floor
as she ran to the red emergency phone
and called the code.
ewr
17 February 2009
Day 48/365
(after "Sing" by Annie Lennox)
My sister sang
in a voice I couldn't help but mistake
for that of a killer, strong-arming
his victim into thinking it would all be all right.
There's a need in her voice,
a disrespect for her own body
stemming from the fear of what it can do for her.
She's not physically strong,
and she knows that.
I offer her
what I can,
which is what I want,
which is nothing
She sings again,
voice cracking this time,
weakened, misused,
desperate for a reaction.
Every woman is our mother, she says.
I tell her it's crap. "Take your womankind
and your beautiful self
and birth yourselves a home,
if it suits you.
Then tell me about motherhood."
ewr
My sister sang
in a voice I couldn't help but mistake
for that of a killer, strong-arming
his victim into thinking it would all be all right.
There's a need in her voice,
a disrespect for her own body
stemming from the fear of what it can do for her.
She's not physically strong,
and she knows that.
I offer her
what I can,
which is what I want,
which is nothing
She sings again,
voice cracking this time,
weakened, misused,
desperate for a reaction.
Every woman is our mother, she says.
I tell her it's crap. "Take your womankind
and your beautiful self
and birth yourselves a home,
if it suits you.
Then tell me about motherhood."
ewr
16 February 2009
Day 47/365
(After "If You Were in My Movie" by Suzanne Vega)
If I could be your guru,
I'd be your decorator.
Those blinds would go,
and that lamp as well.
I'd give you such a treatment,
all your friend will throw a fit.
They will rave,
but they'll be jealous
and talk behind your back.
If I could be your guru,
I'd be your professor.
You'll take a class in science
and learn a thing or two
about mutual attraction,
about objects and their pull.
I'll teach you what you need to know
but will never have to use.
ewr
If I could be your guru,
I'd be your decorator.
Those blinds would go,
and that lamp as well.
I'd give you such a treatment,
all your friend will throw a fit.
They will rave,
but they'll be jealous
and talk behind your back.
If I could be your guru,
I'd be your professor.
You'll take a class in science
and learn a thing or two
about mutual attraction,
about objects and their pull.
I'll teach you what you need to know
but will never have to use.
ewr
15 February 2009
Day 46/365
A tiny greeting card
introduced me
to the concept of synergy.
On its colorful face,
I saw your hand,
your eyes,
and our love brought from stone
into the beauty of reds and oranges and yellows
brighter than nature flares in autumn.
The words were simple,
"Condolences on your loss,"
but they spoke into my ear
the abandon, the writhing of your body,
the arch of your back
as I run my nails down its length,
drawing lines of redness
equidistant and perfect
in the revelation of your ache,
your longing to get inside my pants,
inside my gut,
inside every inch of space
between my skins,
which get lonely for you
every night.
I trace your written words inside
with my finger:
"I'm so sorry,"
feel them as braille beneath the ridges and swirls
until they enter my bloodstream
and are sucked through my veins
to the heart,
where they plant themselves
like atherosclerosis
and block out suggestion
of any other love
but yours.
ewr
introduced me
to the concept of synergy.
On its colorful face,
I saw your hand,
your eyes,
and our love brought from stone
into the beauty of reds and oranges and yellows
brighter than nature flares in autumn.
The words were simple,
"Condolences on your loss,"
but they spoke into my ear
the abandon, the writhing of your body,
the arch of your back
as I run my nails down its length,
drawing lines of redness
equidistant and perfect
in the revelation of your ache,
your longing to get inside my pants,
inside my gut,
inside every inch of space
between my skins,
which get lonely for you
every night.
I trace your written words inside
with my finger:
"I'm so sorry,"
feel them as braille beneath the ridges and swirls
until they enter my bloodstream
and are sucked through my veins
to the heart,
where they plant themselves
like atherosclerosis
and block out suggestion
of any other love
but yours.
ewr
14 February 2009
Day 45/365
Smarmy Valentine haikus
twenty years
and still just yesterday
i loved you first
every day
there's another reason
to love you
ewr
twenty years
and still just yesterday
i loved you first
every day
there's another reason
to love you
ewr
13 February 2009
Day 44/365
exhausting night of poetry
I stumble from a broken car
I swallow pills to help me live
or just pretend that they do that
my husband lost his job again
the other one is mad at me
well, not mad, really, just annoyed
because I called him quite a slob
and Oscar sits in front of me
face down in papers being saved
for future reference, possibly
or all for naught which, probably
ewr
I stumble from a broken car
I swallow pills to help me live
or just pretend that they do that
my husband lost his job again
the other one is mad at me
well, not mad, really, just annoyed
because I called him quite a slob
and Oscar sits in front of me
face down in papers being saved
for future reference, possibly
or all for naught which, probably
ewr
12 February 2009
11 February 2009
10 February 2009
Day 41/365
(after Ogden Nash)
A cat named Wicca preened her hair
to rid herself of fleas in there,
but later when she had a twitch,
she found a tick had made her itch.
ewr
A cat named Wicca preened her hair
to rid herself of fleas in there,
but later when she had a twitch,
she found a tick had made her itch.
ewr
09 February 2009
Day 40/365
Might I have a word?
You choose the word.
If you're simple,
it will be something like
Love.
Then I'll describe
Love
to you
from every aspect and perspective
without ever using the word
Love.
If you're average,
you might choose something like
Politics
or
Religion
to get me going.
I've not fallen for that trick
in years
and nor should you,
for in
Politics
and
Religion
the only people who matter
are not you.
Now, if you're complicated,
I might get a word out of you like
Ubiquitous
and I'd have to admit
that I found the word
Ubiquitous
Ubiquitous
but didn't know what it meant
until after my 40th birthday,
which wasn't that long ago.
I just never looked it up.
ewr
You choose the word.
If you're simple,
it will be something like
Love.
Then I'll describe
Love
to you
from every aspect and perspective
without ever using the word
Love.
If you're average,
you might choose something like
Politics
or
Religion
to get me going.
I've not fallen for that trick
in years
and nor should you,
for in
Politics
and
Religion
the only people who matter
are not you.
Now, if you're complicated,
I might get a word out of you like
Ubiquitous
and I'd have to admit
that I found the word
Ubiquitous
Ubiquitous
but didn't know what it meant
until after my 40th birthday,
which wasn't that long ago.
I just never looked it up.
ewr
08 February 2009
Day 39/365
I met a dodo on the street one day
and wondered what her feathers had to say.
"This one," she said, "is for my poetry,
a quill with which I write a potpourri
of metaphors for all that I betray."
I asked, "What's this one for?" "That one's cliché.
That's why I dyed it blue: to wash away
the boring and the trite." I said, "I see,"
but didn't as we chatted on that day.
"There's one more you must see." I said, "Okay,"
with much aplomb, I do admit. "It's gray
but it's the softest one because it's me.
They're me, all raw and cooked, like memories
of childhood and sex." Quite an array
as dodo and her feathers spoke that day.
ewr
and wondered what her feathers had to say.
"This one," she said, "is for my poetry,
a quill with which I write a potpourri
of metaphors for all that I betray."
I asked, "What's this one for?" "That one's cliché.
That's why I dyed it blue: to wash away
the boring and the trite." I said, "I see,"
but didn't as we chatted on that day.
"There's one more you must see." I said, "Okay,"
with much aplomb, I do admit. "It's gray
but it's the softest one because it's me.
They're me, all raw and cooked, like memories
of childhood and sex." Quite an array
as dodo and her feathers spoke that day.
ewr
Day 38/365
taking my time
but hurrying up
i have to write this
in less than one minute
or I'm not going to make
my daily deadline
of writing a poem a day
for the entire year
this year
too late.
ewr
but hurrying up
i have to write this
in less than one minute
or I'm not going to make
my daily deadline
of writing a poem a day
for the entire year
this year
too late.
ewr
06 February 2009
05 February 2009
04 February 2009
Day 35/365
"I'm sorry,
we're having a bit of trouble
with the computers.
As soon as it's all
straightened out,
we'll have you
out of here
in a jiffy!"
The queue grows,
customers sigh,
grown,
click their tongues
as they wait.
A robbery might liven up
the place,
or a terrible two-year-old
knocking over plants
or velvet ropes
could entertain.
The muzak overhead,
a dreadful version of Tori's "Cornflake Girl,"
makes for a surreal deal.
"Kill me," a blond in a leather jacket
with a red gloves and dangling scarf breathes.
"We'll be dead of old age shortly,"
offers a beefy guy,
older with a blue bandanna covering
what must be his bald head,
dressed in denim neck to construction boots.
"Hey! I'm not goin' anywhere that soon,"
said the oldest lady in line,
hair dyed a natural brown,
glasses that look like they need replacing,
and a long blue coat that's threadbare polyester.
A guy in black glasses
and a black suit
and a blacker toupee
bolts without a word...
the gap closes,
and the folks wait.
ewr
we're having a bit of trouble
with the computers.
As soon as it's all
straightened out,
we'll have you
out of here
in a jiffy!"
The queue grows,
customers sigh,
grown,
click their tongues
as they wait.
A robbery might liven up
the place,
or a terrible two-year-old
knocking over plants
or velvet ropes
could entertain.
The muzak overhead,
a dreadful version of Tori's "Cornflake Girl,"
makes for a surreal deal.
"Kill me," a blond in a leather jacket
with a red gloves and dangling scarf breathes.
"We'll be dead of old age shortly,"
offers a beefy guy,
older with a blue bandanna covering
what must be his bald head,
dressed in denim neck to construction boots.
"Hey! I'm not goin' anywhere that soon,"
said the oldest lady in line,
hair dyed a natural brown,
glasses that look like they need replacing,
and a long blue coat that's threadbare polyester.
A guy in black glasses
and a black suit
and a blacker toupee
bolts without a word...
the gap closes,
and the folks wait.
ewr
03 February 2009
Day 34/365
The recliner sat empty, cold
as Mom and I rifled through
scads of clutter and paperwork
that sat at his left,
his dominant hand once.
Gun magazines and catalogs
stacked every-other-way
in a tall pile
fit easily into
brown Acme grocery bags
he horded behind the refrigerator
for the same reason
he bought buckets of golf balls
he never used.
A tackle box held his jewelry,
pocket watches antique and new,
rings of skulls and eyeballs
that pleased his wannabe biker side,
a Shrinky Dink disk of mushrooms
I'd traced and baked for him
when I was nine, or younger.
Two tall canisters
that once held expensive cheap wine
were filled with bulk candy.
Licorice bears sat in one,
stiff in appearance
and benign in odor.
The other contained nonpareils,
my father's favorite,
all chocolate,
all stuck together.
The texture of those tiny white spheres
between my fingers
brought me to a day at Disney,
September, my twelfth birthday.
Between the Hall of Presidents
and another ride through the Haunted Mansion,
Dad brought me into a store
where candy lined each aisle and wall
and told me to get whatever I wanted.
I wandered, looking for the prefect treat.
From across the store,
I spotted Dad
eying a section on bulk nonpareils
in all flavors and colors.
He was in his thirties, then,
strong and thin.
His shape was hourglass,
with barbel shoulders
and runner legs.
The thick black mustache
was the one that tickled
when he kissed me goodnight,
every night
and told me he loved me,
as I kissed him goodnight
before they closed the lid.
ewr
as Mom and I rifled through
scads of clutter and paperwork
that sat at his left,
his dominant hand once.
Gun magazines and catalogs
stacked every-other-way
in a tall pile
fit easily into
brown Acme grocery bags
he horded behind the refrigerator
for the same reason
he bought buckets of golf balls
he never used.
A tackle box held his jewelry,
pocket watches antique and new,
rings of skulls and eyeballs
that pleased his wannabe biker side,
a Shrinky Dink disk of mushrooms
I'd traced and baked for him
when I was nine, or younger.
Two tall canisters
that once held expensive cheap wine
were filled with bulk candy.
Licorice bears sat in one,
stiff in appearance
and benign in odor.
The other contained nonpareils,
my father's favorite,
all chocolate,
all stuck together.
The texture of those tiny white spheres
between my fingers
brought me to a day at Disney,
September, my twelfth birthday.
Between the Hall of Presidents
and another ride through the Haunted Mansion,
Dad brought me into a store
where candy lined each aisle and wall
and told me to get whatever I wanted.
I wandered, looking for the prefect treat.
From across the store,
I spotted Dad
eying a section on bulk nonpareils
in all flavors and colors.
He was in his thirties, then,
strong and thin.
His shape was hourglass,
with barbel shoulders
and runner legs.
The thick black mustache
was the one that tickled
when he kissed me goodnight,
every night
and told me he loved me,
as I kissed him goodnight
before they closed the lid.
ewr
02 February 2009
Day 33/365
race over concrete
observing speed limit
ire over dump truck
observing laws of physics
eat hydrogenated oils
drink high fructose corn syrup
pick up lisinopril
rue the queue
attempt to purchase air
through a broken tube
notice stupidity of the race
FDIC insured capitalism
toss kibble in bowl
thaw birthday cake
admire gaeta's porcelain skin
while counting backwards
ewr
observing speed limit
ire over dump truck
observing laws of physics
eat hydrogenated oils
drink high fructose corn syrup
pick up lisinopril
rue the queue
attempt to purchase air
through a broken tube
notice stupidity of the race
FDIC insured capitalism
toss kibble in bowl
thaw birthday cake
admire gaeta's porcelain skin
while counting backwards
ewr
01 February 2009
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