Lorinda slept in a trailer in Ohio
Near Oberon.
Parks and Rec on the tube.
A blue quilt over her teeth.
Free outdoor music festivals
Are chaotic and suffocating.
Finally my turn.
Fuck Ronald Regan!
You are a sloshing water of cup.
This poem was composed via collaboration with @rootsofkarate (Jordan), @barronpeper (Whitney), JP, and Jenna. It was delayed due to Covid-19 like so many other things.
NaPoWriMo22All of this exists still Breathing into the bowl Crinkled brow
Limericks are the sound of love You’re not going to jump of your leg Finger feeding the food in the mouth hole Cheese to tip to face over and over
Friendship.
NaPoWriMo22First thing’s first, stretch.
Get some water—hydrate.
Move a little more. The body’s. made for it, needs it.
Next, stillness. Make time for it.
Everything that comes after
will be grateful. No matter
what the mind says right now.
Keep at it with the water.
Move even more. Find
more stillness. Call a friend.
Don’t forget to read. Your
work will be grateful for it.
Stretch again. Forgive someone.
Like yourself. Do that every
hour, maybe. Hydrate!
This is the one shot you’ve got—
today.
Don’t forget to stretch.
When I think of the
poetry of Charles Bukowski,
I always picture him
reading, writing, and, well,
drinking in the shadows of
a dive bar somewhere in
Los Angeles. It’s one of
those bars that stands alone.
Perhaps the building on one
side of it burnt down
years ago. The other side?
A fenced off abandoned
lot. It’s that kind
of place where a couple
of strangers are huddled in the
dark doorway sharing a
smoke. The jukebox is
broken, and the bartender
couldn’t possibly care about
your troubles. But I never,
and I mean never, have
imagined Bukowski pulling
up in his old jalopy into
the parking lot of a busy
stripmall in the suburbs. A
stripmall that contains—
inexplicably—well, a
dive bar. Where the people
sharing a smoke aren’t
huddled in the dark. Rather
they stand on a sidewalk
shared by a Starbucks
(on one side) and a T-Moble
on the other. Something
tells me that it’s
not the kind of place
that could produce some
of the most misogynistic
poetry possible. That’s
gotta be a good thing.
When it’s a whirlwind, it’s a whirlwind.
What else might you expect
when you pile on
and on and on?
Don’t pretend you didn’t ask for
this. You just didn’t realize it.
That is the unfortunate
truth of naiveté.
And of desire.
The space between
notes, minutes, breaths
holds the truths of
a given moment.
Build it up, so it
can come apart.
Listen for the cracks
not the seals.
The space between
hearts, bodies, movement
reveals the truths of
being human.
Pull it close, so it
can push away.
Feel for the heart
not just the skin.
The space between
time, worlds, Gods
creates the truths of
Life itself.
And the form falls away
with all the humor of
a world that weeps for
the broken hearts, the
violence, the injustice
that fills
the space between.
NaPoWriMo22
Liberat.es