Saturday, April 14, 2012

NaPoWriMo: April 12-13, 2012


Magic causality.
Superstitions are abridged takes.
Daughter born with soft heart
because I grieved while I carried her.
Father’s leadfoot.
Can’t send out.
On the inside, petty.
Stuffing, ogling.
Now that’s a fucking queen.
Laughing at.
The phone is my shepherd,
hollow point.


The dog is sleeping.
I am so goddamned tired.
I think she is too. 

Thursday, April 12, 2012

NaPoWriMo: April 11, 2012

A revision...

Scared            whorled                       
left in            analyzed bitten                       
aborted                        panicked
knackered  from treading           
subjugated   by ardor                       
and despairing            autobiographed                       
suckered            defenestrated figuratively          
lost            caved in
adjudicated            carried up up up up                                                        
how one             comes    away from     the foundation
fessed and fisted  hammed
gladded  and badded
baded   a hearty heart

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

NaPoWriMo: April, 11, 2012


My mouth
My south-
ern mise en scene

My boquita
My insolent and evil twin
taking my calls for me
making my calls for me

My raging and misfiring
neural pathways

O my stars
O my miserable French

My hair is all mine
My workout this morning
was solid
My how wide-ranging you are

My mama
My descent
My mine

My okay you’re okay
My etymology is song
and God’s promise

My poems are a crypt
My poems are the crypt

My tendencies: self-destructive
My impulses: well-meaning

My grandmother told me
I’d be a guitar

My oh my is that a gun
or are you just happy to be me

My word
My sakes alive
My slow jam
My prom dress made of wood
My admission of complicity
My oppressor
My divinity
My stunning and singular intellect pressed against the slop

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

NaPoWriMo: April 9, 2012

Today I wrote poems with my son. He wrote a poem based on Neruda's Book of Questions. He also wrote an acrostic about Super Mario. I tried to write an acrostic, but that impulse died quickly. 


Sometimes humble  but always             dragon
occasionally     out of range
taller than that                        Braver than this
pounding pavement                        into perpetuity
fan of heat            Sometimes             celebrate good times
trash talking                  the fountain of youth 
straight jeering   the night peters out    along
with my resolve              to  self-improve   Quite
shocking   when             I open my mouth

Monday, April 9, 2012

NaPoWriMo: April 8, 2012

These are the really rough bones for a poem,  but enough for today. 


The charlatan was a prelude
to the colors she’d see

Oh those razor-sharp
colors and their audacious

She shook along
with their wizardry

Laughed the laugh
her mother left
in the cigar box

Two modes diverged
in that yellow mood

Once she was a bad hunter

Sunday, April 8, 2012

NaPoWriMo: April 7, 2012


My drag is a kind of elevator.
It’s like a title.
You’re soaking in it.
It’s chainmail and a courtesy for your likes.
I start my stories with it.
And when I’m hungry it opens the door.
The door is pop-up window into my soul.
Deep and meditative, a vertigo of soul.
My cruel, divisive temperament: my cross
to bear, we all bear it because of out shared
ancestry: lint, filth, water, sulphur. 

Friday, April 6, 2012

NaPoWriMo: April 6, 2012


Please, nuisance, mark your patch.
Kite, there’s an expression for people like you.
It’s not for mixed company.
Puddle, buy me diamonds. Buy me soul food.
Stick, make that gesture more fluid and more advanced.
Yesterday I came to the pond because I’m obsessed with absolution.
It keeps exploding next door.
New York City and what we once were, glitter dyad.
I keep working hard, working it, working for a living.
I shouldn’t have said that.
And then, the reveal.
Dry, she said.
Coat, I know you, coat. I know you’re the jealous type.
The gigolo keyed my frock.
Credit card, open wide. 

NaPoWriMo: April 5, 2012


You’re a brassy spring.
The cloud and its plumage, a fraud.
I arrest my daughter to me.
We’re condensed into a crux. 

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

NaPoWriMo: April 4, 2012

Refrain # 1

Of course I            most often live on the most transgressive edges
of her illness and call it condemnation or measure out
feeble doses of devotion.             After all, I am daughter
and swindler.             Relation and parasite.  

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

NaPoWriMo: April 3, 2012

This is an edit; I'm cheating.Right now I'm formulating one about hair. I'll give myself three edits, like three wishes, for the month.

It cost              liaison and connection  peace of mind
what I had was nearly twelve         coins worth of  goodwill to   spread
over my         whole  natural life            prone    to trouble
not              wise          but back to         desire    the indulgence
cost     me       hours       of sleepless        remorse
it was black and white god that was amazing    rich but the day ends and    gets complex
inside time  lie wish     I had been born             a golddigger      wish
I had been born     with less   oddity    less    diagnosis
pity the self    that teeny weeny self the self   wants to be           unburdened  
of its    bulges

Monday, April 2, 2012

NaPoWriMo April 2, 2012

For a time my body was her body and that inside of being inside of my body is the counternarrative of our shared history. It happens when I find myself in her gestures. We both pluck errant hairs from our chin with our fingernails. We both trace words nervously on our pants over and over. I keep returning to this notion of being her copy because I once make the future from her. Now that’s ironic or terrifying. And I’m cast loose from seeing tomorrow. It’s a brown, cultural, daughter thing. Strangely though because when I touch my skin, it’s foreign because it’s not hers. I’m getting it there, gusseting it with worry and fat and leaving it ashy with neglect---

Sunday, April 1, 2012

NaPoWriMo: April 1, 2012

I'll be posting sections from a long poem I'm writing for a new book. Here's the first. PRELUDE X (from THE BRIEF REMEMBER) I will be apprentice to this study for her. My best gift is mania, drives me into knowing vacuums. I copy her gaps for the context. I retrace the mapless meander of her logic for empathy. Because I was born copy and the honor of that. Inside her is gaps and bursts. Some days the bursts are the most heartbreak. Other times we circle the same spots, and I try to be as I know she was with me once, our bleak and common future to reverse the sphinx. I’m fair to poor copy. That you don’t know her is your misfortune. Know what was, which was a hot planet’s core, a late summer’s best light. Still that, but the center of her, subject of my latest essays. Language was always between us. My job is also to bear the knowledge for all of us. I seek it out as if it were a hunger. I tell my children her brain is pocked with illness, and I summon up the softest image to tell the story. It’s a soft pink vulnerable jelly. It is translucent and contains the future. In this reverie I hold it in my hand and against a lamp because this is my form of intimacy. My nails trace the brown spots that mark her losses. Beautiful and sad and strange, I say because I’m making it into something else.