June 19, 2016 (Father’s Day)

Questions are not always

Answered, nor solutions

Solved. Which side

 

Are you on? 

Dispensing the known

To those who do not

Know what is needed;

 

Survival. It is not

All we want but

Necessary to getting

 

Up each day and enjoying

That first cup of coffee. 

 

This is Poem #97 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

This particular poem is part of a series inspired by my visit to The International Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, Maine. Some days I’d just point to a location on the museum map, and write from there.

Crypto Map

The front page of The International Cryptozoology Museum’s floor map.

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June 14, 2016

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An image from the article in Bitch.

 

I read the etymology 

Of the word the other

Day in an article in Bitch,

And the Oxford confirms;

 

Vagina, it seems,

Stems from Latin for

Sheath for a sword.

 

Even this sacred

Orifice that brings 

Life into the world

Confined to the prison

Of what she can do

For a man. 

 

No. Ladies,

Cunt, the article said-

A monosyllabic 

Torpedo – and powerful-

 

Is more to be reclaimed 

Than the N-word

Or fag by our queer 

Community.

 

Toss forth Cunt

Lightly at dinner 

parties. State it plainly

When you lie, legs

Spread and the speculum

Cold and inserted,

To your gynecologist. 

Pull it out seductively,

As you whisper into

Your lovers’ ears. 

This is Poem #96 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I challenged myself to spend a year in which I’d wake most mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee. By the end of the year,  I had written 241 poems.  Here, I have published second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

June 14, 2016

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So much likes to shoot

out of the end

of some barrel.

 

Lives get altered – 

or ended-

everyday by what’s

 

been pushed through the tiny hole

at the end. Stand erect and shoot.

 

That’s what boys

do – isn’t it?

And the rest of us-

victims always- argue

about how to best keep 

those swords sheathed. 

 

 

This is Poem #95 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

June 13, 2016

This poem was previously published on July 8, 2016

img_1549

They do not mention

Disney, just

next door to this;

 

49 absolute human

beings chopped down,

last call after the drag

 

queens had wiped off

their make-up and gone

home. No one is

 

waiting in line for Ariel’s

autograph or in the dark

cavern of Space Mountain

 

anymore. Sons texting from rest

rooms never

to be dropped off

 

into the gift-shop

at the end of the ride, where Mickey

waits in welcome.

 

Now, blood leaks

under the door of Pulse,

runs down Main Street, USA,

 

contaminates the slow stream

sliding through Pirates of the Caribbean

and pours down the face of each

 

princess. Eisner, Iger, heck,

Walt, himself, knows – every tragedy is

worse hitched to the Magic Kingdom.

 

img_1594

My family ready to march at Portsmouth Pride 2016.

This is Poem #94 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

 

This poem was previously published on my blog. 

June 12, 2016

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Jumping from bed 

To bed is all she ever wanted

To do: Howard Johnson’s,

 

Holiday Inn, The Ramada. 

Walking down hallways

In the morning, looking at

The newspapers next 

To the doors of strangers. 

 

What happened yesterday,

Last night, as you

Were tucked away

In white hotel sheets,

 

On down pillows,

Falling asleep to the many

televisions and the snores

Or love cries of the people

In the next room?

 

This is Poem #93 from the Poem (Almost) Every Day Project. I awoke on the morning of June 12, 2016 with my husband and daughter in a Vermont hotel suite. We’d been upgraded.

img_1513The night before had been both wonderful and sad and weird. We’d gone to see The National at the MASS MoCA. (Wonderful) But, on our drive returning to our hotel room, we had to stop and help other drivers move a dying deer off of the twisting backroad road. (Sad and Weird)

The next morning, I wrote in my journal and then composed this poem before I checked the news on my iPad and learned of what had happened at Pulse the night before to forever alter our world.

This morning as I revisit this poem, I realize it’s a little eerie.

The next two poems I in this project were written after I’d learned the news and were attempts, as poetry often is, to navigate the devastation.

June 11, 2016

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Who can feel sad

with button eyes

and patched heels?

 

Everyone. There is melancholy

in the sad sock puppet – 

a monkey wearing a hat

and nothing more. Ragged

 

heels and hole in the toe –

now, his nose. Try

to make the little girl

 

smile in the pediatric

ward. (Try to avoid

being eaten by the Truth

Snake.) Crafts

 

take us away 

from ourselves for a while.

 

And you can create

a new being with sadness

 

infused through

your tacky glue, gel 

pens, and scrapbook

 

scissors. Make monkeys

to climb trees

and 

depression. 

This is Poem #92 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

June 9, 2016

Locked away in your tower,

No one every asked 

For your hair to climb

 

Up. And no one believed 

Your truth. (They say 

those who stay

are saints. )

 

(I stay.)

Your children question

Your sanity. You let Apollo

Spit this venom into your

Open mouth. (Was

I asleep? I cannot admit

defeat as Helen 

comes here on the arms

of Paris. I would punch

her again

if I could.)

This is Poem #91 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

June 7, 2016

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Hull of old memories, 

Bee-bops and slow dances,

Soda shop sundaes 

After school – You


Dj’d them all.

With a quarter

And the push of some buttons,

Records dropped


45 RPM and the long arm

Lowered itself onto each

Grove like a gentle 

Lover. Scratched


The melancholy moods

And soft air.


Where is the graveyard of those

Records now?  Melted ashtrays,

Art on diner walls, 

Skeet targets. 


Digital music – so pure

And perfect, convenient.

But never as romantic

As standing arm and arm above

The Wurlitzer choosing your favorite song.


This is Poem #90 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

June 5, 2016

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The formaldehyde is up my nose.

How can a person breath under

Glass? I am blind to the scent

Of preservation now; used

To your desperate

Attempts to keep me

Locked under a tight lid. 


You have kindly punched

Air-holes into the tin – 

So no one is going to fault

You your jar of fireflies,

Kept next to your bed

On the night

Stand. Up stairs,

Tucked in tightly

With the light made

Of captivity’s glow. 


This is Poem #89 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

This particular poem is part of a series inspired by my visit to The International Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, Maine. Some days I’d just point to a location on the museum map, and write from there.

June 4, 2016

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Piled high, your writing overflows

From paper bags. You never

Know who may want to read

You when you are gone. 


Books line walls and windows

Let in sunlight in the afternoon-

Too hot to type then,

And solve plot problems,


Or souls. But, Saturday night,

Tap tap tap and

The whizz and whirl

As keys pound

Out a procrastinated sermon,

And the mimeograph machine

Squirts purple ink

Onto the Sunday 

Bulletin. Words


From a mount more

Authentic than these sterile,

Modern desks. 


This is Poem #88 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. Starting in mid-January 2016, I decided for one year to wake mornings and write a poem before my first cup of coffee on each day that I didn’t teach. I was working part-time then, so in the end I wrote 241 poems.  These are second drafts of  those pieces copied directly from my journal with minimal editing from their “vomit draft” state.

This particular poem is part of a series inspired by my visit to The International Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, Maine. Some days I’d just point to a location on the museum map, and write from there.


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