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May 1, 2016
They dream there is some way
To stop the world spinning
Beneath his light-touch toes.
That if they pull the correct
Lever, the ride will stop
And they can give him
Alterations needed
To stop the dance. They
Disapprove of it. All
Of it was not part
Of a vision they had,
Looking down at his
Tight little fists
Clamped to a blue blanket,
Cries for milk and momma addressed.
Now, his cries are ignored;
Running away to a friend’s house,
His boyfriend knocking at the door –
A missed chance to change the world,
Instead of their son.
This is Poem #71 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.
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April 30, 2016
A meditation on feminist ideals after visiting “Killer Heels” at the Currier Gallery.
Small, blue eyes watch
Mothers in their vanity glass
Glide lipstick across their mouths and
When alone their tiny feet
Prance in front of full-view
Reflections in platform
Shoes -corked in 70’s
Glamour. She dreams
Of growing up
Into the rites of passage
That define and condemn
Her.
The dichotomy of feminism –
Trained as we grow to love
And to hate the adornments
Of women. Am I weak
Because I will not go into public
Without mascara?
Do torturous stilletos
On the dance floor
Make me silly
And shallow?
Red shoe spikes
And jewels and
Power.
April 29, 2016
According to Urban Dictionary,
A Pamoola is a short,
Obese, and ignorant woman
(who has delusions of grandeur.)
She apparently “ear-fucks”
People. The nomenclature
Is derived from Puma –
Yet the Pamoola is not
A cougar. No official
Record of the cat exists
Since 1938, but hence,
She prowls in the night.
This is Poem #69 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.
April 28, 2016
Snakes, it seems, are always
There to mislead. Times
Are no better now; we
Just have more
Conveniences. Toilet
Paper is nice and computers,
Too – but, they mask a reality
That’s always been. Was
What the serpent told Eve
Really so bad – eat this
Apple to know? And she
Shared.
Today, seems most are
Chomping away at
That fruit, spitting
Out the arsenic seeds
And keeping what
They can for themselves.
(Cocaine, hookers, & yachts.)
The Sea Serpent
Will rise, eventually, reveal
Herself, shake off the ocean
Waters and swallow them whole.
This is Poem #68 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.
April 27, 2016
Every once in a while
You have to turn that knob
And let the pressure
That’s been heating your house,
Banging your pipes, escape
Into the ether of the room.
Ghosts dancing
In the dusty sunlight.
If not you, who will?
The compulsion becomes too much,
And the knocking commences.
The radiators are less efficient
And wail like a sorrowful woman
in the night. Give me
What I need, she moans.
It will grab you
Out of the best sleep.
It will torment you
As you write poetry
In your journal, as
The sun streams in,
And the flowers wilt
Under the surprise
Frost of last night.
This is Poem #67 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.
April 26, 2016
Tried to keep the flame
At a low, steady simmer;
Strength under the radar,
Or under the gun. Sick of living
Just to get through it.
Need to make the next
One easier. Need
To keep the spinning
Red blaze down.
Smoke signals
Worked for a bit,
Made change, but
After a while even
They blend into
The darkening sky.
Flare up passion
And flare up
Anxiety attacks.
Not sure what
Our future holds
But this anger
Will always be
The pilot light
Underneath the hood.
This is Poem #66 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.
April 25, 2016
“I don’t want to leave. This is the first time and place where I ever have been accepted for who I really am.” ~ A transgender youth when saying goodbye at a GLSEN event.
90 sets of feet
Clad in stiletto
Heels, “Chuckies,”
or Dr. Martens,
Stomped, bounced,
Shuffled to their
Own beats. For
Three hours – before
The clock struck
And sent all back
to pumpkins
to mice
to rags –
All 180 feet
Could be true
to love
to identify
The Fairy Godmother
Who granted time
And cheese sticks,
Chicken fingers,
And drag queen
Emcees of magic.
This is Poem #65 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 written the morning after GLSEN New Hampshire’s annual Prom OUTLoud.
April 24, 2016 (Zoe’s Birthday!)
So much of you
Is stored in the dead
Cells squeezed through
Your scalp like a Play-Doh
Barbershop in slow motion.
Every heart, broken
By the phone, heap
On the floor,
Tears in the closet,
Shimmies through in the lock.
If we shave our heads,
Will sorrow leave
Like a widow,
Bald and cast
To a life of silence
And solitude?
There can be joy
Again, I suppose,
A remaking
Of oneself
In the quiet
Beyond arrangements
You were too
Young to understand,
And trees
Bearing the fruit
You never got to eat.
This is Poem #64 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.
April 23, 2016
Malt and Mothman,
Brewing for Bigfoot’s
Fame, Catamount –
I’d drink it, just because
It had a cat on the label.
If you can remove
The label
From your beer
Without tearing it,
You’ll get laid that
Night. Mythology
And alcohol do
Mix.
This is Poem #63 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.
April 20, 2016
Amy’s Doc Martens
Had mismatched soles,
When she sauntered
To England and back,
And then left Florida
For good. In her first
Will, she left
The 14-eye boots
To me and they
Collect dust on top
Of the memories
We shared.
She was up – left foot.
And down – right foot.
And the medicine never
Even had a chance
To help her. Scribbled
Wills and songs and Fridays
We’re in love. “I don’t care
if Monday’s blue.” Except,
She did. And
No amount of dancing in circles,
Jumping in her bouncing soles
At the Back Rail could
Lead her way to Tuesday.
This is Poem #62 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.
