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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

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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

ca-1910-maine-mt-katahdin-pamoola_1_61bedbd9b82f3eeb044a4a210e999c00-2

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 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

What_is_that

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 24, 2016 (Zoe’s Birthday!)

10364_5d854

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

catamount_pale_ale

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

80s-Vintage-Dr-Martens-14-Eye-Black-Quilon-Boots

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.

April 17, 2016

9afc460913df99543a7c7abc63f953ce

In 1965 you could still believe

In the unbelievable. There were

No drones mapping the floor

Of that Scottish Loch,

 

Nor night vision cameras

Filming the absence of Yeti

In the snow. A Scientist could

Be respected, smoking

 

His pipe and examining

Evidence from blurry

Photographs of UFOs and eye-witness

Reports of Bigfoot.

 

In 1995, Mulder wants

To believe and so do I.

 

I do not want scientific

Verification to prove or disprove

What is meant to be

Unknowable. Wood paneled

 

Walls and papers piled

On the shag carpet. Typewriter

Clicking and file drawer ajar.

 

This is Poem #61 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 16, 2016

 

They put them on the spots

That work best – sucking

Your blood to the surface.

 

Polka dots on alabaster

Skin. A veneer

Of bruises and blood. Every

 

Mircroaggression a parasite

To siphon out another piece

Of your soul and the human

Spirit shrinks, smaller,

 

And smaller, and smaller.

 

This is Poem #60 of the Poem (Almost) Everyday Project.

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