24/30 Arose

Posted in NaPoWriMo, Poetry, Que Interesante with tags , , , , , , , , , on 05/02/2015 by spikedaeley

When courage summoning feels like bled dry
and even evening’s cool kiss stings parasitic

when the static ominous of countdown
heartbeats lingers behind closed eyes

when hope is a dead language spoken
only by library ghosts and scratched vinyl

I multiply the space between broken teeth
by my empty, dive into my own natural disasters

and tape my glasses back together. No matter
how many times they swallow me whole I will

still know my own reflection in darkness. Still
smile through the gaps. Arose by any other name

is still ascended. Already lifted myself out of THEIR
nightmare. It’s ME they should be worried about.



23/30 Democracy Now. (16 bars)

Posted in Hip hop, NaPoWriMo, Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on 04/29/2015 by spikedaeley

Warning so explicit they like, “How explicit is it? “

I’m like “Have you ever witnessed the scope of folks indifference?”

They like, “Damn. I bet that shit is wicked can I get me some?” I’m on it

I’m not sure when I’m done you’re gunna want it.

Let’s be honest, tomorrow’s not a promise it’s a lie

More accurate a half-truth, they stare at me like statues

I’m like damn, did someone break your smartphone?

Aren’t those, tickets for the “We All Got Scars Show?” (thought so)

Me I keep mine open then adjust my daily dosage

Of self-medicate, levitate, simmer for a moment

Then it’s on again, battle with my rattled self-confidence

Brush off compliments like dirt off my shoulders (like wow)

Definitely fortunately fortunate but

Cynical as exiles with invitations from governments

A sucker is, born so frequently it might surprise you

My culture is, more poisonous than even I’d surmised boo

22/30 Olde Man Winter vs. Plague Doctors (it reads better in double-time)

Posted in Hip hop, NaPoWriMo, Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on 04/29/2015 by spikedaeley

Quoth the raven, nevermore
Nevertheless, I never sweat fresh killing floor
Remnants, ghost like a murder of crows
Evidence of the dark side of the force
Calculate how many daily pounds of flesh it takes
In an attempt to pay off the debt overlords
Is that really all they want from me now?
Open a sewed up vein and bleed out
Pour some on the floor for those that came before then
Pour a lil more for souls drawn and quartered
I know those wide lips ain’t really smiling
I know the look of an animal when it’s cornered
Scorched earth, yeah, got plenty of it, every
Fight or flight risk adds a penny to the bucket
Cauterize the scars and unturn the stomach
Pardon my bizarre outlook or confront it
No sweat off mine, so many so-called threats
Brain dead on arrive, cases like mine,
get scopes with red lights and FED types
who put fresh coins over eyes.


21/30- 3 Hay(na)ku (Avoiding the temptation to count each of these as one to play catch up)

Posted in NaPoWriMo, Poetry, Que Interesante with tags , , , , , , , on 04/28/2015 by spikedaeley

you can.
I know it.

you, me.
It’s a date.

more complicated
than it seems.

20/30 Some Seconds

Posted in NaPoWriMo, Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on 04/28/2015 by spikedaeley

Nod at the kebab guy, past Batman pachinko
catch the 5:44, don’t sit, read “Born to Buy.”

Nod, that was my childhood. In between commercials
and politicians lying to me. Fuck you Tipper Gore,

and Nancy Reagan, your husbands were worse though.
I was afternoon kool-aid. Mom and dad usually not

home till after 5. Slept through most of adolescence
anyway. Lipton Brisk and day old donuts for breakfast

courtesy the Kubasaki Science Club and Coach Burns.
If I’d only done the math, could’ve learned about supply,

demand and marking-up for profit. Would’ve been better
at American. Still professional loud and entitled (maybe not

enough though.) College lungs were a smokestack. Those
were my unshowered, late to class, somebody else’s fault

days. (Maybe just enough.) Pulled over once, backwards
alphabet, sorry officered and white college-kidded my “boys

will be boys” straighline walk. Officers were kind enough
to escort me to my friend’s couch. Still had my Jim Morrison

wig on. Karaoke contest, the right person won. Wasn’t me.
Still won that night, clean driving record minus old speeding

tickets. That was 12 starlit years ago. Didn’t care about
anything. Completely invincible. Now, I stop into grocery

stores to wash my hands because I almost pet a stray cat
Quit smoking almost 2 and a half years ago. Radioheading

my own fitter happier. Going back to school in August,
Second Master’s (maybe enough plus plenty?) So this

is adulting. Must’ve tried the skin on out of context.
Some seconds, I’m still seeing the world for the first time.


18/30 So What if I Like Moths (sleep drunk inspired)

Posted in NaPoWriMo, Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on 04/23/2015 by spikedaeley

Night shuffle walk for backache
sound of fluttered hedge leaves,
remember moths are pollinators
too. Remember evolution. Remember
Morgan’s Sphinx Moth, correctly
predicted by Darwin to pollinate
an orchid with a foot and a half-long
spur, then more specifically by Alfred
Russell Wallace who got published credit.

Remember moths don’t give a fuck
about predictions; they find the right flower,
stick their proboscis out and fly into it.
They don’t give a fuck about my forgetting
what they do. Ever since one played tag
with me when I was 18, calmly resting
on my finger, softly beating wings, I have
loved them. Night beauty means taking
a closer look sometimes. Means digging
up streetlights and planting quiet.
Means walking, open-handed, index finger
rigid, craving testaments in pollinated kisses.

Angraecum_sesquipedale_-_Diogo_Correia 2

Photo Courtesy of Diogo Correia (DcB) at Wikimedia

17/30 Come Here. (For my La Cachette)

Posted in NaPoWriMo, Poetry, Que Interesante with tags , , , , , , , , , , on 04/22/2015 by spikedaeley

I love you from your stretch marks
to your tears. From the sunlight curls
left on pillow to your ocean irises.
From the clogged shower drain

to your home from work sighs.
Sometimes, when you enter a room,
I can feel the air shift to make space
for your heartsleeve. Especially

when you are Moody Blues and hate my
calling you that, I am all crows feet and
lip stretch. Smile too wide to hide it.
I know you can see the green tea stains

my teeth wear like merit badges. I am
full of the best kind of don’t care. The
kind that says, “Come here, insecure
and confident. Here, fit throwing and

don’t want to talk about it. Here, hesitant
midnight hand requesting permission
to board my jackhammer chest, pounding
tympani roll slowly subsiding as your palm

cups frustration like a 5 year old catching
a firefly. Clumsy, trying desperately not
to crush a living nightlight. Put it in a jar,
with poked hole lid and fresh mown grass,

let it climb sticks and fall down. Let it go
before it dies so it can fly one last time. When
I say, “I can never stay mad at you” I mean,
“Come here. Let your hand be a place warmer

for your head, let my arms wrap around you
like a book cover. Read your pages to me until
we are aged and yellow torn, more dust than spine,
tossed into the ‘Free Box’ of yesterday’s library.”


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