Archive for Poetry

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.



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.”


16/30 One for the Ladies

Posted in NaPoWriMo, Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on 04/21/2015 by spikedaeley

Watched you cartwheel across
your morning minefield

hug the glass shards
in your aquarium

pour Sisyphus some tea
and burn your own effigy

I was like damn, where can I
get some world shoulders like those?

WOMAN, the way you juggle nightmares
like chain lightning and still have time

for accent nails got me spun
like a satellite. I would gladly break orbit

for the touch of your GRAvity. I love
how you spell it with the beginning of

GRAce. Can I just say, that the You Doing
You looks especially amazing on YOU.

The next time you’re carrying us
without complaint, because BECAUSE 😦

please excuse our whiny “Take for granteds”
and remember this as my “Thank you.”



Rorshach’s Journal. 14/30 (Erasure poem composed of notable lines spoken by Rorshach in the film “Watchmen)

Posted in NaPoWriMo, Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on 04/20/2015 by spikedaeley

Squeeze people. Forget how we do things,
Soft, trusting good friend, give me back my face.
You’re locked in with me tonight, comedian,
I remember. I used to come here often,
back when we were partners. You quit.

Heard joke once, Doctor Depressed.
Threatening world says “Treatment is simple.”
Pick up burst tears. “Good joke, everybody.
Roll curtains,” says Tricky Dick.

Dog carcass alley. Morning tire tread,
burst stomach. Streets extend foam
up waists and shout “Save us” whispers

Find out what the score is.
One, nothing.
Come and get me.

God didn’t kill Fate, didn’t butcher Destiny.
God saw us that night, didn’t seem to mind.
I knew… God doesn’t make the world this way.
We do. Nobody cares. Nobody cares but me.

Bad taste in mouth. Failure sits whimpering in his
active, healthy, personality disorders. Dying in California.
Revolving door silhouette victim lifestyle. Asylum in two names.

What kind of cancer? A pretty butterfly.
Exact justice. Keep your own secrets…
Never compromise. Suddenly you discover
humanity. Convenient.

Of course, protect Utopia.
What are you waiting for?

No! No!
No! No,
no, no, no!

Walked right into stupid surrender.
Got put down. Tell me, what do you see?

Funny, ancient pharaohs hoping the cadavers
would rise, reclaim hearts from golden jars.
Holding breath. Hold on to something.
Don’t wish to interfere, perhaps,
pull up sharply before… dead.

Fine like this. Some nice flowers.
Clouds. Hiding in plain sight.
You keep calling,

This city’s afraid of me…
I’ve seen its true face.

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