This one comes fresh off the presses (or permanent marker) from the Adjustment project I’ve been tinkering with off and on for awhile now.
That House on Word Wednesday
poem
Word Wednesday Out Of Time
Sometimes, it’s fun to mess around on the page (or screen).
a man out of time had Bukowski lived in the Age of Facebook, you know damn well he’d have been trolling at 2am instead of writing poems drunk as hell, giggling as he typed another flamethrower reply then sit back & watch the show which is how i comfort myself on nights like this when nothing is getting done.
Part of me does wonder about what someone like Hank would’ve thought of today’s world. Another part thinks he would’ve thought about it the same way he did about his own world and time: poorly.
Either way, the image of Buk sitting down at his computer, cigarette ashing on his shorts, surrounded by beer cans, and typing furiously on social media just to start fights is pretty amusing to me.
Word Wednesday: Adjustment 25
One of the drawbacks of being involved in multiple projects (being in a creative flow as Robert Rodriguez would say) is that it’s easy for one to slip to the side every now and again. I used to get pretty upset about that until recently when I realized that’s okay – as long as it gets picked up again (and nobody is sitting around waiting for it), what’s the harm? After all, most of these things are for my own amusement anyways.
All that to say that I haven’t been making many blackout poems lately, but here’s one that I did.
Word Wednesday Contraptions
After not writing much new poetry while I’ve been stuck in Revision Land, it’s been a veritable explosion of fresh material here!
Okay, so it’s been a couple poems. But still! That’s something.
Here’s one that I wrote yesterday.
contraptions stubbornly sensual, hands reach to caress - lips pout to kiss & find only empty space filled with air & questions. think of that: emptiness filled. an artless definition of love or a crude state of being? all of us, empty & filled in various ways - jury-rigged apparatus on the verge of catastrophe, asked to bear “just a little bit more”
Early Words
I know that it isn’t Word Wednesday, but I woke up to snow in Southern Maine on April 28 and a lack of motivation to write much besides and endless stream of cuss words and other “get off my lawn” – ish grumbling.
So instead, here’s a new poem that I was going to save until tomorrow.
bon voyage holes poked in the stage curtain sky, shine down on me as comets chase their tails - money, in its various incarnations being shifted around the globe in elected electrons - down here, it’s steady as she goes while first class places another bet on catastrophe and low prices - only the poor bastards up there in the crows nest know for sure what’s coming - & we stopped listening to them a long time ago.
Word Wednesday Gone To The Birds
Reaching back a bit for this one because I’ve been living in The Land of Revision as of late instead of writing new things. I’ll be glad to find some sort of an end to this project if only to say it’s done. In the meantime, enjoy this little chestnut from a few years back.
birds of a feather because birds of a feather who never quite come together are pulled apart from the part from which they want to be a part... something whole for once instead of a piece without peace that never quite finds that lease on life - first or second that they’ve heard so much about and without a doubt the hardest part is the softest spot because that’s where the dagger goes and it shows in the way that she curls away from life in general - the way she turns away from even the slightest compliment or passing glance that never quite passes without a chance to cut... or pierce that veil of stale air that surrounds her inside that armor shell
Upward On Word Wednesday
There are four certainties in life. Death and taxes seem to get all the ink, but I firmly believe there’s two others. One is that the quickest way to get a bunch of tables when you’re a waiter is to order food for yourself. The other is that the quickest way to wind up writing about something is to say you haven’t been writing. The universe likes to point out how foolish we humans are.
So yeah, after my little diatribe yesterday about my lack of writing and late 90’s music, I got myself in gear with some prompts and cranked out the poem you’ll read today. And you know what? I like it. There’s a bit of editing and sanding of edges to be done, but this one felt good writing it yesterday, felt good typing it up this morning, and feels good sharing it.
Read More →
The Right Stuff on Word Wednesday
This is one I stumbled across this morning and sparked my interest.
In the same way I’m confused when people who played beautifully (or at least better than myself) have given up on music, I’m still in disbelief over some of the writers I’ve known who have given up on words. Of course, I say this as someone who hasn’t touched a saxophone in quite awhile, so maybe I understand more than I’m willing to admit.
the right stuff
all the best poets i’ve known
have moved on to other things
one is shaping metal on the west coast
and the other is oil painting on the east
both were sublime with the word
and gave it up, seemingly cold turkey
yet here i am, plugging away with talent
that could be measured in microns
why?
because the words won’t let me go?
because my ego won’t let me go?
one more night, listening to the automobiles tear by
after last call, going to parts unknown & destruction -
this keyboard, a friendly face, wondering
about the peers who have disappeared.
Word Wednesday Is For Suckers
I’ll level with you, dear reader – no way no how do I feel like writing or posting anything this morning. Little bit of frost over everything like winter’s last gasp, a desaturated look to the morning… these are not a few of my favorite things. However, if there’s one thing that’s worth doing even when you don’t want to (besides exercise), it’s writing. So here’s a little something from last year that’s been dusted off and touched up a bit for your reading pleasure.
this one is for you, sucker
catching the first moments of day:
soft sheets on coarse skin,
grey light over trees,
waiting on the drip of coffee.
it seems so quiet
even with birds & cars,
and i wish it’d stay like this
forever, but also don’t.
i look around the room,
at each object - each thing,
silently thinking: “someone
made that”
and it all seems so pointless.
a bottle cap - a good, practical invention -
is better by far
than most of what i surround
myself with.
but is guilt for suckers?
perhaps.
Word Wednesday’s Everybody
Today’s poem has just stepped out of the Wayback Machine from 2011, so please be gentle with it as the acclimation process concludes. There was some minimal editing, but it amounted mostly to line breaks and a couple strategic spaces.
everybody’s everybody
nobody wants to die
to get to heaven
living in the past
& planning for tomorrow
one foot here and another over there
one good swing and you’re on your back
everybody’s everybody
doesn’t know nothing but a thing
a thing is no thing
and every thing
to everybody,
everyone
is an everybody.