true people true people

Category: NaPoWriMo 2014 (page 1 of 1)

The public organ

The general public does not have any organs.
It does not have a set of ears to hear you so you can talk without fear of unwanted attention.
Feel at ease with the veil of anonymity for it grants you the freedom to create intimacy with your friends or your family.
Unless, of course, someone responds to your actions strongly enough that they break out of the Public and become their individual selves. The Public takes note and transconsciously keeps tally.

Swastika – NaPoWriMo #12

A compass, a way of being, a symbol of unity:
The swastika originates from the ancient tongues of the Vedas,
The spiritual cradle of Buddha, and it reads in Sanskrit:
“It is good”. 

Scribed upon warped, wooden doors, 
It served as an invitation to Lakshmi, the Hindu Goddess of Wealth and Prosperity.
Come in, it would read, in ox’s blood or cardinal ink,
And you are in good company. 

Symbols satisfy. And they succour in times of sorrow.
And they sit still in great rivers, eroding every so slightly.
But History is not a river – it is an ocean of tides 
And waves full of wrath and kinetic force. 
And out of turbulent seas come creatures of chaotic being.

The soft-shelled discourse among social scientists confirms
Hitler’s unique discernment: his social grace and the gesticulating phrase.
And his radical beliefs that under-mined the Nazi Party’s philosophical regime
were eclipsed by the banners that preached:
“This is Good”
“This is Home”
“Arya”, again in Sanskrit
While the swastika points to
The great, white pillars of Rome.

And the pyres of patriotism stoked the purblind vision
Of the average, German citizen – 
no different than any other citizen – 
And the ancient, mystic, holy vision of peace massaged 
Through loving-kindness and self-awareness
Was martyred by the Mephistophelian mission.

And good fortune was gone. And the meek marginalized.
And the world whimpering between the shadow-dancing walls.
And the immortal paintings of proto-man murky
In their discontent.

I saw a billboard in Crimea, Ukraine urging voters to accept the Referendum 
To revert to being Russia’s Kiev;
The ancient dead’s incantations materialized by metal-melting men,
Who are more thieves than brothers.

And the billboard depicted the choice between Yes/No
As the choice between: 
A tri-coloured Crimea
A Black-and-Red Concentration Cell
Powered by the Machinations
Of the ever-inflamed

Even irony is dead, crushed beneath the tightening coil of Kleptocrats,
Who kill rapturous History just to watch her bleed between the cracks
In the concrete.

in the metro

The subway scream resonates within my chest cavity and my lungs breathe in the roar of the fading dreams that yet cling to the crow’s nests perched upon the hull of my weathered eyes. It is stormy within and concrete without. I am as deep underground in the collapsed mines of my trepidation and the leaden weight soaring above me grounds me in these fleeting moments of liminal sensibility. I am falling horizontally where the sky is pumped through ventilators and vacuum-sealed ports. Will I remember these moments in my days of molted, mottled skin. Damn the corruption of gin and the engines of entropy. Would this train reach Elysium by cutting through the core of human turbulence and sin! But there is only work to wither my reserves of wonder. I will age beyond my years in the pursuit of security. 

in the company of writers

In the company of writers,
every word is treasured.
Each phrase or paraphrased anecdote
Is turned over and twisted and rearranged
By Experience and Intuition and Irrationality
To extract meaning from perspective
And to boil truth from trial.

Coffee-cup questions and curiosities are courted out for company
Present or otherwise or in mime;
Dance to the jingle of diner spoons and sehnsucht.

Tears efface the wrinkles in your hand,
The soft, sunken spot plotted upon your cheek,
And the crinkled chin.

My hand is unfamiliar. Unwarranted. Grasping.
I am turning a knob to a door without a frame
And I am lost in the dark space of your gaze.
Yearning. Expanding to encompass my destination. Grasping.

We listen for the moments that we missed and we jot it all down in the notebooks that we’ll miss when we are so old our bladders take 20 minutes to take a goddamn piss and the youth and the beauty was so close you could taste it with raspberry lips incandescence.

I want the memoir ink of every word to wind its way back into the mouth of babes from whence they came so I could see the world all young, afresh again.

NaPoWriMo 09 April 2014

And the sink is clogged with sweaty dishes again.

The same interminable battle between antiseptics and life.

As if there were no longer any rhyme or reason to the monthly purges of mold and mildew.

I am just a cog in the great machine of death. And I have come for the slimes and slops of my decrepit china.

An inheritance of filth incubated by my privilege and lazy deferment.

May I liquidate my assets and become a glob of goo.

NaPoWriMo April 08

It’s just a gloomy day, that’s all.
And a deficiency in vitamins.
Nothing to worry about. Nothing that can’t be fixed or undone.
The tides have asserted their presence somewhere else;
All is withdrawn.
Leaders have lost. They’re riding down their memoirs.
Misspelled dignity. Soiled sanctity. All will come to light grace à Charbonneau.

Politics will persist. Putrid and triste.
I have some plans of my own pour le Nord.
That’s a lie.
I will never venture into that unmarked wilderness. That untamed geography.
Quiet in its mild, measured entropy.

I will light no great lights up there nor dive into the seabeds of cavernous rock. 
I will leave it untamed. 
My plans are for absence.
For the tide is returning here. 
To my province and my time and my people. 

by Michael Clarke
All Rights Reserved


NaPoWriMo #2 Fibonacci Spiral

nuclear division
transcends initial form
flowering, deviating from the source
slowly, inexorably, imperceptibly, mutations alien to their lineage
manifest within genetic environments rubbing elbows wearing colours forming traits and claiming species
claiming territories boundaries osmotic as wind and tide and quakes and lakes of lava which reshape sea-surrounded continents speckled with lakes
teeming with life inside life inside life duplicitous as Indra’s net interwoven with the simmering substance of primordial soups milky with the tears of stars torn asunder beyond the tundras of scattered scarlet moons.
And what was at first complex is now a simple pattern. What began once may begin again until entropy wins out in the end. Heat death is immanent. Nothing is sacred in infinite space. Only time may log on and blag about endless trivialities until it turns in upon itself and collapses inward. Consciousness is
an emergent property aroused by manifold deviations self-replicating perfectly with errors and irregularities of rhythm and rhyme postulating periods of dissonance in the DNA that hallowed corridor of our ancient selves buried deep within the universe of every cell conducting experiments discoursing data concocting chemical receptacles for refined labyrinthine genetic code rolled into double-helix highway libraries static electricity sanctuaries corroborating corridors of knowledge condensed from the saturnine radiation of solar powered melted magnets made from magnified nuclear fusion settling heavy metals in the mucus of a star’s exploding innards.


NaPoWriMo-April Fool’s Day

Post #1/30
You have curled around my feet to warm my soles, and I have dipped my toes into your ocean.
I waited to wade into the waves, terrified of the undertow.

All my life, I have marched towards the horizon. Here, it ends, and another
world begins.

I cannot voyage into your depths for I would sink straight to the bottom.
You cannot climb my mountains, for the air would suck you dry.

So, side by side, surf by sand, we hold that line between us
As if we were holding hands.

Silent eddies ripple in your wake while I weave a trail
into the sandbanks.


We have scavenged for salt and found only fresh water.
We have grated on each other’s shores as coarse vespers and felt ashamed to hear the echoes. The winding wind sings above the metronome of the surf to
steal our song from under us. The lungs of the Earth overwhelm our timid tin-alley tunes.

Maybe, when we run out of wind to whisper with,
we will shatter our stony secrets in the vacuum of space and sing for loss and absence. For now, it is all too far away to consider. The tenderness of youth hides its hopes in the wild flowering of our blushing faces.


These are the few paltry gifts we harbour from the forces of fear:
warm breath, torn tickets, headless beer.

I kiss your eyes and lick the salt from my lips.
Such hard candy.
My swollen tongue ballooning between my gums is like blown glass