Archive | April 2012

National Poetry Writing Month

So a few days ago, my friend Laura invited me and my friends Valerie and (former professor and also friend) Aaron to write a poem a day for April, which just so happens to be National Poetry Writing Month. So here I am, a few days late, with multiple poems. Hopefully I’ll do better at publishing said poems on a more regular basis. Until then, I hope this will be enough. Oh yes, and please be gentle – I’m just writing and seeing what happens. However, gentility does not preclude comments, critical or otherwise – those are always welcome.

April 1

These words
jump and
skittle and

And run away from me
before I can pin them down.

Then I’m left
with nothing
but a

Which I attribute to
my own incompetence.


It was not my fault at all?

April 2

you came to me
and pulled me out of the rot

and set my feet
in the cement
of notes&bars
that mean nothing

when compared with
the unquestionable, significant heartbreak of
meeting a song that fills the void

April 3

I spent today painting.
Mostly a room, but also, indirectly,
Paint. Splotches. Streaks.
Up one arm and down the other.
But I’m too lazy to wash it off.

Then again — Maybe it’s worth keeping
As a reminder of tasks completed and hours passed.
However uncouth or ugly
Because I did. I accomplished.
And it was enough.

April 4

The girl in the red dress runs through the sewers.
Looking for her parents or shoes or something normal.
Just so she could smell nothing, instead of this–this refuse.
She tripped and fell into it,
Cold brown coating her knobby, not-yet-hairy knees.
Up she got.
And still she runs.

April 5

Inadequacies stop my pen on this page.
But the irony kills me–aren’t we all inadequate?
Is it not that which makes us human?
I suppose I would rather slog,
Dragging my failures behind me through the dirt,
Than to forget them completely and not be able to move at all.

April 6

Today is Friday.
I’m fairly certain it’s a good one.
But my head is elsewhere.

The getting-lost-in-the-everyday-tasks elsewhere.
And this is not how it should be.

He was not scourged and
broken and beaten and

So that I could sit in my room
on a bright, sunny Friday
listening to records.