NaPoMo scribbles and others I like
the nut house
Carpet brown Berber filthy, stinking of dying building and scent of small animal. Hard, brown pellets scatter behind metal cabinets filled with old papers covered in numbers.
I block my ears with music to drown the high-pitched hoots and discordant squawks of birds. Noise pollution pulls me from my tasks, though piano plinks stack walls against feminine calls. Printer’s buzz and whine spits papers covered in numbers, numbers, bottom lines.
Big fat hen in charge pecked out my eyes, and since I was already deaf and now blind, I discarded that notion of myself. I cracked an egg, born anew, took the check and flew the coop.
soylent green
emerald squares
stain kingdoms where
crowns of ragwort
dagger-leaved dandelion
a queen's filigree
furnished succor
thin-winged courtesans
supping with straws
laborers fat and fuzzy
dusted with pollen
nobles in feathered mantle
song in throat
grumbling machines
mince greens beneath
an intention to feed
symmetrical soldiers
straight edge patches
a new order
Keen blade slides through peeled white root,
cuts smooth starchy slices.
Metallic paper skin and infernal scent stings.
Knife against cutting board:
chok chok chok.
Oil shimmers,
hisses as medallions are laid
in the pan, cast iron passed down
from hand to hand,
steward of fried potatoes.
Brown crust gathers where
greased gold licks, starchy
bits sticks, onions cook clear
and whiff creates impatience.
Soft fluffy heart, caramelized brown,
ground pepper, garlic salt,
scorch tongue when scarfing down.
Are we trapped inside a pyramid scheme?
Sandwiched between safety, and esteem?
Barely above primitive needs?
Transcendence, a gift, within our grasp
or a thing ephemeral and structureless?
Was Mr. Maslow in the know
about poetic verse in
psychological prose?
“Behaving and relating,
as ends rather than means,
to oneself, to significant others,
to human beings.”
Slender limbs, bulbed head
Crinkled foil orb, black bar slit
Arms writhe, eyes pivot
White moon disc suckers
roil ‘round sacked soft pearls, hoisted
rock grotto treasure
Mother cleans her house
Rock-a-bye rub, gentle thresh
Babes nap, ceiling creche
Gelatinous buds
split, emits perfect eight legs
Tiny clear-drop blooms
No time for dinner
Mother waves goodbye, drops limbs
grows still, closes eyes
[ April is full ]
of timid color, tepid rain, pollen thick breath
wild, wild wind
& I can't help but feel hope
from peeking poking greens
the ruffled flourish of the narcissus
the bravado of creeping weeds
sluggish roots wrap 'round humus
tied tight & the light
at the end of the day grows long
I can see it true
sprigs, sticks, sprites
waking life, paying homage
to the earth laid low, low like
sleep & like dreams
& the light at the end of the day
grows long
golden on skin
sluggish things
becoming vibrant again
I'll die (before I'm a lab rat)
stay home and don't travel!
however, I'd bet dollars to donuts
Americans support reasonable policies.
keep your poison!
eyes wide open over here!
more fear mongering:
your papers, please
hoax! haha, you sheeple!
even if we DO get sick
already immune to
daily death reports blamed on covid