Breaking the Addition to Sloth

Posted: April 1, 2012 in Ink's Poetry, Misc
Tags: ,


NaPoWriMo (a.k.a. The 30/30 Challenge and several other equally intimidating names), is upon writers once more. This is a time where stagnation becomes a thing of the past and poets try to stretch their underused muscles to produce 30 poems in as many days in honor of National Poetry Month (’cause it’s April, y’all). Since creating this blog, I’ve commented on NaPoWriMo once before, and like that time, all my 30/30 hemorrhages will appear in the comments section. So either subscribe to the comments on this post or bookmark it and check back throughout April to see some fresh excrement.

Advertisements
Comments
  1. Ink says:

    #1 (The Ever-Expanding Sonnet)

    Nothing to push,
    but always the ledge.
    Paddle my touche
    before the high edge.

    Reduced sentiment to mush
    under overhead sledge;
    opportunities cush:
    divine intervention’s wedge.

    Thirty some years have given me fight,
    through practice and toning
    and forethought and -sight.
    But every intention is now one of honing,
    each thought whittled down to earnest insight
    with rhythm and rhyme that leave listeners moaning.

  2. Ink says:

    Apologies, but due to the use of a certain graphic and character spacing and my own ineptitude concerning the manipulation of text in wordpress, my second of 30 has to be viewed here.

  3. Ink says:

    #3 When the Sewer that Ran in Front of My Home was Filled with Alligators

    My father was sweating with a shovel crutch in his hand,
    a large, light grey stone wobbled at his toes,
    uneven atop some stray dirt from the mound
    risen in our backyard sometime after I was called in for lunch
    and the double ice cream sundaes
    mom made me finish while she looked out the kitchen window.

    Mom was holding my right hand, my brother’s left,
    squeezing both red.
    My left hand was filled with confusion,
    a stain I’d been born with and had yet to outgrow.
    Pudgie, my nanny, the collie who loved when I rubbed sand into her fur
    day after day after day,
    was doing something beneath all that dirt to upset everyone.

    Before I knew it, my left hand had crept its fingers
    beyond my baby teeth.
    I could taste its chaos on my tongue,
    touching the back of my throat.
    I felt sick.
    Confusion was grasping for something deep in my gut.

    Then it stopped.

    Choking on tears,
    I felt a fist form in my tummy,
    and before I could utter an apology,
    confusion tore out my stomach lining,
    lobbed it like some acidic water balloon
    onto the restraint everyone was swallowing
    and what I would come to know as a grave:

    “What will Pudgie think when she wakes up under all that dirt?”

  4. Ink says:

    #4

    It all started with a pling,
    the sound of a grain forgotten
    clashing with another form of itself.

    Pling.

    It’s funny to miss an un-nameable something,
    like realizing my palms are open,
    unfolded before the bare breeze
    of a world busy with its own rotation;
    I don’t remember whether I was begging
    or gently offering,
    and why isn’t anything/anyone there
    when I realize I’m at some intersection
    whose sounds tickle photo album flashes?

    Pling.
    .
    .
    it comes in multiples now.
    I can remember arriving at the party,
    but not he songs we danced to;
    select jokes,
    but not the laughs we shared;
    the road home,
    but not the following morning.

    (Pling)

    There’s the ring on your finger
    when my eyes open
    on your pillow-buried face,
    but the hand laying on my hip
    (pling)
    what is your favorite flower?

    Pling
    Do I write with my (pling)
    Hi, my name is (pling)
    I’m sorry, do you know
    (pling).

    Let’s start over.
    I’ve nothing left:
    completely fallen,
    lacking potential.
    What makes everything interesting
    is how I fall.
    As long as you’re willing
    to flip me over
    after I’m spent,
    we can keep things interesting
    hour after hour.

  5. Ink says:

    #5 A Sober Villanelle

    I did not drown my brain in death today –
    locked the cabinets, avoided the bars.
    All the ink on my palms has rubbed away.

    My mind had learned to work around decay
    via leaps electric, like light from stars.
    I did not drown my brain in death today.

    Sober structures are ones built to stay,
    but my instincts won’t trust them as par.
    All the ink on my palms has rubbed away.

    With no paper around, my thoughts sought a quay.
    I looked to my hands and started to mar.
    I did not drown my brain in death today.

    Multiple tracings kept its erosion at bay,
    when water’s healthy condensation declared war.
    All the ink on my palms has rubbed away.

    Cognizant, alert, bright-eyed this day,
    I plead a return to the haze, the muck, and the tar.
    I did not drown my brain in death today –
    all the ink on my palms has rubbed away.

  6. Ink says:

    #6

    Bartender’s wide grin;
    Lots of space between those cheeks;
    How does your tongue cope?

  7. Ink says:

    #7

    open jam session;
    saxophones queue on bar stools
    airplanes for takeoff

  8. Ink says:

    #8 Miss Me?

    Your sheets absorbed my warmth,
    stole it from our post-midnight hours,
    used it to guard us against
    winter’s poorly insulated windows.

    Now it’s summer,
    and you tell me
    I fart in my sleep.

    There’s a scowl in your voice
    I try to pinch up the corners of
    by telling you such releases are ok.

    Blankets, like the layered atmosphere,
    are meant to insulate,
    keep everything inside this gaseous planet,
    that all natural emissions are part of,
    no, essential to, fully appreciating life.

    You argue that it’s summer.
    I’m trying really hard to make my nocturnal emissions
    poignant and beautiful via simile
    to win this argument.

    You call the last straw of my poetic ineptitude.
    I remove my toothbrush and deodorant from your bathroom.

    After a few days of open windows and tolerable humidity,
    New Jersey summer kicks in, spurring you’re A/C instinct.
    All of a sudden you realize how noxious
    the myriad Glade plug-ins make your home smell
    and for the first time since our separation
    start to think about why I didn’t put up an argument
    on my way out.

  9. Ink says:

    #9

    Neck fat bubbles over light blue starched collar,
    white hairs, survivors of razor
    slash-and-burn grooming tactics,
    those who praise mirror blind spots,
    arthritic elbows, waive,
    broken strands of spider filament,
    curtains of an abandoned house
    reaching through broken windows
    stretching with the weight of each morning’s dew
    and constant gravity.

  10. Ink says:

    #10

    I survived the slide
    from inside my mother’s
    razor-embedded birth canal.
    As gills become lungs after a slap,
    the cuts cauterized into veins
    upon exposure to air;
    scars, reminders in myriad mirrors
    of inbred vanity,
    pulse with growing pains,
    inheritance, love.

  11. Ink says:

    #11 Immortality Initiative

    Eyes on the next round,
    slam poets,
    following the oral tradition
    by fucking ear canals
    with words,
    will propagate ideas,
    decorate spongy grey cake matter
    with poems signed in acidic icing.

    Eyes on immortality,
    these same poets
    leave audiences nothing to do
    but remember their words,
    coercing integration of lines
    via electricity,
    into foreign DNA,
    which its bearers
    will pass down
    to their own offspring,
    who will remember
    bedtime poems
    read to them,
    not to be put to sleep
    but to built dreams by.

  12. Ink says:

    #12 (a collection of haiku/senryu inspired by Facebook photo posts…to be updated until 10 pm)

    White swan on thawed lake
    navigates reflected clouds
    floats with drifting kin

    melt-in-your-mouth cute
    endangered sugar pandas
    doomed to go extinct

    Meatball-head teacher
    stays atop student noodles
    lends his simmered sauce

    Raptors always ask
    questions we don’t want to hear
    for fear of reply

    Green, breathing, patient.
    secluded pond welcomes
    all into water

    Solar rays focused
    through two corrective lenses,
    passionate lasers

    graffiti artist
    myriad tools nigh useful
    as your own vision

    Colorful feathers
    sung with sunlight, unmarred by
    bars or night of cloth

    Roses and candles,
    some take time to die, others
    take another’s hand

    Haloing my head,
    one infinite remembrance:
    one half my manhood

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s