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NaPoWriMo - Day Two - Monotony Turns You On

I’ve decided that I’m going to do my own thing instead of following the prompt from NaPoWriMo afterall.

Here’s my Day Two poem:

Monotony Turns You On

When nouns and verbs mean nothing,

it is safer to escape the sounds

and explore the saliva drizzle

in the corner of your lover’s

mouth while she speaks.

Even though you can’t actually see her.

She is there, and so is the saliva.

This could be considered a disgusting

sentiment, but you know where else her saliva

has been so it shouldn’t bother you.

Save the bother for the readers.

Save the spider webbing for dessert.

The monotony of mouth-corner saliva

turns you on more than PlayBoy,

so stop playing. Boy. Girl. Both.

Because even when the nouns and verbs

mean absolutely nothing

her mouth is and will always be


NaPoWriMo - Day Two - Flutes and Jungles


And finally, our prompt for the day comes to us by way of The Line Break’s Tom Holmes. Write a poem inspired by the song that was #1 on the day that you were born. You can find the songs here (Warning: this website only goes back to 1946). Mine is Le Freak’s Chic! Or, if the number one song doesn’t appeal, perhaps try writing a poem based on or incorporating lyrics from the first pop song that you remember. I have fond memories of waltzing along as a wee one, standing on my grandpa’s toes, to Jimmy Buffet’s Nautical Wheelers.

So I’ve decided to go with the second idea for the prompt: to try writing a poem based on or incorporating lyrics from the first  pop rock song I remember. Pop is not my thing. I need rock. And this is the first song I ever remember loving. The song came out in 1974 and I was born in ‘87 and first remember hearing this song somewhere around ‘91. The song is: Jethro Tull’s Bungle in the Jungle. Amazing song, really. I’ve never stopped loving Jethro Tull since then. I’ve even seen them in concert. Amazing. Pure amazing.

Unfortunately, I’m gonna have to wait on actually making this idea into a poem. Please consider that I am 100% still committed to this NaPoWriMo project and I will post both my Day Two and Day Three poems tomorrow.

Goodnight NaPoWriMo’s!

NaPoWriMo - Day One - The Violent Triolet

From a triolet has eight lines. the first, fourth, and seventh lines are identical. the second and eighth lines are also identical. the rhyme scheme is ABaAabAB.

Here’s an example in the satirical vein–


I used to think all poets were Byronic–
Mad, bad and dangerous to know.
And then I met a few. Yes it’s ironic–
I used to think all poets were Byronic.
They’re mostly wicked as a ginless tonic
And wild as pension plans. Not long ago
I used to think all poets were Byronic–
Mad, bad and dangerous to know.
— Wendy Cope

And here’s one that’s simply bizarre:

To a Fat Lady Seen from the Train

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody loves,
Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
When the grass is soft as the breast of doves
And shivering sweet to the touch?
O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?
— Frances Cornford


And here is my attempt at a triolet:

The Violent Triolet

Sometimes I want to cut off your ears and glue them to your eyes.

I want to trace the contours of your throat with a knife.

I want to stifle my harbored revenge scheme by stealing your life.

Sometimes I want to cut off your ears and glue them to your eyes.

So that you will listen to me by looking instead of pretending to hear with lies.

Sometimes I want to do anything other than be tortured by this demise.

Sometimes I want to cut off your ears and glue them to your eyes.

I want to trace the contours of your throat with a knife.

—-Creepy much? Yeah I thought so.

—-Happy NaPoWriMo!

A Note For The New Year: The Truth Is…

I miss my old friends. This isn’t just a suck-up post because one of them is now following my page though, it is only partial suck-up and the rest of it is general truthfulness. I have missed out on some good friendships that have never had dull moments other than the times that we don’t talk or see each other. This goes for a lot of my friends that I dearly miss and have become unconnected with. I can count about five people total that this applies to. Maybe more if I really thought about it. Of course, I have been happy on the other hand. My life is going pretty well. Done with city college finally. Trying to transfer to CSULB. And, I’ve got a few newer friends whom I love. On top of that I have Bank-Heavy Press which has been sort of life changing for me. Sure its not making me rich or anything but it’s a great and promising thing that I love to spend my time on. Poetry has always been important to my life but I feel like I am finally doing what I have always wanted to do with it. And that is to spread it around to as many people possible and revive it as much as I can and make it modern and appealing. Besides all that I have been getting my poetry published recently and feel confident in the potential success that may be awaiting me throughout the year 2012 and if I’m lucky then beyond that as well. So here they are, my new year’s resolutions: to be myself and allow myself to feel confident in my personal achievements, to reconnect with my friends whom I miss, to take both life and other people more seriously, and to be as successful and productive as I possibly can. 2012 don’t let me down.

Jealous Lovers Touch the Mirror of Mercury



I was chaperoning a birthday party and dreaming of a kiss with you,


while you were aimless anemone phalanges stinging clown fish with static, scooping and sifting through sand until only one grain embraced the central groove loop of your left thumb print, idly balancing in rainbow ordinance on rose petal rise, stretching a rubber ladder pitch to aurora as you introduced the music of drip castles to the stars.


I was thinking about how I’d love to lay with you on the moon,


yet you were gawking at the high violet sunset of graves and the intelligent growth of green in Golden Gate Park with fluorescent fogs foraging your forged forests and zebra stripes combing through the spaces between your fingers while you brushed your invisible moustache with faberge twigs and grayscale ladybug wings.


I was waiting for the steady breath of romance to explode from our volcanic mouths to create cyclones of bloody tongues gushing the rusty flavor of jealous lovers touch and for the mirror of Mercury to be a soldier on our side guarding us from the war of scientific proof,


but you were Pluto

intent on ditching your role

as ninth rock  from  the  sun.

The Irrational Fears Of A Lover

The Irrational Fears Of A Lover


You might ex

      P                            o                                                  e



You might di               g





You might in

                        f              l                a              t              e

You might es







Retro Hair Proposal

Retro Hair Proposal

You were urban trash party in the back

and business casual in the front.

And I loved you as much as I could

despite your 80’s pedophile-hairdo.

You spent a lot of your time

trying to convince me that your

hair was a magical expression of yourself.

I never allowed myself to agree.

After you restyled it

I decided that you were right.

But the key phrase being:

Mullets were beautiful.

I’m glad that you’ve moved on.

Maybe now I can marry you, afterall.

But, only if you propose again

with your new afro-perm.

An Example Of Bad Love Poetry

Your name
is the arrogant back
of a hand, manicured
with dirt and cement.

Your future
is the fall of Rome,
and the backstabbing
of sheep and wolves.

Your luck
is the calculated gamble
you made when you chose
free liquor over chips.

Your love
is the fishtailing car on the road,
not quite regaining control, and launching
over the sea-cliffs free of a guard rail.

My name is your future,
your luck is bleeding alive,
your love is dog-paddling,
and I am no longer struggling to survive.

shotguns and seagulls

i follow birds

on my way home from the beach

riding silent on my bicycle

hoping that the shadows

of their wingspans

are pointing in the direction

of flight and flee and fall

and most of all

the freedom of infinity

which has granted numbers

to never end

and grants the souls of centuries

to burst into unanimous lift-off

simultaneous as hollow bullets

from the barrel of a shotgun.


my hands

are anchoring the handlebars;

ready, aim,

as the arrow of birds

continues along the riverbed

a V shape, a signal,

a direction to blend into

whether it echoes downward

into the sights of the black water

of suburban cities,

or stoops

in the forest of palm trees

and non-indigenous nature.


i am a part of it.

i’m in the subculture

of superficial,

just like these birds.

manicured wings and beaks,

and feathers bleached,

tetanus shots

and rabies vaccinations.

i steady myself

to become one with

the prima facie of death,

as i continue following them

all the way to the bridge

that leads to my home,

my name, my art;

my shotgun.


i fire,

and the seagulls

fall slowly into the sunset

until they breach

the horizon of another town

far from anything

that resembles the sea.

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