NaPoWriMo/NaPoREADMo #9 — Not the first time

Not the first time

I am reading a poem and realize, some 
lines into it, that I have been thinking 
of The Man in the High Castle, which 
I have just been watching, and I have 
not absorbed anything at all of the last 

four lines of the poem—like when you’re 
driving home and can’t remember the last 
four turns, the last few streets that you have 
driven on—and then I come back to the 
poem for a few lines but then I am taken

by the idea of writing a poem about this 
experience and its analogy to driving a 
regular route and not remembering how
one got somewhere, and again I realize 
that I have not been paying attention to 

the poem though I have still been reading 
it and I am struck by the thought that not
only can my body—my hands, arms, legs 
and head—be made to do something that 
I am apparently barely aware of, but that

one part of my mind can also apparently 
be made to do one thing (read a poem, for 
instance) that I am also barely aware of 
and cannot remember doing very well while 
another part of my mind is thinking about 

writing about this experience and yet another, 
third part has realized that these two things 
are happening and then, rather suddenly the 
charade is over, the wizard runs and hides. I 
don’t know precisely where I am and I’m not 

entirely certain any more just where I reside or 
if I remember the way and I put down the book, 
go to the keyboard and write this poem about 
reading (while also not reading) that other poem 
and here I am again, not knowing how I got home.

Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....

NaPoWriMo/NaPoREADMo #8 — While is a verb

While is a verb

In the rainwashed gullet, in the skeletal, 
sketched out waste network of the city, 
something marks the invisible boundary 
of an anonymous and boneless aloneness.

A slight and fragile lance has fallen to rest 
in the green and scraggling cracks of the city.
An instrument that softens all the blows,
it’s heart a black stillness that plunges deep, 

sips hunger from a cylinder and slips its 
spike into nightless sleep. Palsied children 
sweat on couches and search for a place to 
get away for a while while what took them 

away waits to take them again to any place 
but here. Washed up on the shore of things, 
they barely remember and no longer care. 

A night-house on the point of ever-beckoning 
return calls and calls and calls. 
				                    We measure 
our lives in so many units of so many kinds. 
How exactly do we measure our deaths?

Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....

NaPoWriMo/NaPoREADMo #3 — The garment speaks only of garments

…and taking things off….

The garment speaks only of garments

We all have them. 

Notions that we did 
not ask for, nudging us.  

We entertain them. We listen to them.
We ask them to dinner and sometimes
we even let them in.

We try not to let them slip by,
unnoticed. We look at them,
admit that they are our own
and we try to own them.

They are angels and
we try not to turn
from their brilliance.

They are demons and 
yet we seek them out.

We do not let them 
pass by us but rather
we pull them through us.

We push them
through our bodies
like living swords.

We help them 
through our homes
like burning guests.

We pull them 
like twine 
through an earring hole.

We feel them pass through our bones
like rough thread through the eye 
of our own heartful needles.

We take aim and sew
with them. We sew
them into garments

and dwell in them
for a while.

We warm ourselves in them
and we warm our selves 
in the making of them.


It is cold, so

we give them to others 
to try on, to
see if they fit,

to see if they too
find them warm.

If they do not, then 
we move as 
the moment moves.


The garments remain
for a time.

They  say,
“I covered this.”

“Remember this?”  


“It is all right.
I will remember it for you.”


We pull them off,

leave them
on the floor and 
walk out of the room.

Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....

NaPoWriMo/NaPoREADMo #2 — Fullness

And now for another one of me own….


One can search for the true self.
The true self is an empty shelf.

An empty shelf is a metaphor.
The true self is not a metaphor.

The true self is not an empty shelf.
The true self is three words.

The true self is not three words.
The true self is not the true self.

Keepin' the "Po" in NaPoWriMo....