NaPoWriMo/NaPoREADMo #6 — No Answer



No Answer



The taste of chalk finds its way 
to your tongue through the back
of your nose after the rain begins 
to hit the hot pavement.

~~~
 
You have missed something. 

Because of this you suffer.

~~~

It is all right with the world. It is as it 
should be and it is not fair and it does 
not matter because fair is not for us.

Fair is not fair. 
Fair or not fair 
is not a fair exchange. Ex-
pectation is false.

All of it is a lie 
in the mind of the past 
about the mind of the future, 
neither of which happens to be present.

The thing is, all the things are not in 
the moment, are not of the moment,
are of course nothing but the moment 
that, passing between us, happens to happen 
when we are not looking, when we are 
absent although we are present, when the
paradox of paradise or the paradise of
paradox in which we dwell or don’t dwell
for ever or never for a moment again

slips by us, slips us by, lisps and 
lists into the future listlessly, help-
lessly, and we are stunned again
into silence, unarmored and stripped 
to our amorous bones just enough to 
dive back in and keep on diving even 
when the pool has no water in it, even 
when the air is as dry as dirt and our noses
crack and bleed and our eyes turn to the 
dust in the holes in our heads for answers 
that are not there for all the looking 

and not seeing, for all the “Look at me,” 

for all the “Nonono. Don’t look at me,” 

for all the 

“STOP LOOKING AT ME!” 

for all the 



“where are you?”






~~~






Of course we do not deserve any of this. 

We suffer anyway. We suffer no matter 
what. In or of or out of the moment, the 
moment is already gone, and it is not fair 
either. It is not square with a hole in it nor
is it a round without. It is a moment that 
we have missed and it is not (fair or not fair) and


it presents itself despite itself
as you stand there,		

alone with the rest of us			

on the hot pavement

after the rain begins.









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



such that the moment



The truth is 
such that the moment 
we turn our 
backs on it 
it ceases to be the truth
that we thought it was.

The truth is 
such that the moment
we take our 
next breath it 
changes and it changes the 
breath that we just took.









Shadorma November, Day 6 (seven days late....)
(...or does that make it six?...)


prising, slogging, digging



I try to write at night but mostly 
fall asleep before I can begin,
before I can achieve the proper
state of reverie, the space that
I crave to create, that I cannot 
seem to make the time or the 
energy for. But yes, the words 
whisper to me when I cannot 
catch them and slip away before
I can put them in their place,
before I can place them where
they will live and grow into more.



I put the parts of them in little boxes,
little bits of hair, a leaf dropped,
a bone perhaps, found in the soil,
slip them into a little book that I 
keep in my pocket to pull out
later, to try to form into something--
something more, something alive,
something that can find the light
to live when I can find the silence
that it needs to let it grow. My days
are far too noisy, my nights too short.



The soul trudges on, 
slogs through the mud of life with 
little time to dig.  

I offer these words to myself as 
a balm, a hand on the shoulder, 
a consolation in the true sense 
perhaps but without a prize to offer 
as I cannot prise the poems from their 
hidden places as often as I would like, 
as I feel I should, as I feel I need. 

The soul trudges on, 
slogs through the mud of life with 
little time to dig.  




So close, so far







Why is time a woman 
and man a death?

Why do we give one force a gender
and gender the other with force?

Will our willing gender upon them
lessen the bite of their skin upon ours?

Can a persona’s presence
soften the blow for even a moment

of the two things most impossibly
removed from our personhood?

Do the masks we put upon their 
faces hide their horrors from us?

Will these suppositions 
blow the wind of these days

out of the eyes of our
oldest and dearest friends,

our most constant companions, 
our dearest foes?

Will they leave us any longer by virtue 
of what does or does not dangle between their legs?






Unheard Music




We were in the room next door,
the one that, 
                     when you enter, 
                                                you suddenly 
find yourself below ground, 
looking at the feet 
of passers-by on the street
but you don't worry about that,
about how you have found yourself here.
You don't think about how it doesn't 
make sense because it does 
at the time.

In that moment its dark energy rings truer 
than the dark.  It's dark and dingy like you 
imagine a bar in a building’s basement should be.
It has been abandoned,
raided and forgotten
with still uneasily spoken 
spirits that might be raised.

Eighty years ago
a thick layer of light brown 
dust settled, coating everything,
taking the room and everything in it 
and turning them in tones of sepia
with the sounds of the street coming 
filtered through dirty glass
disturbing nothing.

There is music that comes and goes,
music that no one is listening to anymore,
faded laughter like lost loves and stale cigarettes,
like slowly yellowing paper (we can see it turn
before us, we watch it happen there on the window sill,
the paper curls and crumbles).
Shadows pass and the passers feet 
become the passing of the light.

From the room, a quick, lonely movement 
catches in the corner of the eye like a cobweb
that you can not squeeze out.

The room can not decide which floor it wants to be
so it becomes the floor, and you are

flattened along with it.  You have 
become a shadow of who you are,
your own shadow that you step on.

This is a time when I was alone.
This is a place I have been before.
This is a time when I was not afraid
of any thing or any one
but of time's not passing,
of dead flies that have stopped 
accumulating in the windows.