NaPoWriMo 1 and 2

I didn’t forget to do this yesterday, I just didn’t post it on here.

This month is National Poetry Writing Month. I’ve done this since I knew about it, basically, which has only been two to three years. For me, NaPo is really an adventure of consistency. It’s not about getting it right, or making good poems, but about getting it done. Last year I fell behind, and had to catch up on the weekends. This year, I’m going to try to post at least two poems each day, so I’ll have 60 poems by the end of it. I did two or four or five yesterday, but I only saved the one. I have the two from today as well.

Day One:

Today I Laughed Asphyxiatedly as My Peer Read Whitman Aloud, and I Was Not Alone

1

You are crude like fresh horse pies,
rats overpopulating a city
when the Chinese restaurant closes.
You are beautiful with inclusion of me
and her, and them, and him, and us
together, neither me nor you apart.

You are the deity overwhelmed with myth
whom I feared to see, my Ovid, my Hercules
I know so well, and yet, have never touched
[they say never meet your idols]
I did not know your name, but I knew you.

2

Will you explore the body
and the mind as my democratic oath
lingering on the lips of
time, together, never segregated again?

Will you embrace me as you did
her, no poem complete without us together
in pure urges of skin, and universe, and bone
touching as brothers within the brain?
My mind is foggy from your ecstasy of verse
acrostically stealing, my words
never parted.

Day Two:

Kiryelle, Peddler of…

I am not the faith’s holy ghost
wand’ring ’round the soul perpetu’lly
I am just a peddler of most
anything. Is that hard to see

that Here I stand – me; unfettered
not bowing to your thoughts of me.
I am the nails dirty, untethered
anything! Is that hard to see?

I reach for tools, and rocks, and weeds,
and play in mud. This is me, free;
I am not in your box of seeds.
Anything is that hard to see,

Even that I am only one
person, dreaming of myself, unique,
my perspective may not be some
“anything,” is that hard? To see

yourself as zero, null, nada
a gap in a soul, not to breathe?
This is me, an empty comma.
Anything is. That hard to see

up there above the clouds higher
than anyone down here will be?
Beyond the galaxy, reach her
anything, is that hard to see

and you will find me too, there
behind the sink, the fridge, the sea
hiding in your pocket mind where
anything is that. Hard to see,

but I am there, waiting for you
wond’ring when you’ll come home to me
I am just a peddler in truth,
anything, is that hard to see?

[Your style doesn’t intrigue me]

Your style doesn’t intrigue me,
we stand like books;
Brace cover to back cover to back
and threaten to topple over like them too
I will keep my pages tucked from your back
with my cover, and you will keep yours safe with your back
possessive like a hound with a bone, refusing to let go
gnawing, cracking, licking, suckling, you have your style
I have mine.

Sometimes I look for my lost pages
the ones who fell out because the glue of my spine
was weak enough to crackle and flake like dried milk.
I wonder if they’re in you, stretching your mouth full
like an apple chunk caught in your teeth refusing to enter
a cat faced with a bathtub clinging to the rims it can find

Maybe my pages are making you look foolish
or old and used like a penny book.
If I found them in your leaves,
I don’t think I would like them,
I’d reject them, think they were nothing new
say “I’d written that before” and be as unimpressed
as if your style was lacking in every way imaginable.

Side by side we stand,
porous and damp with library mildew
picked up to be smelled, not read.
Each of us offer our spines to them
not admitting whose pages are whose.

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