… but at least I am writing again. I think my prose has always been stronger than my poetry, but both need the exercise. This feels inspired by American Psycho, but it really just came out of nothing.

—

You wake up because your head has a heartbeat. The throbbing gives you unnatural awareness at this hour. Dawn. And last night was only moments ago. On the floor of her dingy hotel room, you find needles and other remnants of illicit drugs. And her body, used up like the condoms that have become throw rugs across the rust-colored carpet.

You cough twice, a burn in your throat sharpens you again. You prowl the room, a pomade jaguar, silent and filled with purpose. They will never know you were here.

Her purse is empty, its contents splayed like an autopsy across the grimy bathroom counter. There. A gaudy cell phone strangled by a stray hair. You nearly gag as you pinch the hair between your fingers and flush it. The phone goes into your pocket.

Beore you step out into the quiet hallway, you remove your shoes and carry them. Your feet are cold on the stone back stairs. The shoes go into the incinerator. For a moment, you can smell her blood burn from your soles and the familiar urges surface. But now is a shower. Now you need to go to your job.

I’ve been very busy, but a promise is a promise. Haiku today

—

Light on my finger
A spider makes webs so strong
I still cannot see

A sonnet is to me a sort of test

A sonnet is to me a sort of test
One which you only take to please yourself
Its purpose not to show whose work is best
But just to wipe some dust from off the shelf

It takes a mind obsessed with both its parts.
The critical and more creative side
must work in tandem trying to impart
what simple conversation takes in stride

So meter, rhyme and florid imagery
as mixed with sense and message slowly will
become a shot at artful wizardry
and not another empty page to fill

And balance is the truth you’re aiming at
between the two selves living ‘neath your hat

I am definitely considering this as my serious monologue for the general auditions in February. It was penned by J. Michael Straczinski, creator of Babylon 5, which is one incredibly well-written show, for at least the first three seasons.

—

G’ Kar: The Universe speaks in many languages, but only one voice. It speaks in the language of hope, it speaks in the language of trust, it speaks in the language of strength and the language of compassion. It is the language of the heart and the language of the soul. But, always, it is the same voice. It is the voice of our ancestors, speaking through us, and the voice of our inheritors, waiting to be born. It is the small, still voice that says: We are one. No matter the blood. No matter the skin. No matter the world. Not matter the star. We are one. No matter the pain. No matter the darkness. No matter the loss. No matter the fear. We are one. Here, gathered together in common cause, we agree to recognise this singular truth and this singular rule: That we must be kind to one another. Because, each voice enriches us and ennobles us. And each voice lost diminishes us. We are the voice of the Universe, the soul of creation, the fire that will light the way to a better future. We are one. We are one.

Spenserian Sonnet for the Stepped-on

Where generosity and kindness fail
is only in the hearts of men maligned
whose best defenses seem of no avail
and leave them in a battered frame of mind

But strength can best be found in all mankind
Not in arms-length sorrow and travail
Instead from out your strife, yourself you find
And walk a far more noble, lenient trail

Still, this path remains concealed and jailed
perceived as simple weakness of the mind,
spirit and heart, while men as truly great
As Martin Luther King and Gandhi shined

With light unparalleled by those today
Who represent even the meek, they say

I hope to make a separate area for these, as I know at least 50% of the people who read this are not really interested in my poetry, but for now those people will just have to click away.

I wrote this poem backward, line-by-line, as a sort of experiment in creativity. End with a punch and write the story from there. It’s not terrific, but it’s one more step toward the ultimate goal of being able to sit down and write poems. I used to do that frequently.

—

We all walked in to find Mel in good cheer
The sure thing he had was really a fake
So, we ate his chips and drank his beer
But we all knew Mel made his last mistake

John banged up to Mel’s house with a look that meant war
His face was still wet from unloading freight
Mel’s wife was standing in front of the door
She hung on John’s clothing, like a seven-ton weight.

But the decision was made, long-since, regret-free.
When he came out, his face blanched, he looked rather faint
He walked out the door and looked back at me
“They can’t all be winners and most of them ain’t.”

This one feels a little unfinished, with some mixed metaphor; I may revisit this. I am going to avoid free verse next week and try a few different established forms.

—

oil smells
sliding across an empty parking lot
the night chilling
through clothes

singing means to comfort
and rebuild the toppled ramparts of pride
fly a new flag

but in this vast atom
a particle
a-buzz
forgettable in the din and shine of electrons
swarming

Envious of energy
Shrug shoulders into pockets
Kick pebbles and watch them collide

Between is only air
Between is the sky

I can not say whether these will be very good, but as this is my blog, I think I have the right to try. This is my poem-a-day blog, which will last until January. Feedback will keep me honest.

And if you hate my poetry (and you well might; don’t think that will stop me), I recommend you listen to the marvelous Jesca Hoop instead. I can all but guarantee you will enjoy her.

—

I want to tell you
you’re wrong
Because maybe you are
I certainly think so

Your shadow would not agree with me
even as it stands there
a negative of you
It still moves like you and knows things
like what it sounds like when you cry

Does the world need one more person
telling everyone else to think like them?
I would not agree with me
if I stood where your shadow stood

or maybe I would.

Make yourself aware of the facets of this piece (and I use that term in several senses): the substitution of “ur” for “your” seemingly to save typographical real estate, or to connect to the hip IM-blogosphere, or both; the arcane SUTD acronym that therefore arises; the creation of a vaguely Pixar-like cyclops with some sort of omniscience regarding your destiny; the choice of spooky Harry Potter Halloween-Orange font mixed with web 2.0 bubbles for the call to action; and lastly, the subtle “subscription required” disclaimer beneath the headline.

The question remains: What is the appeal of ads like these? Spiritual? Morbid curiosity? A love of clicking?

Who is it that will accept the mandatory subscription scenario in order to receive oracular tidings from a knock-off monster … on the internet? I imagine that this might appeal to pre-internet soothsayers, but in the information age, this loses its relevance, I am afraid.