all i have written about tonight is death – 24 / 8 am

People are dying and we are letting them die.
Police are kneeling on their throats,
others are gallivanting maskless, drinking at bars.
Both of these things are a different kind of violence.
We are a revolution away from prevention.
Selfishness is the ammunition.

We’ve got to stop killing people.

There is no health care.
No paid sick leave, no help.
There is no one less qualified than a cop.
There is an argument over what equal means,
and we can’t leave our houses,
so we argue through screens.
Safety is now a luxury.
How rich you must be if you’re safe.

We’ve got to stop killing people.

They gave us one thousand dollars a piece,
(families’ rent OR food for six weeks)
They arrest the cops, but they always make bail,
they reopened the gyms – now, hospitals are full.
Medical professionals tell us the truth,
and people on Twitter respond: “Well, actually…”

We’ve got to stop killing people.

 

This is my attempt at the Bop.  I am not sure I did it right. I will revisit when I am more level headed.

ramble – 5am / 21

circus peanuts, acrobats,
stripes, stilts, tiger teeth,
a hoop on fire,
half dead elephants,
freaks on display
So much entertainment
is just watered down torture.
too-thin dolls, role playing motherhood,
fun house mirrors,
low batteries in the race car,
Ring around the rosie
boys will be boys, tag you’re it
boys will be boys, all fall down

people – 3am / 19

Maudlin Mary and her mister’s malfeasance,
she can’t muster up the mettle to make her
misappearance.
Mighty he is, monstrous even,
the way he is meeting with
Marge,
Matilda,
Matthew.

Nadine filled with November syrup-
nettles in her neckline.
Nameless, before.
Now she is named.

Olive orders:
Oscillating all bodies,
overcorrect, they were ordinary,
now they are observable
omniscient ornaments.

Pearl performs,
ingesting psychedelics,
petite passionflower.
Packing the photographs,
the prednisone, the Pharmacist,
all pilgrims
to the pinata.
Placebo – these people,
their problems.

Questions.

 

(I made my own “Prompt” idea where I use mostly words beginning with one letter, then the next one, next one, etc. I used MNOPQ this time instead of starting with A.)

perriot the clown – 17 / 1am *content warning: suicide*

this moving picture
tattoo graffiti
a body, a body
well-practiced ballerina,
everything coming to a point,
he ends and begins in
a line.
his swiftness,
such nectar for the eyes.
tiny dancers aligned,
maestro! all rise.
this cosmic confection
is coming to its final act.
there is always a bow
and standing ovations
but the Act is something
poorly aged.
the velveteen boy,
the opus, ego-stroked-goldness,
leotard,
tights,
perfect architect angles,
it’s all a recording
until the end.

piano- flute- violin-
perriot the clown
the final arabesque,
a lightning assemblé
the music, a merciless error,
all assume.

the barrel growls,
the end is copper-plated,
the clown concludes,
no applause.
he begins and ends in a line.

she – 12 am / 16

a glimmer caught,
she is so bewitching,
she is one of many but
my enchantress for the now,
I gasp.
her skin painted with moonbeams
and silvery so,
waxing and waning, she sometimes faces me
with her absence but I can wait out the days-
I and the moon, churning out the blood pattern.

Dew forms on her and it is not even morning,
the buds of her so precocious, I can’t predict when
the garden of us will be full and when it will be empty.
The way my curiousity of her makes a cherub out of me,
I gasp,
I clasp.

She is a glimmer caught,
and I am bewitched by her seasons,
I could her by days – Anticipate her disappearance,
love her slivers and her gibbous,
love that garden in abundance and whenever it is bare.

I gasp.

fidget – 11pm / 15

fingers to my face, I tap
my nails against my  lips
I gently tug at the skin,
press my tongue against the crack
and then bite my cheek.
a little bloody gift.
fingers to my face, I tap
my nails against my nose,
move my septum ring side to side,
inhale.

fingers to my face,
leg bounce,
intermittent tapping
(the disappointed kind. life’s sound effect!)
torn lip, bitten cheek,
hair moved from one side to the other side
and back five times.
fingers to my face, I tap
my nails against my nose. inhale.
rub my palms together.
peace- fingers to my face, I tap
my fingers against my nose.
inhale.

(you stare. i survive.)

 

> [ This poem is about my Autistic stims, using prompt 13 ] <

Reno – 10pm / 14

We took a guilt-trip to Alaska
from Reno. I could never get away from Reno.
I felt him and all my wrongdoing
in my guts.
You see, being a newborn in someways,
a cut-wrist teenager with no father or
stand-in, standalone, life-size cut-out,
or photo of him and I on the refrigerator
next to my Kindergarten art father’s day card-
I started to collect
whatever filled my openings.
How I loathe him,
the way I bite down on his shoulder
and make a plan to escape but then
become too small and legless to do so.
He doesn’t own anything- besides me
and maybe a bat.
I could never get away from Reno
and all his perilous endeavors,
each time the last of me
smeared on the walls,
his talons stuck in my thighs
to tear a little each time I inch towards the door
even when I stay, I am legless.

Balloon – 8pm / 12

a birthday balloon slowly deflating
in the corner of the room,
it’s always there
as you get further away from anything worth celebrating.
It’s pitiful but you don’t have the time,
the burden of knowing you SHOULD just throw it away follows you,
and so does the low hanging balloon.
Each day you have it, it creeps in, closer to the floor each time,
you’re flooded with shame.
It should not be so hard to throw the damn thing away,
but it’s made a ghost of itself a mockery of you,
sometimes you forget,
sometimes it rustles and that startles you
and you think of all the time you’ve wasted not throwing it away,
but maybe you like its company

Maniac – 7pm / 11

when someone laughs
you wonder
is it me?
What a maniac,
laughing like a kookaburra
at your inadequate girlhood.
Imagine being a tall idiot,
leaning over a girl with a basketball.

Thinking about how she could be

if she wasn’t so clumsy and wide.

 

((this poem is really a fragment. I was trying to write about a memory and it’s not going anywhere!))

Two sides – 6pm / 10

Guilt, the heavy thing.
the nearby distant lover,
the artificial feather,
the bones of the mouse in the cat’s mouth,
the pity party,
the middle child, the only child,
the fifth reconciliation,
the attempt to leave in thirteen parts,
the bobbing for apples,
ugly mouth water,
the last one to picked for the game.

Peace, the heavy thing.
The healing that happens after the loss,
the wings intact,
the fed feline,
the happy child,
second chances,
a successful break,
better party games,
winning anyway.

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