NaNo(inPo)WriMo #23

Things Only People with Moon Hearts Can Do

promise our love will always wax
                but then again always wane
barely intrude upon your life
                yet in our absence leave you lost

set the menstrual cycle of every woman we shine upon

pour over you most intimately
                from far outside your reach
inspire poetry, love songs, legends, lore
                turn ordinary men to wild howling wolves

bring even the oceans under our sway
turn orange and take your breath away

contradict the calendars of powerful men
watch you promise love to me then back again


NaNo(inPo)WriMo #22 Hard-crust

22 Hard-crust

I have loved many people in this rush
of decades I must now consider a life

or so I would have said even as late
as yesterday but strip away the fear93143685dc60e225d26251b674dcf45d

of hurting those I never loved
enough and the truth luster-gleams

across a thousand acres of hard-crust
snow on a clear black night

under a low full moon. How can
light be bright and cool, intimate

and vast, unimaginably vast,
regal, near-divine? No matter lies

I had to tell I snuck out to that
field every hard-crust moon fell back

into the snow until my body shook
open my heart exposed its dark

to a light it could bear
without breaking. To everyone

I loved less than I loved lying
there I am sorry. Each heart

is born to beat only so
many times and I gave mine

to the ice and moon. If it was wrong
to let you believe I could return the warmth

you gave, know the pretense was because
I did love you, in my only way.

(note – I found this image on Pinterest. It was unattributed there, but I’m fairly sure it is by a photographer named Veronika Pinke from Germany. If I can find a site where I can buy this photo I will. I’ve never seen another photo that captures just how bright the moonlight is on snow)

NaNo(inPo)WriMo#21 Singin’ this will be the day

21 Singin’ this will be the day

How much wood would
a woodchuck chuck
if a woodchuck had a
pickup truck, a chainsaw,
an axe, and awl?

1 cord 2 cords 3 cords, more
10 cords 11 cords a dozen cords haul!

I have a rocket in my pocket
I have no time to play but
time to eat my peas with honey
which keeps them on the knife
until not last night but the night
before when 24 robbers came
to my door.

Scholastic book club, A Rocket in My Pocket:
the rhymes and chants of young Americans,
best 25₵ I ever spent
on a book, source book, my head

when left to its own devices begins
to chant these poems, beats of a life
in a predictable 4/4, comfortable
cadence of country music.

Eastbound and down, loaded up and lonely
teenage brockin’ buck, pink carnation,
pickup truck, I knew I was out of
luck the day the music.

NaNo(InPo)WriMo #20 always by uncles aplenty

20. always by uncles aplenty

Snow and street and rock racing
under the runners, twenty, thirty,
forty miles an hour no shame then
in screaming as long as you
call it yelling, pretending

a push on the cross bar to the right
or left could direct your
fate now. Swinging wide
round each corner hanging
on with your whole body learning
if you can’t stay on you must
roll or risk runners slicing
over hands or calves or

face. Three, four, five
at once, ropes taught from
sled to hitch to truck
driven always by uncles always
by uncles aplenty.

Pulled uphill the only time
you knew your own body’s
full weight. Rushing down you
dug in with the toes
of your boots for sliding under
the truck would be disaster or so
we’d been warned no one

had ever seen it done, the only
of our limb-risking stunts with
no medaled-hero of consequence.

How many boys had
been towed behind this truck? How fewer
girls, the most fearless
of any pack? Girls who tied their fate
to trucks could walk the hallways
ungroped as a boy, the rush
of fear the price of freedom.

NaNo(inPo)WriMo #18 Now I Know My ABCs

18. Now I know my ABCs

amber waves
broken axles

farm hands
green tomatoes

ice water ice cream iceberg ho!

jack it up
knock it over
lay it down

need nothing need nothing no-one nothing need none nothing need


tuckered out

the spot, marked

yakity yak don’t talk back
zippity do dah zippity day

NaNo(inPo)WriMo #17 when the hunter and the hunted merge

17 when the hunter and the hunted merge

Hickory dickory dock
the mouse ran chased
by the farmer’s wife
yielding a knife,
never in my life,
always so much
fucking strife
that could have been forfended,
all rodent chaos upended,
by the simple introduction
of a fearsome fiendish feline.

That Darn Cat.

All my life before me
and I fixate on that flashing
stripéd menace, the faint
scars that still show
on my shins. I’ve loved
dogs and horses, women
and men. In the end
why that one
damn cat?

Neither afraid to kill
or die, that one. And I,
though I have skinned
and fried and chewed what I
have shot, have lain awake, afraid
of both.

Higgory diggory
chigger clap.
Hickety pickety
crickety cat.

NaNo(inPo)WriMo #10 Thrall

10. Thrall

Termite           the cat that used
a bull for games           Termite
was her name.

Every Sunday she had oysters for dinner.
Every morning she had cream.

She went out enthralled in pleasure           who on a farm
gets to do that?

Termite the cat, terror of children
and terriers alike, hunter of hound dogs,
stalker of shepherds, marauder of all
of Shakerag’s mutts.

Her kittens, conceived in plain sight on the porch,
popped out placenta covered on this seat. No one
drove the trucks for two weeks

until she drug them to the hayloft to begin
to learn to hunt.

Wild spitting devils those kittens, farmed
out to other barns, never once in their lives forced

to trade false affection for food.

NaNo(inPo)WriMo #9 A Short Treatise on Pickup Trucks in American Culture

9 A Short Treatise on Pickup Trucks in American Culture

A pickup truck means you are a person with something that needs doing, something big that needs doing, something that needs hauling from one place to another, that needs loading and unloading, that needs to public and proud in the open bed.

A pickup truck means you are a person who is not too proud or too showy, a pickup truck gives you something to endlessly show off how much it can haul what kind of new spark plugs gives you amazing power to pull what kind of tires what kind of toolbox what you’ve done this week to the carburetor how you’ve tuned to have just a little more roar than is absolutely necessary.

A pickup truck is manly, is masculine, is butch, construction butch farm butch owner of store of heavy stuff butch, is proof you can do what needs doing.

A pickup truck is practical because every real job has stuff to haul.

While the car replaced the carriage horse, the pickup truck replaced the wagon hitched to two massive Belgians.

Pickup trucks come in two varieties: the show-off model and the working model. Many farms may have one or more of each.

The amount of rust on a pickup truck is in direct proportion to how it is has served its purpose.

Pickup trucks have hauled people and animals fleeing danger. Pickup trucks have hauled Black men to lynchings. Pickup trucks have moved hunters to the woods and animals home to eat. Pickup trucks have hauled new appliances home and hauled stolen goods away. The purpose of a pickup truck is to haul. To what use people put that purpose cannot be blamed on the truck.

A pickup truck is all about class. Is the Clampetts. Is Ma and Pa Kettle and Poppa Walton and Okies and Good Ole Boys.

Pickup trucks, when driven by white men, do seem oft to sport a confederate flag decal or four.

The bench seats of pickup trucks have been the holy lair of teenage sex since the pickup truck was invented. One can say of a pickup truck that it is has been in a family for three generations. One can say of three generations of a family that they have been in a pickup truck.

NaPoWriMo 13/30 cloud and rain and flow and salt and wave and cloud and rain

O! Mother Water O! salty womb of sea O! pure daughter
rivers spawning billions of grandchildren with every
bend and flex. O! rivers how you belong
to yourselves how your waters belong
in your ever-reshaping bodies how you are a container
of water in the same way a human body
is container of blood how blood and water
can both be drained and how
these are acts
of murder.

Little fishies little fishies feed on
even littler fishies and then are feed
for bigger fishies a story that goes on forever
no matter where you open its book O! the cloud
and rain and flow and salt and wave and cloud
and rain of the neverending story

With its chapters ripped out and hidden where children
won’t see O! the horrible consonance of dam
and drain O! the body, caged, O! its water sucked
vampirically as salve for hungers huge as

O! Mother Water, O! salty womb of sea, O! grieve
grieve for the bodies of your daughters
drained and left to desiccate for their trillion generations
never to be born.