NaPoWriMo 3/30 My life as theoretical math

My life as theoretical math or:
on the un-inevitability of linear time

There is a kind of grown-up
I will never be. I know I’m not
alone in this but still – my god,
I’m 51 and
what the fuck? I still
avoid bills I have the money
to pay I neither answer my
phone nor check my voice
mail – I don’t want to know who
needs what I haven’t
attention to give. Holy hell,
self-centered and self-righteous
barely mellowed as I aged and I
can make a mess and walk away,
near to believing it was not me.
Maybe age does not accumulate for
my subspecies maybe time can not-be
linear maybe 51 means I am 1
and 5 and 15 all at the same time, next
year 2 and 5 and 25, every ten years I
am zero every 11 years at least by god I am
2/3 consistent.

NaPoWriMo 2/30 Measuring White

Measuring White

White opinions always matter
women’s rarely do.
So she dons a suit of I Am Serious
to discover how white she’s willing to lie

White lives define the Civilized
Black, the dark and wild
White hangs Black art to the sound of Black music
oh Black is still something White loves to buy

White speaks White English grammatically
an accent a sign of the barbarous
White is proud to only know White to choke
on the tongues grandparents forced parents to swallow

White families, the realm of the norm, of bliss
the choice to live queer, abomination
Now measure the cost of the fight to be civil
Gasp at the price of domestication

the measure of White the measure of right the measure of kith
and kin                the measure of White the measure of light to see
who is out and who in               the measure of White the measure of
might the measure of power that does us all in


2 reasons I am, today, once again, furious about White:
The Apartheid of Children’s Literature

Last year, only 93 of the 3,200 children’s books published were about Black people. That works out to less than three-percent

NaPoWriMo Guest Dane Kuttler

1/30 April ’14
April 1, 2014 at 11:40am
Dane Kuttler

In childhood, the war is never won;
the basement walls are plastered, leaky wounds,
a damp place to rest your June-baked body, leaning
into the concrete, cold as a kind hand on a fever.
Every exit, an escape or a banishment; your fingernails,
grime and gouge.
Your body is an English pea vine,
curling, white,
in the dark of the second grade coatroom.
You live in mutter and howl, on the wrong sideof every clothesline;
you brandish yourselflike a new jacknife,
like you belong to the heat that forged you.
You are arch and bend, always looking at stubble. You are
the top of the stairs, the second chapter, the breath

before the jump.

NaPoWriMo 2014! 1/30

Waaayy too long away from my own blog doing other business. Now its April and BACK TO WRITING I MUST GO.  One never knows where poem-a-day will take one, but this one has been thinking constantly about white privilege, whiteliness, and the sixth extinction, so one suspects a lot of poems exploring whiteliness will be coming out.

First up

Destruction Lies in White DNA

Deoxyribonucleic acid
Deoxyribonucleic acid
Deoxyribonucleic acid
we whites refuse to assess disaster

Deoxyribonucleic acid
Deoxyribonucleic acid
Deoxyribonucleic acid
acquired slaves so the world we’d master

Deoxyribonucleic acid
Deoxyribonucleic acid
‘til cost was then reappraised—oil
less coins than breeding black flesh, and faster.

Deoxyribonucleic acid
the ways that we disconnect from actions,
industrial revolution hiding
the dead and dying. Oh we profit masters!

Deoxyribonucleic acid
the ways that we disengage from actions
that we take every day. The world knows,
though—that we are their disengaged assassins

NaPoMo 30 – In class I learned about

In class I learned about

In class I learned about
class, how all my professors
had all of their fingers

No table-sawed tips
no thumbs numbed under two tons
of crates of Miracle Whip and now dangling

So many lower arms none
having been lost to the second of
having not remembered not to grab the nut
as it slipped into the combine feed

A hook for a hand—be teased
for decades, but no kids ran in fear
of so common place a horror

How easy in class to assume Latin
professors had no fingerprints for they gestured softly with
no soil embedded, permanent tattoos
their finger swirls never fresh-plowed fields

What kind of a life leaves a man’s hands whole?
Hands uncallused, filed clear fingernails,
skin not red and broken by a cold wet wind?

NaPoMo 25 – Weaponized


Castor beans morning glories almond tea weaponized
orange juice niacin daffodils weaponized
kitten breath, plough shares, emory boards weaponized
sliding boards, Bic pens, warm bed, kitchen knives weapon-
ized booby prize, bedroom eyes, pasturized weaponized
Tylenol, bandaids, birth control, self-control,
out of control, outer space, quiet space weaponized
childhood weaponized embroidery weaponized fur-
niture weaponized straw weapon Coke weapon eye-
glass drinking glass stained glass looking glass weapons
now, now weaponizing beauty bars hair styles style
guides guide books travel plans passports airports car ports 
team sports steam ports steam punk old junk deep funk wea-
ponized planet:      water      earth      fire      air      we-

NaPoMo 24 – Alternative Means

(a poem found in this article: Texas executes mentally impaired inmate)

Alternative Means

After the European Union banned 
the export               last year 
of the barbituric acids regularly 
used in a three-drug, three-drug, three-drug 
cocktail favored by American 
prisons, officials 
in the States were forced to 
find                       alternative means 
of executing 
In september, authorities in Florida (land 
of sweetly juicely Disneyly illusion)
used pentobarbital to kill 
a death row inmate, despite pleas 
from the drug’s manufacturer that demanded 

By switching 
to a single dose of 
Nembutal – the product name of pentobarbital – Mr. 
Hearn’s execution cost 
the state $1,286 and 86, 86, 86 cents (who in the executioner’s
realm calculates the exact cents?)
instead of the $84
for a three-drug three-drug three-drug