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

NaPoMo 23 – Words in My World: Temporary


From Until to Further Notice
Sky be gray and horse be nervous

Wine be acid, sweet be sour
here be far and near be furthest

Ink be dry and bones be gone
night be dawn and god be nervous

Spell be broken, fly be huge
Starve be supper and food be locust

Healer be lost and plague be many
Time be stuck and glue be nervous

Bow be split and limb be shattered
Fearsome be dead, and dead resurface

Sign on pole at 440

Sign on pole at 440

NaPoMo 22 – Earth Day

Earth Day

I wake up, drag
my ass out of bed when
the dogs’ whining is several
decibels past unavoidable and then
they cascade down stairs as I
galumph behind,
then out the back door they go
so they can pee, then
the same for me,
but in the bathroom,
where I finish and flush
and then grab a plastic bag and scoop
the cat shit and piss clumps from
the litter box, tie the bag, take it
out the front door, throw
it in the garbage, then back
to the bathroom where a cat will be
using the clean field, and I listen
to the scratching while I wash
my hands, fill the cat food bowl then
back into kitchen to turn on
the water for coffee and fill
the dog food bowls then let
the dogs in to eat as I dump
yesterday’s grounds into the compost bucket and eat
my morning protein bar with vitamin water to wash
down drugs and herbs and supplements, then
let the dogs out to poop, which I will later
put into plastic bags and throw
into the garbage, but right now I press
the French press, pour, add
splenda and half and half, let
the dogs back in and then head
upstairs again, sucking in coffee with each
step, to check my morning email, and by
the time I address the first several electronic
urgencies and the coffee has
worked its daily magic and I go
back to the bathroom for my morning poop, which
I also flush away, and I understand
perfectly well the process
of digestion, so I know
where all this shit comes from. The question
today is where is
all this shit going cause
there’s no such place
as away and I don’t know what
I think I’m saving with that
one little compost bucket trick but
I am quite certain it is
not the Earth.

NaPoMo 20 – Stockholm


I know this sounds weird, she
said, but it’s like the pain is
well this isn’t the best word but
the pain is my

Has become my friend, I’m
with it every day I know
its moods and I know
how its heart pounds right
before it pounces.

I sound crazy, don’t I.  It’s
taken everything
from me and yet it’s
also always with me.

Never alone now. Not anymore.

I sound crazy, don’t I. I think
the pain wants to make me
crazy. Like maybe that
is its goal. Not
making me hurt. Making
me crazy.

I sound crazy, don’t I. I think
I might be crazy.

NaPoMo 19 – Forgetting

Forgetting how much life we have lived dead
we cry Oh Loss! Oh Loss! as if we’ve only now
noticed the bobbing of amputated desires decorating
the waves of the wakes we’ve left on our way

into the earth. Into the sky. Along the edge
that goes on being edge forever
unless you turn back.

Which would be a loss of future but
no greater than how going on regardlessly
is to be mired and lost in the swamp of the past.

If measured in atoms our lives stretch
nye on to infinite. In eons, a lifepan’s no more
than a moth’s: hatch, molt, mate, die.

But linearity is time’s best ruse. If we remember
how much live we’ve lived dead then death is
both after and before time then life
is what we’ve been losing all along
and death only how we return to
what we’ve always known.

NaPoMo 18 – Body / Self

Body / Self

A stretch of skin
inside billions of lives bacteria amoeba virus
parasite protozoa worm fungi bug

fields of subtle power

ways of communicating mysterious
tiny worlds in galaxies of tiny worlds
epic battles against invaders
scars and strategies
passed down through generations
loves and hates and matings wild
births and deaths at millions a moment
unknowable to the entity

The illusion of my and self
whether white blood cells marshal their troops in time
whether a fine flowing strand of DNA mutates
or doesn’t whether the big bang of the heartbeat
goes on banging or goes

How it feels to a universe

How it feels to be a god
living, creating, fragile
lifespan determined by beings only guessed at
who may believe they are part of some bigger plan
or may not

If their fate determines their god’s?

Obsession with myself

what a laugh

what a self, to depend on worlds

that do not depend upon self

What a universe! What a god!

NaPoMo 17 – Crossing


Grief, you stained old mattress
you taunting empty imprint,
what had been my soft comfort
lays now  bare

How dare you,
with your barbs your thorns
the brittle branches of your empty
weightless form, dare usurp
a bed once dense with love

Grief, you traitor you butcher
you bomb bay door opening long before
we wed by gravity to this earth know
to listen for the alien roar of you,
you would have never been
welcomed into the shelters
of our homes, of our beds
but for how you make of yourself a bridge
between what was and what is not

A bridge I cross with full consent
though my legs be shackled,
though your infinite span be paved
with infinite razor-shards of bones spewing
forth from where my heart once fluttered
and swooped from the sound of my name
pulled soft from her lips

NaPoMo 15 – Both ways down a one-way street

Both ways down a one-way street
“I’m driving two ways at once down a one-way street.” Sam Broscoe

I’m driving two ways at once down a one-way street
with no idea if right is wrong or wrong is right,

backing down a one-way street,
what is to come is what has been,

hop skip and jumping along a one-way street,
awkward steps practiced smooth then splat! on my ass.

I once asked directions on a one-way street
from a wraith who just pointed to the stark clear sign.

At sixteen I got lost on a one-way street,
damn near ran out of gas before I found my own way.

Our story is not a one-way street,
but an intersection, a map, a globe, a maze,

your decline is not a one-way street,
if what goes up must come down what is down must arise.

Life is not a one-way street
but feels like a grid of them with no right on red

and death is not a one-way street
but a Big Bang with infinite worlds given birth.

NaPoMo 13 – Taharah


Once you have washed the dead you cannot unwash
the knowing — how scars, decades old, grow dull but don’t 
grow soft how ports and catheters leak and seep how liquids clear or 
cloudy or yellow may be discarded but liquids red or pink are part
of the life of the body and must be added to the bag for burial, a myth
I do not believe About the resurrection of the body shaping a ritual 
I faithfully  follow which is hardly a contradiction for what of death
is rational? What brain can comprehend the moment 
of its own end?

In the basement of this funeral home on this table where we
operate the question of life or death has been resolved so we
who never have to hold out hope can know surgery for the trauma
to the body that it is and worry only about how to clean up in its
bloody weeping seeping stitched up wake. Which bandages do we 
dare remove which tape can be untaped which stitches must we
the Washers not wash for fear of what might flow?

Yet what we do now is so barely different, in the basement
of death or death decisions. We study the body what it can take
and what it cannot. Our judgments follow preserving only the body’s
dignity, a luxury of our location in the American production line between healthy and dead. And after we wash and dry and bless
we dress the body in white linen garments, clothes
whose seams are loosely stitched for they will never have to hold
up to the stresses of serving the living, pants with leg
bottoms sewn shut, with a belt of fragile fraying cloth tied
in a knot so loose a single breath in and out would be 
its undoing, a shirt so large and open so low it refuses to hide
the violent slice down the length of this chest,
still flecked with blood, too delicate to wash, the surgical threads loosely stitched for they will never have to hold up to
the stresses of serving the living, tied off in knots so loose
a single breath in and out would have been their undoing,
and finally the long kittle tunic, mercifully shut
so I no longer have to see the slice, the seams, the broken heart behind the fragility of the knots,
and the closing of the covering  of the linen sheet, the final
bandaging of the soul, the mark of the end of our procedure.

Tahorah hi / she is pure
Tahor hu  / he is pure
Tahorim / we are pure