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NaPoWriMo Days 1 & 2:

I have to do the first two days together because I didn’t find out about this until last night. I decided to combine the first two prompts together:

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower,

But I don’t care.

Just because things are in motion doesn’t mean

I have to be.

And I am content to let life slip through my fingers

not feeling it.

I create persona’s for most aspects of my life; if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to get along with anyone.  I have this fucking out there persona for when I’m at work, and for when I’m on facebook; these things aren’t me.  I fake every aspect of those things, and when I’m done pretending to be something I’m not, I come home exhausted and irritable… 

I don’t even find most things funny anymore- I just fake laughter or force myself to find something funny.  Really, everything is completely alien to me…

Sweating out my dreams, I drive
my derisions to the brink of

I don’t have a theme other than sarcasm
No goal apparent in life than orgasm
Irony takes the place of pedagogy
And strokes take the place of syncope
I should just give up
But I can’t
I have

The taste of black pepper envelopes benches bereft of life
It’ll shock and soothe
And whirlwind toasts will come when the bells stop chiming
They celebrate the end of something, always
the End of something.

I can’t promise to not placate my more sinister sentiments
any more than I can eradicate Eros from our easements.

Sometimes I go so fast I can’t see through the glare.

Sometimes I go so fast I can’t see through the glare.

Sometimes I feel like I’m on the surface of the moon.

Sometimes I feel like I’m on the surface of the moon.

Alone, again (part 2)

Thoughts don’t even seem to bounce off the walls anymore,
Drifting off into space, I hope they reach the cosmos somehow.
Maybe there is some quasar out there that can quickly reciprocate;
I know it will take eternities.
If I live that long, I hope I can discover why I eventually I have to go.

class (2).

Glaciers breathe. 


I’m not sure if anything means anything.  What I’m not doing with writing is to imitate life, or to create art that shows that life imitates art.  I just try to give a representation of myself that I am satisfied with; not the mimetic one.


At this point, I’ve forgotten how to marry my images; I feel like the pope of poetry just excommunicated me.

Alone, again

It never cuts or slices, but

seems to seep in  through the seconds

when characters in films pause

to breathe.  It builds like layer upon

layer of sickle sweet pancakes

precariously stuffed into the stomach;

by the time the brain starts

to get the message, I already feel sick.