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NAPoWriMo 2008's Journal
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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in NAPoWriMo 2008's LiveJournal:

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Saturday, April 4th, 2009
10:10 pm
Switchin' off, folks.
I'm posting my stuff to napowrimo now. It's active again.
Wednesday, April 1st, 2009
11:09 pm
1: Woolworth
Two rows over, woolweave, laces through leaves
We'll find each other's fingers in the smooth cool dirt between us
Not a path per se, but we're both there
And in some cases, seeing
We'll find him, you and I
Us two are dew droplets on a spiderweb's netting
Baubles strung in the hair, decor
But we're so much more than that, no matter
how much they won't let us
Seatbelt, staple us down
Won't work when our fingers are oh so good with the locks
Just like Daddy taught us in the first place

I'll find him, if you find the way
Sniff the air
Find the bad spots because we ain't no canary
And dropping dead wasn't my agenda here
Sometimes you gotta mine for gold
In the heart, in life
In foolish wastelands
Sometimes people are left behind
And you gotta catch em
It's the only thing that can be done.

Dear Papa,
Trust us
We'll bring the bacon back home.
You can wedge that in between covers and sew a binding right on
Laces strung every which way
Glue down the spine
Slap me till it sticks.
8:20 pm
01 - Re:
Playing-card insecurities
and witty ripostes by email
baby-scars and an age spot
and a  '58 Corvette L8
comment thread a mile long
zero to 30 all too soon...
Fresians replaced by Subarus
(does the Prince have a steady job)
the first notes of the BVW 565
and the lingering bite of chardonnay
all that's left of the midnight oil
a smile at 1 AM with a Kodak attached
an arc Overwijk could have scribed.

Current Mood: tired
Thursday, May 1st, 2008
9:36 pm
#30 - Claims
You'll let me put a word or two to you.
I've right enough to recollect
I've right enough to pen you by now
If you want, you can have the candlesticks back
in exchange for the poetry.
I'll even give back the tiny end tables
(whatever you call them, they're fancy)
for a short. More than a bit of flash-
I think the effort involved in stealing them
credits me something more than just a chapter.
You like the cat enough
(and I know you do, don't deny it)
that you ought to find me worth
the time
You of all should be able to.
Wednesday, April 30th, 2008
11:43 pm
#29 - There Is No Path to Old Home Anymore
I don't know what to call to anymore
except, I do
I just don't know why this pile of goosedown
is here
and where did it come from and where
and where
did the times go did the pearls disappear to
where is my wife she's off sleeping with the daisies and
in the interim
I wonder why I went there, wonder
if it was all really just crookery
and heists and
madcap teenage hijinks or was it really
reaching up
but being pulled sideways am
I really
getting this story straight or
telling it to myself through the funhouse mirror
am I getting it right
am I getting it right
good Lord, am I getting it right?
Tuesday, April 29th, 2008
5:42 pm

Three years.
Several edicts issued
promoting an arbitrary deadline
as if putting a limit on the crawl of time
itself would put a stop to the rise of the kingdom.


I dove backward today
through a hospital stay
(worked so close to death
that my family cared)
my own body betraying me
(so cold, so painful
the loop that saved me)
the skidding next to Sunset
(three hours wasn't
enough to stop the car)
somewhere along the way
I got a sense of where forward is
but it was lost in the
checkout line at Von's.
Monday, April 28th, 2008
1:55 pm
#28 Squares
Welcome to the new story

It's a lot like the old one. We've just tightened a few screws and
kicked out some loose boards
I think you'll like it.

We'll like
playing that same old game again
but different, and this time,
for more points. We'll like
playing for keeps this time
for the second time
and not having to remember which way was the right way
not having to worry at all, because
you see there are no funerals
there are no diagonals
there are no more urinals

this is baseball
this is chess
this is jenga

and when I cast the chips in I'll cast the chips in
all real on the pile, no wooden
nickels no
false corners no
dutch ovens without
well-played hands

and we'll see who gets the last laugh but
it's not so much the laugh that's
important, but
which will have echoed.
1:46 pm
#27 - Understand
She didn't look like she was going anywhere, but
that is the first mistake me make, that first look
defining purpose by impression. No one wears it on
their shoulder, or on their hand. They don't even
carry it where they can pull it out fast. It's just
there, in the pocket of a heart, maybe jangling
around her ankle the next day, and later on it'll
be tucked up in her cheek. We don't think about
where to put our purpose, we're too busy with it
to keep track of it. And when we want it, need it,
it's always right there in the palm anyways. Right
where we meant to put it, if we ever had wanted to.
1:42 pm
With the max line it's always a matter of
not accounting for the times we didn't relay

It's easy. With everything comes practice
With every action comes
and in the interim, in the small thuds of silence afterwards
we pause
and consider

The swan was dark blue, stood on two sturdy legstumps.
Its tail trailed behind it, scale on scale on scale.
And with its crown perched on its head, I wondered why it so resembled a peacock.
As far as I could recall, there were no peacocks anywhere.
Friday, April 25th, 2008
10:29 pm
In the precise area that followed
who would be able to know
how the dust and the plumes fell
what swallow-laden remorse would pile redemption
on your pillow with the posies
and make up for something more

Who would say goodbye, with a pinprick
and give you what you couldn't pretend was snow
who would make you into tulips
and tell you how to breathe once more
10:23 pm
It is not the 24th
Pineapplecones drifting down a swallow
In Vista it's almost instantan
Well, I have a whole 512 gigs
of meg

When you see a drink it's best to drink
After a year that rule is no different
But the company is what really changes
Whether the liquor is smuggled or not

4:16 pm
Wednesday, April 23rd, 2008
9:32 pm
#23 - In & Out Art
I was so in love with the canvas
I just couldn't put
on it so now
I have thrown paint across it
hurled curlicues of lavender and velvet blue periwinkle
and now it is no longer
or maybe it is finally sacred enough
to put paint on

I'd tell my parents
but they would just ask me why
I hadn't called
8:57 pm

Washed today down with
can't concentrate
there's XKCD in the channel
where Pipe is X to tha D
       - no salt on the frizzle
and drinkin' Bailey's from a shoe
and Dad hits me with the worm
and takes it back
Tuesday, April 22nd, 2008
11:18 pm
#22 - Development
We had a talk, the two of us
the other night, under a long moon
its light cast in reflection over reflection over reflection
layering the waves
ocean below us, before us
we were high up on our cliff

And it feels like "ours" at that distance, even though
it's more yours than mine, much more
Anyways, I had a cigarette
offered you one, and to my surprise you accepted
'What a gentleman', the other voice in my lapel pocket
but only with so much mock
at this point in developments it's conversation too.

A three-way conversation more than a two-way
but you knew that before I even asked if we could talk
you and I, under the stars
you know I don't go out alone anymore
Still, I extended the offer
because it seemed to matter that I tried.

I always think of what I miss. It's nice to know you miss
that upon change, you acknowledge, and that you can reflect
I don't think that is relevant here but,
in a way, is it what this has been all about?

I ask you about the stars. Or maybe I talk to you
no questions, no motives
who's to tell the difference at a certain elevation?
I ask about K, about my tribe, and my family
I ask most of all about myself and that which I've beget
I make shapes with the smoke I inhale.

It's all part of getting comfortable,
I suppose
It's all part of growing into me
breaking the new shoes in

You give them pots, they whose roots you tend
He gives me shoes, he who my roots now lead to
I wonder at how accurate that metaphor might be
How close to home
A transplant's ponderings.

What words did we really have besides idle conversation?
Or was this what all the trouble was about?

Sometimes, that is enough.
Monday, April 21st, 2008
9:45 pm
Erica B.

I hammer a tack onto a wall
onto a tapestry, its panels blocky and unstitched
onto 600 halfhearted Thomas Kincaide homages
onto spackle on spackle on so much copy paste
and turn it
turn it from the center, twist clockwise
and then call it art
I don't sign my name.

- - -

Two Stars Bookend a Planet In the Sky

I dance, I turn on a heel, twist kicking up with one knee raised
can't take a bow to you because I'm too busy lifting my hat in reverence
to the ground
I'm not truculent. I'm just old
It's not so much I'm set in my way, but I see
No other way I'd prefer to take. Not now
Now that the game has developed such interesting players
and pieces
in such an interesting pattern
I just want to see it all pan out, sit on the sidelines
with a thoughtful look of one hand on my chin
the other picking at the paint on the seat

I've a handful of fears in the one palm,
and in the other, sparrows find it safe
to nest, or to prefer not to nest
on a certain level either way can please me to no end.

What I miss most? There is
always something to miss
or is missing just me recalling what's ahead, backwards
longing for the completion
That's what you think, long for:
the completion of the circle
the ouroboros to bite its tail
but, oh honey

let's not play it out so fast that in the rush
we forget that beautiful snake's voice.
Forever is a long time.

Now, I could end it with the cryptic dead leaf
fluttering on the dry autumn grass
But it is springtime and I want to have a smoke outside.
So remember this: I do not draw absolutes
upon my body.
I fold them up, into neat palm fronds
Floridian origami we shall call it
and I may sell them, or I may keep them close
to my heart, to my furnace
or who is to tell?
In the end, we'll all have our wheel.
I keep mine close, just as much as you.

We don't need to knit our fingers together into floss poems
unravelled as soon as our hands are called upon
we can spread them wide, from one point of the horizon to the other
we can greet the dawn, all of us
I never stop counting the things we can agree on. It's just
sometimes we need reminders to keep our lists up.
One such reminder came, and I tell you
I wish I would have had so much more popcorn
for the whole experience
and then some to come.
9:02 am

took a drive through the city last night
exploring a sea of sodium vapor guides
and misted oceans of asphalt
she was unusually quiet.

I asked her what I was holding
she looked between my hands
and said "A steering wheel."
she seemed cross.

her boys were tucked in for the night
so I paged my friend's uncle
he told me to get on the fucking freeway
and get back to my bed.

not that I did.


All I want to carry right now is my wallet.

I have a purse that holds everything -
Pullups for my son
A small sketchbook
Fountain pen
Small hairbrush
and tons of detritus from being me.
I'd rather leave it behind.


The best thing about math class
(besides the vending machine and
reading The Register when lecture
gets far far too long)
is being able to phone in my performance.

This, of course, assumes I actually pick up the phone.
Sunday, April 20th, 2008
11:45 pm
#19 - Rabbits
She'll step down 30,000 times
before she makes it to dry land
and until then, clutching fur close
laces her boots tight
tucks a knife into one
into the other, a book
(a short story quilled in miniature cursive)
rabbits make footfalls in places she doesn't know

Following close on her trail, someone takes time to smile
and remember

She'll make it yet
-that frail girl-
2:01 pm
Public History

That year, we went straight
from ice piles hiding the blind drives
to summer. The fall litter--

hides and pine needles, tiny bones
and vegetable fiber--composted
beneath our feet,

simmering like stock. That year, nothing grew
quite right—too swollen,
the flowers faceplanted,

leaking their dew on the pavement.
Corn kernels burst
in their sockets.

That year, we went straight
to sickness. The minor league pitcher
fainted in his white casing. The children,

beet-cheeked, rubbed their knuckles
into their eyes to grind
out the itch. The adults were all boiling. That year,

the community project, a peony-piled float
for Old Sammy, bronze Revolutionary war hero,
went straight to delusions

of grandeur. The blooms, big as knee-caps,
each heavy as a milk jug, stank
of sweetness. That year,

the float queen sneezed for a week, her braids
blued, and all year she carried
perfume made rank

from the heat of her blood. The parade
become a party, became
a demonstration, then went straight

to public destruction of statues. That year,
we lost all of our streetsweepers, by both natural
and political causes. Now,

so long after, the flowers
still have trouble keeping
their heavy heads in a proper upright position.
Saturday, April 19th, 2008
11:58 am

Pour the tea carefully, dear
and when you whiskey tango foxtrot
make sure you don't spill.

It's never just tea.


Well, that was interesting -
the wireless went down and landed a proposal
that I couldn't accept, but appreciated
in the spirit it was given.

Then, later, it was down again
only this time it wasn't
and for once, all that mattered
was on this side of my home.
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