Monday, September 29, 2014

IMUNURI Prompt: Hopalong

Xpogo RioCC BY-SA 3.0  Wikimedia Commons
Pogo sticks
Rockets to the moon

Jump on one foot for one whole minute (time it) then write a poem (about that or about anything) - bonus for noticing - how does it change the pace and rhythm of your writing?

Extra credit: pretend you are in a slow motion movie for part of the time, gravity permitting. How does that change it?

Tags: hopalong, poet name, poem

Saturday, September 27, 2014

50 books (50: Books, tombs, tomes, mulching the word womb)

the garbage(recycling) can is filling up and spilling over
so even though the SUN is SH(R)INING as only slantwise autumn lightWISE
birch leaf wind scintillant and tossing arises as only it now can be

i decide to stand up from sitting on the EDGE of the chair and put
50 books

somehow, i have to turn it all over, upend this distended bender of hellion papers
and unbury myself
just as the leaves begin
their gifting cemetery mulching flight
down to the floor of this earthbound slant of light

am i fighting the season to try to levitate 50 books?

although i resist the second law of thermoDYNAMICS
and the idea that everything is falling apart (that
seems such a construction of the disbelieving space
of current limited science flights of fancy)

i must stop this entropy trainwreck
as now i can only tiptoe between the bookpiles

and how can i learn to dance?

The book titles form impromptu material for a poem:


These books! I want everything close
if I could sleep on them I would
These are my family more than people
The feelings of love and affection that flood me when I see them so much more
than most humans I encounter

Sometimes I just want to hug them, carry them around, perhaps a form of clothing
with so many inner pockets, a kind of thermic/psychic/intellectual insulation
I would have to spend an hour every day to decide which books to wear.

The introvert/extrovert divide would be whether the pocket coat
was made of invisible or see through material, or whether the books were turned in...

is that why they start to plaster themselves to every horizontal surface?

the grief
in putting them back on the shelf

i want them all to simultaneously float around me, open, riffled, with the little stickies
all the ideas, perhaps with swift lines like birdflightpaths between the interconnected ideas
(the kind of LIVEly connection that academic citation can never convey)

i realize i have been using the wrong part of my brain to praise these universes:
what i need to do is make altars
for them each, for them together,
juxtaposed and joyful, offering flowers, incense, bouquets

7 ideas are more beautiful than trees
sometimes, or at least just as much, just as alive
(is that why we make paper from them?) this kinship of leaf and sheaf
perches for thoughtbirds and the little jumping off spots of the first flight of ideas
sucking up nurture from the earth and calling down and replenishing the waters

the more i think about it, i can't do it. i don't want to move a single one.
instead, i lie down and
nestle in, pulling them close, curling fetalling in this curve of paper, word, and wit:
the book womb holds me steady, close, and still, incubating in me
the steadiness to move on, to stand back up, nine months from now,
and birth myself and these new ideas
just in time for summer next, for reaching out, like an arm,
hinging upward,
gutting gravity,
bucking entropy:
to put a book
on a shelf

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Broken Eggs

cottage built of old pallets
fruit case ads bleed thru yellowed kitchen ceiling
must/dust cat fur on room rug,
walls bare, except 
Egyptian wall hanging spattered with egg yolk
 Horus weighs a (Red) heart against a feather (Blue )
burn marks on wall 
reflect indoor bottle rocket launches
induced haunts
upstairs one hot room before, 
only furniture a metal four-post bed
four more stairs lead up to a (duck!) short opening to a small room with a child size mattress
bay breeze drafts through windowless space
chills the day after
no window left unbroken

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Broadway Kearney Trochee

Crystal Hot Sauce
Urban Curry
Bloody Mary

Happy Donut
Public Parking
Little Szechuan
            For Lease

Garden of Eden
North Beach Movie
Dancers Discount

"North Beach Film Shoot," by Matt Jones

Monday, September 15, 2014


Words open into libraries.
My cognition leaps easily.
How do fingertips apprehend
this instant fractal teleport?



Sit on the edge of your seat or stand between rooms in the doorway. Write a poem.

Or write something edgy.
A goes-between.

Or invent a form on edge.

In permaculture, the edge is where things mingle: new admixtures or amalgamations. Greater diversity brings greater resilience.

Prompt words: on edge, poem, moniker

"Yosemite On Edge" - Wikimedia Commons

holding the cup and sensing its future breaking, a time fractal of holding and love in three parts that is also infinity and also nothing/the initiating perturbation from the quantum plenum

0 (which is also a infinity and nothing, the pearl of possibility breaking open from the quantum plenum)
imagine this is in the middle and everything comes out from here the decentered/center. there is a call for an article about love but that just gives me a mental hiccup

a mental hiccup spiral ing out from there a mental hiccup starting again there is no love in all those words could there be, an academic article about love? there could be no love, could there, in things where i have to cite others to have a thought- what if instead each citation were a mycelial tendril? what if i were touching, grooming, photophilically tenderly mycelially like a mycorrhizal networkly reaching out and praising through who i was whoing? i feel quelled by the need to get a job, by how i might be inspected online and found too weird creative or wanting -- that is the danger with names, with wanting to be transparent but really being broken shards of broken cups that can't carry water anymore

i can sense the future breaking of this ceramic (temporary wholeness) in my hand, in this way i am also touching the big bang and also nuclear fission/fusion i always get confused which one, wait should i look that up on wikipedia or keep typing? if this is the igniting wick of a word explosion, i should continue making smoke, burning up my body in the transmutation to prayers. somehow it all blows to nothing, to cosmic grit, to the the dark, immersive, generous 97% dark energy of all creation, the gentle, sweet, generative depths from which all arises and returns - but wait, i can't s/end this in a tidy way, the great making and the great unmaking are already simultaneously arising, erasing each other, just as the leaves here are curling and coiling in on themselves, sucking back their chloroplasts chlorophyll, that's what autumn really is: not green. what's left over when the life coils back into the mother trunk; this is not really fractal enough but me thinking that makes it more so, where will we end // end/begin // begin? just as the initial perturbation in the complex multiverse flex and fold-sing-being. let me be a bee traveling in space-time, on the currents of galactic wind and pollinate constellations to form a kind of dark energy honey in the hives of all creation, just so, at the zero point, returning to the end to rill out again, a flower flexi-folding, in bursts of unspeakable color before words and after, just so, just so, just so BURST

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Fractal self

Scent of Orange

call to prayer fade out
on shores south of here
old ring in my ear left behind…

seated back on chair in Crete
silent cup before me
feet still…in sandals
lantern now to light
speech less
color gone grays

orange blossom scent carried here
 (though no breeze)
 in orange blossom scent carried here
 (though no breeze)
held in air
nostrils sway for more

tongue tastes 
last sun/set’s orange
light gone to fragrance
orange blossom scent carried here…

Thursday, September 4, 2014

Tai-chi Haiku

Palm on puma head
Hold self in mirror image
Step out into world

Monday, September 1, 2014

IMUNURI Prompt: The infinite coastline

Fractal edges are infinitely expanding, minutely detailed: watch this video on the infinite coastline.

Write a fractal poem. Delve in and find the expanding poem within one fragment of a poem. Sense or form the iterating shape echoing across scales.

tags: poet's moniker, poem, infinite-coastline

Monday, August 25, 2014

Museum list poem

List poem found on museum wall simultaneous to Daniel posting prompt for listpoem. From Asian Art Museum show "Gorgeous"

My Mountain List

dragon flies 
raccoon with young’ un at drinking fountain

Juniper Trail 
no water campsite
drought ended spring
fly buzz louder than ears ringing
oak scent

Wind Rock Caves
names gone by
dates passed up
parched couple
guy asks me
“Come to carve your name?”

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

the rains come

i will
come back
to myself


after years
of grieving

    green sap rising
    granite butte

i need a river or pond
to see myself
says the cloud
so finally

she opens

to make mirror

the rains come

Monday, August 18, 2014

IMUNURI Prompt: List Poem

Write a list poem.
Art by Lauren Ari

List or catalog poem are simply that: poems formatted as a list. The form is quite open-ended and could be a numbered sequence, an ordering of events, an arbitrary string of images, or a series of parallel or un-parallel entries.


"Jubilate Agno, Fragment B, [For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry]" by Christopher Smart, 1722 - 1771
"How Do I Love Thee (Sonnet 43" by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806 - 1861

"Howl" by Allen Ginsberg, 1926–1997

"Yes" by Denise Duhame b.1971

As well as "The Twelve Days of Christmas," "Dr. Seuss's ABC's," and the intro verse to "Blue Suede Shoes."

One for the money,
Two for the show.
Three to get ready,
then go, cat, go!

Keywords: your handle, poem, listpoem

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Random Time Travel - from object to slogans to titles

snapped shut oxygen deprived
snapped open/ flint struck flame tall
zippoed either way

close shave that crow stunt
stolen covers
left little boy open to bad dreams
at watch for jumpers 
his brain leaps to 
more graven falls
out drummed below

 film crew skeletons atop double decker bus
celluloid carnivores
crank cameras out of time
no better than chained bear walkers
tight roping

bicycle passenger locked in app
high leather laced boots
red and yellow
stickers on
master locked
messenger bag
“Leave the clothes off animals”!
“This aint the Summer of Love!”
big wheels
pedaling smelling salts

Future Poem Titles

zippoed either way
out drummed below
tight roping
pedaling smelling salts