Monday, November 3, 2014

IMUNURI Prompt: Wordup





Make up a word,

Make it the title of your poem.

Write the poem.

[keywords: wordup, poem, your name]

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Dr. Charles Charlie Martin

One of the city’s marginal,
laughing in genuine mirth,
passed me going the other way.

That was last week.
Today a barefoot woman
roared at Market Street.

I had my face on,
and I didn’t know (often)
what I should do.

That’s part of urban life:
how busses are big red ads
and a busy street is a zoo.

It might have been the laughing man
who defaced the photo
where suddenly my feet

stopped: a doctor, stethoscope,
magic-marked red mouth,
neat black hair and bowtie,

and wet, beating heart
held on his fingertips
beneath the texture of trample. 

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

And the White Ginger is about to Bloom

“This will be a hard thing that I am going to tell you”
and with a shrimp taco (in red sauce) in front of me
R. told me how he had been to the top of the hospital parking lot a couple of times to look down and see how far he would fall if he went over the ledge and that two weeks ago he bought a half gallon of vodka that he carried up there with the intention of seeing if he uncapped and drank some he would gain enough courage to jump
“R. you gotta call Psych and tell them this and text me you called in”
and he apparently did as I received a text from R. that intake would be the next day
And the white ginger is about to bloom
the giant dahlia is above the deck communing with night blooming jasmine
the persimmons are turning gold/orange
big black “O” the barn cat finishes his perimeter check, sits in the deck door opening
and the white ginger is about to bloom.

Monday, October 20, 2014

IMUNURI Prompt: "Read" something illegible (Projective Symbiosis)

One of human's favorite activities is projecting meaning into the dense ineffable catterwaul of nature, culture, and life. Are these moments of fathomless oracular power or hopeless species-dominant voicings? Find something ineffable and actively project meaning into/through/with/in/and/on/as it. The scrollwork of beetles under bark. A painting of modern art. The fugue state of clouds. Bonus to metacognize in your poem or creation your idea about whether you are speaking through, as, or for. Bonus to include a visual representation of your projective symbiont.

Image: Bark Beetle Galleries from Wikimedia Commons

keywords: your name, poem, read

Monday, October 13, 2014

crossings (excerpt)

right after that woman made that racist comment in the diversity workshop
that went unattended about not being someone whose family had gotten here
by crossing a river, a friend and I raced, ran full out to catch up
to the group getting to the boats for a sunset cruise of the canal.  we
lunge with bags hefted and jettison all dec(orum) as we vault bionic
down the convention maze and I hear the duhduhduh of jamie summers as
we dodge left and lap right and leap onto the escalator, panting like dogs for our one last jump.
little did we know we didn’t need to race
for our lives (this time), though for us, whose ancestors crossed on boats
unwilling, shackled; for those whose ancestors crossed desperate or forced out;
and for those displaced and slaughtered by ancestors who came on boats;
we knew instantly how to run as if our lives depended
on it. we are a species crouched on the brink, the future
threatened to break, and we summon our strength, hurdle thump,
hurdle thump, hurdle thump. the waters we hurry to cross
are invisible: the deep, stained structures of ownership, denial, dominion.
what will the stories be, and the skills and cultures, ten lines down,
200 years from now? i hope it’s not the waters of the milky way
they cross, infecting other places. in the north american canals
of willingness, let the lapping waters soften us. it’s what we don’t take
that matters. what we put down. here at the brink. the chasm, the ridge
the cliff, the cleft, the jump-off, the bridge.  like fools leaping
off. or over. let our magic bags on a stick be light. filled with autumn leaves
of leaving, and seeds, magic beans, for saving. launching into the cool waters
willingly, this time, and for joy at how water teaches presence, teaches
that sky and land are one, mirrored partners in beauty, this cloud, this water, this land
without gizmos or plugging in, we are part of the river of life running through.
let us be this clear, there is no where at all to go. water teaches:
we are right here. water: river, ocean, giver generous. quivering sun and moon,
giving these back. flexible fabric of connection. slaking thirst and making life.
at the verge of these inner crossings, we lay down
the need to flee in fear either from or toward some migration to somewhere
else. we no longer know whether our children’s children
of all species will survive. we know some will make it through.
we have the canny craft of those who came before. the whisper
wisdom of those who are to come. we lift up a handful of leaves
and crinkle them into duff. the trees have already contracted the green
the chloroplasts, and hunkered off. make your choices. here in the winter
of planetary life, we contract, saving what matters
which is not something
that can be

plugged in.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

Unipedally Riffed

Left, left, left.

I left
Jeff Taft
bereft by a cliff.

He sniffed,
that I stiffed him in the lift.

I laughed
'til I coughed
as I rebuffed his guff.

Our theft
was deft
staffed by Steffi Graf.

He cuffed
me on the cleft,
and that's when I

Left, left, left. 

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Hopped UP


Hopped up

Came down
Ears flapped
Same foot
Pogo sticky left

Written on it:

"Right to bare arms"

W/ thanks to my Muse

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