Fallout

He pounds the dugout
Hoping to shake loose
Grains leaves specks
Something, anything.

It’ll leave a bruise
But he doesn’t mind
Bruises show passion,
At least, for something.

Our souls are bruised
We belong together.
This passion broken mass
That meets weekly,
And groans at itself.

Specks, the lot of us, 
Hunting dust, tracking
The fallout of exploded
Passions. The dust
And grains of a hit.

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In Saginaw, in Saginaw

The wind took a dastardly turn
In Saginaw, in Saginaw

Oh it rains x or y times a year
In Saginaw, in Saginaw

I know you’ve had that feeling
In Saginaw, in Saginaw 

Oh I know you’ve had that feeling
In Saginaw, in Saginaw 

In his free time, and it’s all free these days, he throws together spiders that run databases stitching together relevant data to plug into variable fields in his poetry.

In “In Saginaw, in Saginaw” it queries for the average yearly rainfall for Saginaw, for Saginaw.

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All is all is now

a new poem, then,
without tangle
or predecessor
a true poem
born now as
mosquitoes bite
and sweat beads
and I’m not thinking of you
before the sun slips down
breathless and weightless
our story played out
against the night sky
I can’t help slipping into it
it’s a natural law here
momentum, inertia,
trajectories too expensive to alter
the moments sweep past
you and you and you
against the sky
a prologue, then, or epilogue

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Saturn, My Love

Your love is plumb round
The planet from you
And you got water to collect
For Earth, they ran through
Their supply allotment
Long time ago
And it’s on you
And your love is plumb round
The planet
Also collecting water
For home.
But no one thinks about love
As they dismantle the Jewel.

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I & language & being

How I manage to stay on my feet durning performances is by clinging to the wall.
I pull myself up, handhold by handhold.
Words crumble and fall around me. I look for a path and follow its logical progression.
It’s scary, but there’s always another word where you need it.
Sometimes you have to make do and grab at the next best, and the next, and hope,
that when you slip,
you can grab another word and ride it to safety.

Myself, then, is a path of words that manifests in performance. Myself is maintained word by word, for as long as there are words.

But what is myself in wordless times? In silence and solitude, I pace and drink coffee and commune with dogs. Myself blindly balances on a single foot and finds that, by strumming or muting invisible lines of tension, pain can be, not averted, but channeled, partially, elsewhere in the void. Myself is a silhouette in a blue sky, tensing and relaxing without words.

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You remember

Main Content

The cold measured cuts
of your nightmares are real.
It’s true.
When you could no longer torture
yourself, you turned the blade on me.
I went down in the surprise round.
You waited for me to come to
and flipped me over,
and made me watch
your blade’s slow agony
sweep and slice and spin
through your deadly whispers.
You took breaks with girlish laughter,
And unrestrained joy.
They’re always so short.
When you return you
catch my eyes
and bow low
slowly
sweeping the blade.
And you raise
slower still,
holding my gaze
and lurch
pinpoint,
a clean kill.

That happened.
You did that.
It’s true.
You tortured
And you killed
Deliberately.
You pretend the charnel ground doesn’t exist;
It’s unsightly and filled with dark secrets.

Endnotes

Note

I may have jumped the gun in this one. It's changing fast. Faster than readers can cope with—they'll be various versions of this floating around now.

It came about because I want to write the bubble bath series, but to make it worth while I'll need to spread it out so I can better test the code.

Then I got excited by a couple lines, and couldn't not scribble and scribble.

And then technical issues happened, and I was faced with publishing or loosing. So yeah, a lot of things came together causing this premature birth. It's gonna be hit and miss for a while.

I'm still trying to figure out if it's a poem or a story or a letter from the frontline.

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Darlings Killed

Many, many, many. Including:

That happened.
You did that.
It's true.
No greater good came.
No epiphanies revealed.
No scars healed.
You tortured.
And you killed.
Deliberately.
You avoid the charnel ground now.
It's unsightly and filled with dark secrets.

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Thud-klomp

Thud-klomp thud-klomp
the booted hooves come
stomping across the lava
fields into your house.

Your cats scream and run
but you’re frozen in place
mouth agape, batter dripping
from a wooden spoon.

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Updated Friday, June 20th, 2014.

Image Text of the poem Thud-klomp by Franklyn Monk
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If you were sitting in a fire

If you were sitting in a fire,
Which direction would you face?
East is the obvious answer,
Back against the sunset
Waiting for night.

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“A Throne!”


“You, you,” he points at you,
“You can’t be in my audience,”
And collapses.

There are no stagehands here
To shuffle away his bones,
“It’s a one man show!”

He now understands his mistake,
But he’s proud of shrinking
The universe down to a man.
Who does that?
“The Artist!” he’ll inevitably cry
And laugh because it’s ludicrous.

“I took tickets too.”
And he cleaned the aisles
And he built you a throne
With cheesecloth and cardboard,
“And my soul!” Yes, yes, of course.

And there now you are
In the throne he constructed
And he’s not ready to be seen or heard
“Or exist!” No, no, of course.


Episode Link | Archive Item | YouTube

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Was “Front row, center”

Podcast added Friday, May 16, 2014
and updated a day later.

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Call it love.

The lone survivor of the ambush and subsequent tortures suffered survivor’s guilt and post traumatic stress disorder for his remaining days. Mostly in bed waiting to hear from an ally.

Solace never came. No trust or hope now. Just ruin. Ruin and decay. And one lone broken poet spreading the story, but leaving off the ending—he will have none think ill of his ally.
Continue reading Call it love.

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