Carnivorous love letters from male dogs and boars
Love letter from a cold water putrified fish
All together, love letters are a raft. Love letters are buoyant.
But this depends on the temperature [and] the sheer
enjoyment factor which typically characterizes love letters.
Like making waterslides and [then] sliding on them or,
finding small stones and [then] playing with them.
NapoWriMo Day 24 Prompt: Find a factual article about an animal. A Wikipedia article or something from National Geographic would do nicely – Now, go back through the text and replace the name of the animal with something else –Here’s the Wiki on Otters I used.
Do you ever stop talking to yourself –administering self-prose Prozac? Is this what you mean by employing whatever means necessary to get out of bed– climb, or free fall? How is it you land on this: there’s enough peanut butter and honey to sustain you.
I’m concerned. You say there’s a sky full of sharks to drink. You say you have the right to feel as much, and as often as needed. You study shadow puppets of the birds. How is it you dance through the monotony of descending a mountain of your own molehills? I’d like to know.
Dear Poetry Foundation Sponsor,
It is right and true I’m always drunk on something. I do love pale air, the midday sun, shadow selves, and sling-footed hang gliders. Wouldn’t you listen to the quiet of a tiger iris blossom sticking out her tongue?
I am a little touched by the forest as it breathes in her ocean. I chirp like a swallow rattling off about her seed, and found that I can laugh. It’s my only virtuous quality. I have learned to shake my shoes off, and slip into clouds for which to sashay down my mountain of molehills.
That’s all that matters. We can be one way or the other.
It started with Capote. In Cold Blood. I negated it with the obvious and blatantly wrong observation– Blood cannot be cold. Except when it is. Goddamned people. But, alright. I wouldn’t say it’s my favorite book. I either took it, or stole it from my Dad like the travel Q-Tip case I thought I’d get more use out of than he would. I’m embarassed I told my lover the short version of Truman’s book (not my theft) before I got out of bed to piss. Did I really drivel on about the killings of a family of six out in the sticks?
ii. the middle
In the middle part of the telling of it, I liked how the words ‘Holcomb, Kansas’ and ‘Wyandott county’ and ‘Emporia hospital’ came out of my mouth as if I still lived, ate, and drank in Dickinson county myself. My poem self wanted to accent syllables with a prarie twang. Pardon me, if all poems end up being about myself. Even with a simple prompt, that some lady poet named Holly Lyn Walrath (which doesn’t trip off the tongue very easily by the way) offered up, I’m still wrapping this poem with my own streams of consciousness story, ribbons, and bows.
iii. the ending
Christ – Holly Lyn (which I prefer to call her) may as well have said keep away from Kansas! Never set your pretty foot there again. But what right does she, or anyone else (least of all me) have to say about the genesis of how a poem takes life? And how a poem ends with insolence sometimes. Perturbed poems need to get things off their shelves.
Often after sleep, it is morning,
when we stay in bed a bit longer--
I know we're lucky.
I want to say so many
words about your toes, ears, elbow
creases. But I'm inarticulate.
I acquiesce to belly breathing--
This is exact.
This is how you find my softness,
The entire point is to find me
open for a moment, if you're willing
because, time crashes in,
ending love's swallow songs.
Always talk to me with heart and hands
please. Our mornings are for loving.
“A liminal space is the time between the ‘what was’ and the ‘next.’ It is a place of transition, waiting, and not knowing. Liminal space is where all transformation takes place, if we learn to wait and let it form us.”