NaPoWriMo (cont.)

Woooo! Almost to the finish line and I'm not behind at all! Heeeeyyy!

- - -

April 13

sprigs in the great bouquet—
the oft-called baby's breath
more so it is the malnourished twig
bloomed with the many swatches
of wrongness a soul can be grown

I have never held an infant
I own no conception of
how they breathe, know not
if it is anything like the white nubs which garnish
the wider flowers in a marriage bunch or
the adolescent corsage
or the placement of such adornment
in the hair of the child
during the first forced
ritual communion

infants grow, too,
get fed the damaging faith
dance the awkward social patterns
commit themselves to other souls
all with the emblematic floral
embellishment like purity trying
to overlay the deeper wrongs
so sullied and
so perverse


April 18

sugar lump the erroneous sweetening
the bitter drink swill
there is nothing quite like
protective failure,
to let those acrimonious substances
dribble down the throats of the young,
those young housing minds which
cannot even grab for conception of
the evils drifting on these water bodies

once I found some shells on the beach
the salt was in my mouth I thought
I would never be able to rinse out the taste
there was still wet sand in the shell-crevices and
when it dried it diffused itself over everything

silence has desiccated like salt
or like the most bitter drink

if a shell is a suggestion
what, then, filled it once?


April 23

it pings around inside:
quicquid discis, tibi discis
this I know and let continue ping
my insides must be metallic to
allow for such a sound
language, too, must be metallic
to allow for such a sound

this is good:
it scatters that illusion
of learning as soft,
presents it as it is:
denting and durable
sonorous and sturdy

whatever you learn
you learn for yourself