the poem i never wanted to write - scott parkinson - day 30
it puts me in that chill wind again
amid stone and grass and dying light,
little suspecting the wall of refutation
my arguments would run against,
rules of a game always set by you,
sex as something negotiated
on terms amenable only to yourself,
contempt that weighs so heavy
in the corners of your eyes,
disdain that’s always been
within the gutters of your smile,
even in the moments of our greatest bliss.
it’s not a poem for dwelling on the ways i wish
i’d taken better care of you so let me say
i wish you’d taken better care of me.
i wish you’d known this much at least,
because you were always very good
at knowing things i didn’t,
i wish you’d known i don't believe
there’s anyone can love me
if i’m not extraordinary.
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things I won’t know in the next pandemic - scott parkinson - day 29
the contemplation
of your face
through math
the welcome text
the late sun splash
of our shared ocean
the great green canopy
of our ascent
the rutting groove
of our desire
the dark path
back to the worst
place in me
where my least love
resides a plant
curling browning
leaves that fall
each day I don’t
get what I want
each day the orbit
of your sun
turns more and more
away from me
your eyes at last
the most Siberian day
of January
i won’t be ignorant
of the looser knots
around conviction
around my own yes
around mistaking
your own maybe
around the fantasies
of that young boy
that live within
the very seams
and patches
of my want
i won’t actually
live or die
by the lack
or by the having
of any attention
from you
whatsoever
in fact
(and this is still
the hardest part)
i won’t know you
at all
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inauthenticity, or the recipe for rejection - scott parkinson - day 28
if i were to
somehow reveal
at long last
what i want
or who i am
(as if I knew!)
would you see me?
or
if I were to
reveal myself
at long last
would I just
give you the box
you’re looking for
to put me in?
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#VanGoghLife - Scott Parkinson - day 27
How was that taste of paint
Washed down with turpentine
Insoluble molecules of color
Dissolving into blood
Salivary cerulean salvation
Electrically electrolytic eucalyptus
Descending dandelion dreams
Of vomiting verdigris
Media merged with Master
A momentary mad longing
For their coalescence
Or maybe their extinction
I don’t want to overstep or
Romanticize your illness
That’s so last century
As the kids once said
But if I had to be born
Under this miserable star
The least gift god might bestow
Is genius
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east of eastgate - elsa k - day 27
drove downtown this morning instead of taking the bus
because these pills cause constipationand all these laxatives i’ve taken, couldn’t walk to the station
without shitting my jeans
took 2 hours to get 2 miles
i screamed off the bridge with my dislocated jaw
like i used to, east of Eastgate
over a rubber tired river bed
straightened my collar and asked a woman to please
rub her swab all over my face, make sure she wiggles it well
looking out the same windows, trying to find something new to notice
hospitals, hospitals, hospitals
still allergic to the bees i want to hold, so i drop honey on the ground and run
still unsure of how we’ll make rent while my jaw is wired shut
and my girl’s mind is still overseas, battling existential crises
and my mom’s mind is still crawling through coal caves
watching my dad play himself in chess on a raised porch with no stairs, had to jump up just to walk in, like she used to, east of Hazard but she’s
just still living in that black lung, looking out on the future like it’s a tortured past
and me, i guess i’m still just some soot
siphoned from a milk jug of moonshine
i was born burnt up
looking for exit signs
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America Works for Almost No One - Scott Parkinson - day 26
Hard as we may work
for her, America works
for almost no one.
Her minimum wage,
unconscionable rents, and
eight dollar lattes,
her millions starving,
pockets empty, no consent
given for their birth,
while Citizen Musk
is granted all permission
to buy speech itself.
Black homeless vet sings
“God Bless the Child” on my train,
a soul-deep tenor;
old beady white man,
double-masked and plastic-gloved,
covers both his ears.
As sure as there's art
born of pain and strife, and sure
as those won’t hear it,
them that’s got shall get,
them that’s not shall lose. Who’ll bless
the child that’s got none?
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Crumbling Walls - John Rieman-Klingler - day 25
Walls are crumbling around me.
Some I built
Some I inherited and fortified
The light of truth
peaking through the cracks
liberating
and terrifying.
What more will I have
to protect me from its rays?
The truth hurts
and the truth will set me free.
Every trigger is a knock
on a wall I’m still maintaining
hiding behind
still scared
of freedom.
Only my body
my healed and healing foundation
can tolerate the light.
My mind,
the architect,
can only design more structures
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I Mean Well Because (Maybe) Love - Scott Parkinson - day 25
At times it’s so hard
To separate illness
From idiosyncrasy
Or maybe even try
I mean
Maybe you’re right
And there’s no point at all
And with no guarantee
Why do anything
Well
Maybe I’m losing words
Or haven’t big enough thoughts
To counterpoint your own
But I’ll try
Because
What else can I think
But that better than the void
Is to face it hand in mine
Maybe
Love
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One Million Leaves on One Million Branches - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 25
one million leaves on one million branches
turning upwards for the sun saturated rain
looking like life looking like disaster
coming from the end and parting new water
airplane won’t you pass overhead
give new direction make big billowing sound
sounds like lost opening theme
doesn’t look like letters looks like the crucifixion
has a wholeass day ahead of it with peanuts
and maybe a complementary drink or two
with dynamite paralysis a storm forms overhead
they fly headlong into an angry cloud
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A Little Weather - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 24
in the evening there’s a rain coming on
and in the nighttime a moon obscured
i can’t see past the clouds when we’re fighting
can’t see the future when we disagree
in the morning what if there’s no sun
in the morning the moon is gone
i don’t need you but you’re a limb i like
always opposable but still at my side
would you help me feel around in the dark
would you help me learn to listen
if i cut you off i might as well bleed out
i’ve got this other one but i’d like two
tried to read between the lines but i’m projecting
tried to live right but who am i protecting
the world is a stone and it is burning
feel like the new kid on the factory line
will anyone tell me what this button is for
does anyone know what this button is for
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When Doves Fly - Scott Parkinson - day 24
As if expecting a reward
I used to dance as though
everyone watched
Mother father sister teachers
bullies lovers employers
potential husbands
As though I were an imposter
or maybe an interloper
who didn’t belong
I did step-touches in my rejection
pivot turns in my cerebrum
chassés of shame
As if there weren’t all the pain
the dance might fly me from
I moved so
Dancing everywhere except
inside my body, where all
the answers lie
And as I saw this on the floor today
my younger limbs and mind
so much at odds
there was only one thing to do
one thing the rhythm begged me to
So I forgave
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from an afternoon when i still had a body - elsa k - day 24
how is it that i go
from my pelvis to my nose
as a seamless whole
after all the dissections
i’ve borne in this skin
have i pierced the veil
is this my second chance
there i lay, the magna torso
in the agony of angels
gaping up from a rapidly rising tide
the gaze of many weaponed cherubim
like an aphotic halo
strung around my eye
and to the roaring of a lion
shrouded in sterile pea green
i lived and died and lived again
countless, boundless
so my friend tell me how i have a body
tell me how i still have a body
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Getting In with the Big Guns - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 23
Revenant on the skin to be fair to
when all that crashes is near.
Little portfolios of porcelain
giving up my head to my hands
and changing their route to my mind.
Lest I conceive of a new
known philosophy, whether or
not I wanted to. The freezing rain
colliding hot with the blacktop,
ketchuping the room of going on.
Will there be delights? Will there be
miracles? Will there be a house
on the beach like a Black Mirror
lesbian time warp story? Will I
have a ranger and a bard and
some weird being of being gone?
There are no explanations for disappearance.
There are no novels to explain end of life.
All the while trying to appease the
say-sos in the powdery glass chambers,
looking up from the bottom at them,
trying to signify the birth of the
spiritual feel-good energy. Like little
warbling bird fears, letting my ghosted image
circulate the many hazards
and killing the ward.
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Rewriting algorithms - John Rieman-Klingler - day 23
We’re born with algorithms
that serve as our chains
inherited from ancestral pains
some get rewritten
in our Mom’s sweet embrace
in our Dad’s smiling face
loosening their hold on our fate
so we can then more ably
choose our own way.
Others get rewired in crippling ways
neurons start to fire when we feel we’re unsafe
that first kid on the playground that laughed at our weight.
Adolescence was hard
I’ve so much to unlearn
always on guard
bracing for the next burn,
which in turn I would turn
on my brothers, who are left scarred
because processing pain at that age
is out of the cards
at least in a system
where stuffing pain is rewarded.
Now as adults
all we can do’s
reprogram the default
and type in something new.
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Leave No Trace - scott parkinson - day 23
A phantom, I drift.
Streets on which I wish I lived,
Pretend it’s my life.
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Perkin’s Restaurant - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 22
metals all solid taste in a mouth of fresh
blanket sheen and warmth
with high eclectic sound going off
and dry gem
and fluent golden upstate
and miraculous mood
but all the dragging feet here and there
and all the helix girlfriends
and all the makings of a several course meal
and plus i am a worknorse
to make the flower and oral fun
blissful like a bug
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i never wanted to be me - scott parkinson - day 22
I spoke that truth the other day,
the one I’ve always known but never said.
Now, like someone brandishing a blade
or boiling rabbits on the kitchen stove,
it will not be ignored.
I find these first warm days of spring unbearable
before enough of them become routine.
Half the day gone before I’ve made a move,
and those I have are ones of least resistance.
How do I say yes to a world that’s never told me
anything but no?
Fell asleep over the highway
beneath the abbey’s long shadows,
sunlight a heavy breath upon my skin,
reflecting on the miracles and miseries
of being so much older than a younger me
could ever have conceived.
Is there a time within the memory of myself
I haven’t had to fear before I spoke?
Oh sure, the things you fear to say may change,
but fear itself is always there.
I hear it as I drift away
beneath the chittering altos and sopranos
floating on the wind,
the picnic blanket just uphill,
their very laughter a reproach.
What freedom might there be in fearlessness
and will I ever know it?
Perhaps I fall in love with younger men
that I might heal a younger me
and fall in love with him.
But in the end the sun comes down,
and the day you’re longing for,
the one that keeps you from the day you’re in,
it still comes to an end
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