Exemplary Located Posturing (NaPoWriMo)

This is a blog of poetry.

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NaPoWriMo #30 (April 30th) “Homophonic Rhyming Exercises”

Homophonic Rhyming Exercises




Dissed her


Missed fur

Blitzed cur

Ritzed stir

Wits demure

Rights impure

Lights gondolier

Bright candle leer

Might bundle steer

Wight rumple beer

Sight sun pull here

Wits winter deer

Rats ink burns sere

Bats stink for smear

Cuts wimp or less seer

Burt’s wimple west’s inteer’

Hurts dimple gets ‘er punked rear

Curt impale ups here uncle din idea

Snort gent sale Turks layer rumpled derriere

Court gentle lurks “Hey there!” trampled water pear

Dirt jinn fold lucks brassiere wins told waiter appear

Wert in coiled fucks trample liar mulled what near cape deer

What fin ole soiled lets come pull oiled aught in crier late ear









Abe yew

Turn a do


Worthier clue

Herder mew

Herd are lewd

Hard ear glue

Ward dire emu

Word entire tell you

Hard in lyre well Lou

Worth with, like, elk ew

First in isle yuck knew

Least with while weep do

Yeast itch compile eek grew

Sweetest icicle if whipple week in true

Creek guest wire likeable whiff if agile leek grieves you

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NaPoWriMo #29 (April 29th) “Clouds as Body Construct”

Clouds as Body Construct [revision]

Their gray sinuous bodies

Were folding into

A space for me to say, “We were made into a surface for you.” Then we were able to say, “You were this body. You are a brief locational body.”

And, “We’re a boundary this far. A kind of location within every sea. Worship a moveable type with any gravy.”

We looked

With a nurturing bringing sting.

A brief boundary.

We grow with a brief,

Brief blurred work of boundary. Work with the type of boundary you made.

We were mulling grief. 

The mover glazes what be it.

“To need to be aware of a space is it. It is a grief. A far or worried grief.” And it is an obvious name for a cloud.

So, I say, “This will be an

Obvious work. An another. We will low all works in the end.” 

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NaPoWriMo #28 (April 28th) “Colorado Lion Speaks”

Colorado Lion Speaks [Revision]


With my eyes the color of sandpaper

                                                    Against the squishy grass,       I make a diaspora of                                                                           All rabbits and all ungulates.


They crave a dime store novel sort of world

                                                                                     Where everything is trash &

                                                            In insistence               

                                                            Steaming                                 against the

Heat of Colorado’s                              flatirons:                     

      [                                                                                                                       ].         

                                                                         Against the hammer of their thighs


As they rub all up the mountain                     

Like a smeared watercolor,

                                                            I hear their thoughts.                          

I hear

Their stubbled breathing

In the straw-like grass                        

Like rolled out empty

                                                            (As the                        sun is

Made to roll out                                             empty like an over-opened buttercup;


                                        The cleaner’s morning is             dew dripping from leaves

On winding


Of the stumps                                                                         all bathed in dark water

As blood that drips    

From a cleaver’s edge.

Humans are a constant thought

                                                            But I do not much regard them.

They are teeth that break the

                                                            Mountain up                               become a

Stretching slinky.                                Are made of distance.

                                                                                                        How they move is      

Never gentle.


I ate one once                                      though she was squatted down—

There is not much to tell.

 I ate her liver and penumbra             & she was wrapped up in

Butcher paper

Which I peeled off very gently                                     from the stub of neck she got.

                                                            She tasted funny like old rabbits.

                                                            All made of clouds                            

Or running empty

Dull exhaust                                                                                 the grit of braining

It messed her up:                                 [



I don’t go near any humans now.                                          

When I hear their

Tramping children                               (a simple snack)

I just ignore them. That’s not

                                                            A way to live that makes

You crunchy in the teeth                    like spitting out

A half-cooked mouse.

[                       ].                                             


Though sometimes                                                        when the flowers open up,                                        

I leave a footprint in the dirt

                                                                                      To stab their thoughts.

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NaPoWriMo #27 (April 27th) “We”


Because I needed to be the woman on the corner, hugging thousands of strange New Yorkers, but could not. Because when Catherine De Hueck Doherty said “There is one tragedy: not to be a saint” and I needed it.

I was never a saint. I was never one in this life or hereafter. We cannot be a saint for being likeable to most people. We are never sainted for extreme politeness in interactions with so many humans, and only a type of truth is what we want from saints.

When I speak, I cannot speak the truth if it hurts others. When I speak, the anxiety over hurting others will not let me. I do not have a cause to belong to. I own without a religion or belief system. When I speak, I believe, and have only believed, in words as what can be real to me.  

Because I detest any thought of physical violence, and I desire no suffering towards myself. I would choose an easy life if I could. I would not trade with one who suffered.

Because I was worse in together.  In silence, I could love others, but not in perpetuity. The idea of wanting love is not the same as love. The word is not the thing.

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NaPoWriMo 26th (April 26th) “Coats”


Stupidest coat, rancid coat, ill coat, lug nut coat, rutilated coat, glistening coat, old-fashioned coat, raised coat, Dumbo coat, ugly coat, 100 coats coat, nobody coat, our coat, every coat, numbers coat, nutter-ball coat, happy fish coat, motory coat, lisping coat, sleeveless coat, whisper thin coat, nugatory coat, marshal eardrum coat, every war coat, blister shoe coat, fuggedaboutit coat, never ever coat, what is that? coat, dream big plans coat, water vapor coat, the nautilus coat, cream buns coat, diarrhea coat, dinosaur coat, cling-on coat, wish star coat, clips coat, doodle-waffle coat, drumette coat, major pain coat.

Matching a purse coats, dittos coats, mouthwash coats, formaldehyde coats, fashionable coats, grieving coats, totally coats, mother coats, dropsy coats, litterator coats, white coats, polka-splattered coats, French cut coats, who’s coat? coats, babysitter coats, lingering coats, summers eve coats, beat around the bush coats, don’t wait up coats, dream a spectacular ugly child coats, histrionic coats, won’t get but a mention coats, crisscross coats, stable coats, dripping sleeve coats, puncture weather coats, lists of coats coats.


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NaPoWriMo #25 (April 25th) “Two Revisions”

Trash Modernity        

In this dream, there were two of us, and we wanted the key to the secret elevator. We were students again, and we needed an item from the secret tower on campus for our defunct scavenger hunt. “There is a key,” that girl Beth who wore a yellow coat said, “I hear there are pedestals there with trash on them and invisible ink in creamers as a deconstruction of office supplies.” That girl Beth only lived in the staff office and she responded with an overly astonished voice.

“Great,” we said. “We’ll let you know if we find those things.” We found the key and rode up the elevator to the tower, but we did not tell her. She wanted it too much. In the tower, the pedestals were octagonal and made of blue, clear glass. All the trash was made of dark brown or red food containers or wrappers which had been placed obliquely on the clear glass pedestals. Foil bits littered the carpet.”The trash is nice,” I excitedly mentioned.

“Yeah, it looks like a lot people had chocolate bars recently.”

“This is modernity,” I said. “Two bucks this stays around forever.”


You’re Doing It Wrong

Last night, I lay in my parents’ guest bed.  I was sick—I had dreamed flu and felt a sense of ennui. So, I rolled over to your side of the bed and then told you about it. “This is a dream where I am stupid, sick, and bored. There is nothing to do in this one but lay here like a log.”

            Then you said, “You could be reading any book that you have already read.”

“I don’t want to,” I said, “You know how the words change as you are reading . . . And I don’t want to play the piano either. The music changes too much or becomes random.”

            You said, “Watch some TV.”

            “I can’t. I don’t watch it when I’m awake.” Then I thought for a minute or two. Finally, I said, “I guess I will take a hot shower. I have not taken one in ages.”   


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