MaPoWriMo 2016 – Week 1

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May 8, 2016 by Wayne.

To those unaware, MaPoWriMo 2016 has been going on for a week now. Come and join us! We’re writing a poem a day for the month of May.

I initially set the targets for the group pretty low this year despite it being our 2nd outing. Didn’t really have the time to promote it the way it should have been. We’re still on course to hit 300 poems by the end of May though, so that’s pretty nice (~80 poems in the 1st week so far).

2017’s going to be a big year for MaPoWriMo though (I can feel it!). We’ll be targeting 600-1000 members in the group and 2000 poems which should be possible if I get my act together and do all the things I’m planning to do. Oh and please get in touch if you have suggestions.


For this year, I’ve kept my poems a bit downtempo (if that makes sense). My overarching goal was to slowly deconstruct the stuff I used to write, then rebuild it back in piecemeal. To that end, the 1st week has been filled with the break-up portion of Cubism, ie. before the restructuring, largely by referencing previous pieces and pulling out all the, well, fun bits. The sterility is intentional. I think. I’ll probably go further along these lines first before pushing along into exploring all the possible “forms” of poetry.

melody and its malcontents

brandenburger: fuck brandenburger
shostakovich is a hack
quartet for 2 violins and 2 cellos: garbage,
idolatry in its most decrepit trappings,
like snatching coins from the unbanked poor,
no frisson from tonality
she was a mess of minor keys
falling on the wrong count in
she said
save the words for happier cycles
draw me into place in
polaroids across the black and white
keys that pull on strings

here is the 4
and the restless half afterwards
the unforgettable
trumpets that ring the same lick
around the same raised goosebumps
if she could unfold into my arms,
and back into the chanted chorus
forms shaped in the ebb and flow

the shrieking that lingers without reverb
the slide into the next refrain
repeated with ever more honesty
this time we will
last til the next refrain

one day i too you too will stay alive


work in the time of love

still running on jet fuel
at least i’m being honest
when i say i’m off all the things i used
to have time for,
in the stillness, no i, no private we,
no compromise on the cliffs of st kilda
we hurl the stench of emptiness
rotary pollock heads in place
bound to the station we came from,
all herbivore humans
uniform in lustlacking lives
united in unaimed anger when we have time
when we have time
when we


soft touch with organic cotton with stretch free tape on neckline

these snowy fingers we call
ecstasy, for happiness unbound by
three of the four planes we travel
— through
if i am a line on the edge of the pages
then you are the hand flicking through them
diagonalizing and straightening (me)

these leaden fingers we call
cowardly, for nervous energy has long
and deep seed-stores but
eventually that too runs out
leaving hands struck dumb
by the weight of the moments

these foreign fingers we call
home, for happiness is bound by
the call of the child
left behind


sponsored by scaruffi

note: this is only a
(enclosed is the letter you sent me when you still felt obligated to return my increasingly longer and
slightly curated
words of how much i loved the curve of your face

the large space draws attention not to itself but to the condition of emptiness
small: we see a fractured path, a shaken heart
too big and we see only a space we cannot empathize with
but the emptiness of the space around us is a jolt of remembrance – saying
you are in a universe, alone in time
as empty as the space between the increasingly subdivided subparticles)

Thanks to Karen O for providing the data

“List”, Country, Year.
1. flowers are folding
2. but know that the
3. call it what you will
4. thought you saw
5. Concerning the sight you
‪#‎day4‬ ‪

Does it count if I wanted to be a designer


Crowd 9 sunset five

Flappy lapels on grain mustard blazer
Green plaid and
Lips hung open in suspension
She says they look real
Propped up this way
She says you can’t match how
Dull it feels in the heat

If we were frozen, we would still know
The things left over for us, drowned
Or otherwise;
If we were frozen, we would still feel
The royal dullness of our days and
The lives hung in suspension.
Rest now and return later,

The broken week will start over
The unformed dreams will coalesce
The clicking fingers will beg
Ever more.


LP 9

it’s too cloudy today
this morning i returned my husband to the store –
the layers like drifting nets thrown wide
they frowned and said we need to talk to our –
sweeping up stray sunrises
manager this is most unusual after all especially –
while the winged ants filter down
when it’s already been used for twenty seven –
the air thickened with mud and dew
years of unquestioning obedience and a back –
tripods sullenly retracted
bent from bowing to charlie consumerism –
boots always heavier on the trek down
woo wee boy that is edgy –


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