why yes i am napowrimoing

A few of them out there,
or in there, are finished,
but more are in pockets. I call them
my projects, projected
by someone projecting

a light beam, a weightless
idea. When energy's
light, it is fast-running nothing.
It slows when it's spun in
to something. Inertia

increases with mass, and
it's natural for things to
stop moving when mass is at 80
percent. That's still 20
percent airy nothing,

a ratio giving
you - nothing. But heavy.
Your pockets are full but you've - nothing.
A front cover, sure, but
the back is the one with

the price tag. Thus Mazes,
and Regency, Spoilers
Ahead (or behind?) and thus Patron.
Et cetera. But sometimes
you finish, and empty

a pocket. A poem
a day's still a project.
100% is an April.

-

Thus sounds, resounds, the darkling airy spume,
the sea foam gusting from the mouths of men
who once bestrode, colossi, giants, hulks,
and Ozymandii, the earth; thus crack
black waves 'gainst cold notched graves. So dies
remembrance. So I learned from NPR.
Who let the dogs out? Edward Cullen? Rats?
No matter. It is done. A baby yawps,
and words, like works, like jazz, like Yonkers, foxes,
papa's panic palace, Austens - die.
But they were real. But they were real. But they
were real. Their authors should be proud. Hooray!

-

I'm emptying my pockets
I'm zipping up my sweatshirt
I've got my keys and wallet
gonna spend the day.

I'm tying up a bindle
(I guess I am a bindlestiff)
to hold my socks and kindle
I'm tramping towards May.

baha men

OK, there's a doggie,
his tongue a black hellebore,
stroppy, fetid, delovely.
His mates, a pair of ragged clawed
rot-panting doughboys, privates among the slipped
dogs of war, unleashed by the red-muscled
horny hands of Ti-i-yme,
tear their infernal snacks from the round red bowl
marked Fido that is War. A gun, distant, a licorice
stick, bucks and births cotton, and then comes the Pop
and then Snap and Crackle, three elves yoked by their
war-hweeled sounds to the ant-marching men,
one elf (Pop) by virtue of his martial array
a bile-spitting colonel, behorsed, a god
sweeping lives with his saber blade
into the ape-faced dustbin into which
men march when their lives
are spent on trifles.
Oh! And Prometheus,
his body a dog-leg quiver, curves
over his ragged liver and calls back,
with nothing but air and frenzied spittle,
the fire that he gave that is
licorice-spat like tendons, kicking socked heel drums
into the ploughed earth.

history is written by the shod

I wouldn't be a naked-footed fox.
The night is cold, the moors are filled with wet:
The world is warmer when we're wearing socks.

A floating, spider-hanging husk; a box;
an urn; a bone. A home awaits us yet.
I wouldn't be a naked-footed fox.

We've all a due recorded on our clocks.
Obamacare can't help us with that debt.
The world is warmer when we're wearing socks.

Those fast red flames, their tails ash-tipped shocks
are snuffed; we don't remember to forget.
I wouldn't be a naked-footed fox.

We're buried in our jackets and our frocks,
and caught and clothed by history's gauzy net.
The world is warmer when we're wearing socks.

Black fear does not outlast, in hens and cocks,
Fantastic Mr. Fox's silhouette.
I wouldn't be a naked-footed fox.
The world is warmer when we're wearing socks.

Rats!
If there's one thing
I can't abide
it's rats
in my
sock drawer!
Time to
break the lease

convention

There's argument about how to pronounce the
soup convention:
soupcon or soupcon?
and similarly confusing:
the nuns for marijuana convention
high nun
the umlauts don't help.
but the Sock Summit is just the Sock Summit.
Bring your brightest smile
your sharpest knitting needle
and a negative space in your heart
the shape of a hotel bar
and you'll be
IN STITCHES
which is a joke you'll hear from
a lot of panelists.
If you're lucky you'll meet
some of the people you've been corresponding with
on the internet about socks
and put names to faces.
Hopefully they'll just look a LITTLE less glamorous
than you pictured,
not a LOT less glamourous.
You sort of pictured them looking like their screen icon,
a kitten in a sock,
but you knew they didn't really look like that.
still
you are
maybe
a little
disappointed

"socks"

 That
Alfred
Hitchock
presented
lots of
amazing
shows
but the
best was
The Trouble
With Harry! I
don't remember
it too well but
I think that the
guy had different
colored socks! It
is possible that I
am not the best at
summarizing it - I
saw it when I was
6 - but I think
the socks were
the main crux.