every tree torn down through the wrath of a terrible twister
every branch broke off at the paws of this barreling bear
all these homes, how I know they’re reduced to embers
all our homes – so many triangles cut out of squares

take one Omnimax camera and stack it up on top of another
walk for thirteen miles, film the nothing that wasn’t once there
never know, you’ll never groan in the face of unbeing
never hone true hope nose-to-nose with unfettered despair

the preacher said:

“Take good care of one another
take good care of every kid
take good care of every brother
of every wife, every foe and every friend.”

One friend ran away to Iditarod’s comfort of blizzards
while another robbed his mother clean of bullets and chairs
not of stone but of mobile home they carved us a cavern
overthrown from our thrones of sand, ballots, and shares.

the preacher said:

“Take good care of one another
take good care of every kid
take good care of every brother
of every wife, every foe and every friend.”

Oh returned the storm
bolt struck down a man
flood rose even more
can we make it to the week’s end?
could we fake it didn’t happen?
till the weekend
till the week ends
How long has it been?
just a week, man
just a week, man
I’m succumbing to my sins
I’m just a weak man
just a weak man
God shape us out of storms
cause you wreak man
will you wreak man?
will you wreak me?

When the rains stopped the waves had washed the wreckage to that other shore
and a list was made of things saved, of everyone here
That Book and That Girl and That Tree all saved from the storm
everyone a great might-not-have-been, a great might disappear

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about the 54 poems written at 27 ::

After much deliberation, I decided to keep the whole tradition of doubling my age and writing that many poems in a year. You’ll notice that April Thirtyish has already passed, so I’m late in posting. I’ve gotten about half of them written and will begin posting this week.

I started this whole mess with 46 poems written at 23, most of which are still up on the site and many of which are awful. Those poems I wrote because I read somewhere that the best age for poetry is 23. I was turning 24 and had an existential crisis.

Then I got over it.

Suddenly I was 25 and thought, “Why not do it again?” So I doubled my age and wrote 50 poems at 25. Again, most of these are still on the site and I’m proud of one or two of them.

Now I’m twenty-eight and it’s almost a principle, almost an undeniable fact of life. When the wild Lancelot is in his native habitat and his age is in an odd year, he will be secreting poetry. I do this because poetry is important, because we must take an active role in the creation of new language or else our language dies.

That means I must write, I must learn how to create better poems even if I’m awful at it — everyone must because the fate of our culture’s at stake. For me, this year, that’s 54 poems at 27.

So I’ll schedule these suckers out and give it a go. Follow along with the category 54 @ 27.

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