117/365 - 121/365

Anymore the act of writing a haiku suffices for a creative burst of energy, no need to relate more information regarding day’s events, political agendas of the day—so I allow sleep to cover me with his deep wings…

Dad and I painted the garage door with a paint gun today. He showed me the rhythm and pace to maintain, while shouting directions over the roar of the machine: the vibrations shook through my arms, my shoulders—shuddering a thin coat of beige over the metal doors.

We pass a chimney
wearing a cap of bright blue:
scraps of tarp bound tight.

September dusk walks
aimlessly in slow circles.
The moon waits, patient.

Shift poetry down to the bare scene. To the mundane act of opening an envelope in the kitchen, cutting partner’s hair on the back porch, closing a book when finished reading—a beauty exists here, in terse fragmented scenes. Shades of reality.

So in the case of my vocalist’s solo: she glances up at a boy in the room. But what obvious characteristic can he have? Is the dragonfly tattoo enough—or is it too commercial?

Open book resting
across my chest almost as
a full, rough embrace.

Set on the night stand
a slim tower of books wait—
murmur to themselves.

for the solo-vocal: heads up girl I tell myself

Display the full poem in fractured haikus, numbered. Keeping a sense of bridged verses—the idea is to collect fragmented scraps of songs/lyrics related to her surroundings.

Then create the Juan Bobo poem second— then create a full song-poem; look at Elizabeth Bishop again.

After heavy rains
oblong circles of mushrooms
spiral across yards.


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