National Poetry Writing Month is over, but once in a while, something sneaks out as a poem anyway.

I used to be
single gray, rain-laden cloud
interceding in sunniest days.

Malicious cackles,
dipping through traffic
whipping wet willies or
just sayin’ stuff to make you mad.

Chaos street spirit,
fomenting maelstrom
bringin motherfunkin’ ruckus
because I could,
because it was a calling.

Now I make deliveries
more surgically,
save up everyday mischief to
manifest as manuscripts
HTML code the new flavor in your ear
plant seeds of evolution.

Now I’m toddler smiles at sunrise,
cubicle citizen
parent teacher conference alibis
for crimes you can’t conceive.

Today my madness
comes downloadable for your tablet,
or as pint sized sweethearts
growing up, ready
to tear it all down.
I don’t have to
do all the work myself.

Nothing changes
and everything changes.
To understand,
you have to know where to look.

“When Bad Boys Become Good Men”
By Hannibal Tabu

I’ll have to do my next superhero piece for the next NaPoWriMo I participate in. Next year looks like April will be for National Short Story Writing Month. Fingers crossed.

Playing (Music): “Street Lights” by Kanye West

Ha! You thought I’d forget! That because I was stir fried from doing that free MP3 column I’d screw up and stumble on the last day, huh? DON’T LET THE MICKEY FICKEY SMOOTH TASTE FOOL YOU, DAWG!

Here we go.

Like sunrise reflected
in toddler eyes
this is our chance.

Today we can do better,
we can find our way,
encourage greatness,
redeem dreams like lottery tickets.

Start all over.

Transition ain’t easy,
loading cardboard clad baggage
of mortgaged yesterdays
into moving trucks of motivation.
Making the trip
takes gasoline,
elbow grease
patience through stop signs
and stopped types
logjamming your route,
but we gon’ do
what they say
can’t be done.

Open front door to reset
hardwood floors for footsteps
echoing in tomorrow’s memories,
that one spot by kitchen
always creaks
watch your step.

Start all over.

This is it.
Holding hands,
striding heads high into sunlight,
don’t need no shades
don’t need to squint
see possibilities just fine
making mark in grandchildren legacies
stepping up
hitting free throws
getting out of bed
especially when it’s so warm
when she’s so warm
knowing world’s so cold.

Doesn’t matter.
Starting all over,
unpacking lessons we need
conveniently forgetting
boxes of transgressions
that rot foundations
this is a new place,
a new day
a new chance
to make it all right.

Best of all?
We’ll get another one tomororow.
Let’s go!

“Movin’ On Up”
By Hannibal Tabu

That said, this blog may go dark a while again (maybe not, now that I have both FTP and Wordpress going well on my iPad) but I (always) have a lot going on at Komplicated (celebrating its first birthday tomorrow) and I have a few projects in the pipeline (that one from before with the preview art is pretty much dead in that format now, long stupid story) that I hope to share soon. In any case, thanks for the support, and no, you’re unlikely to see me here for National Novel Writing Month. That joint is exhausting.

Playing (Music): “The Way” by Fastball

Great discussion this morning on Sunday Morning Live.

A train runs through center
of Los Angeles’ urban blight,
graffitti tagged streets
crime statistics
lower property values.

There’s no smoke
today
no truckers
pulled from place of work
national guard isn’t being deployed
fear that lurks on corners
and in alleys
is everyday variety.

Harder to get a job here
than it was twenty years ago.
More digital opiates,
glowing rectangles
chances for distraction.

Trayvon Martin.
Fredrick Martin Jr.
Oscar Grant, Jr.
Kendrec McDade.
That’s just this year.

Blood set to ignite
the fire this time.

Now train runs through town,
urban renewal
launched twenty years
after justice failed to stop here.

Easier to ship in troops via rail
armor via freeway
suppression via air
should sparks alight again.

“On The Anniversary Of The 1992 Uprisings”
By Hannibal Tabu

One more day left …

Watching (Hulu): Parks & Recreation “The Debate” by Maroon 5

I need to do a comic piece Monday …

Quiet dark around
Monitor light, keys tapping
Churn out tomorrow

”Haiku: The Night Shift for Writers”
By Hannibal Tabu

Tomorrow, I’ll be live on Sunday Morning Live talking about the 20th anniversary of the LA uprisings after the Rodney King verdicts, as well as doing a pre-recorded segment of tech talk and culture commentary. Just so ya know …

Playing (Music): “Sweet Sixteen” by Destiny’s Child

On our first date, my wife Myshell introduced me to a board game we’ll be discussing here. Let’s pick up our chat after today’s poem …

Circular game pieces
scattered like constellations
across tan cardboard,
she smirks at me,
velvet bag in right hand,
absently rolling next move
between fingers.

The game is called Pente,
Greek named variation
of Asian variant,
didn’t stop with Go,
trademarked in 1977,
found while teaching
scions of battered women
elements of education.

Now she’s like a
drunken wizened master,
trash talking
with sly smiles,
sweeping my most
strenuous strategies
off the board with ease.

This ain’t Scrabble,
which feels like my native land
this isn’t even
cutthroat considerations
of chess, Risk or Monopoly,
using logistics and
focused willpower
to obliterate opposition.
This is more like
dancing about architecture,
alien concepts
looking for places to land
on my inhospitable mind.

She wins
again,
but says I improved,
maybe not even mocking me
this time.
I marvel at mental machinations
far afield of my own,
just as brilliant,
just as dangerous
as capable of beauty and horror.

That’s just about right.

”I Was Told There’d Be No Math”
By Hannibal Tabu

I still don’t think I’ve ever beaten her.

Three more days, y’all …

Playing (Music): “Running After You” by Milly July

Shut up! It’s still Thursday (in my time zone)! It still counts!

Don’t matter if you’ve
collected enough unemployment checks
to wallpaper a mansion,
or ran your own business
long enough to give yourself
a gold watch
everybody knows that
one mother****er at their job
a quarter inch away from a beat down
every single day.

You know that mother****er,
always something contentious to say
when everybody’s looking,
or always has crooked answers
to straight questions,
never where you need ’em to be
but quick to level
spotlights at you
second they need something.
Speaking of needin’ something,
quick to ask you
where something is
before looking
like you’re babysitting
their brain function.
Please don’t need to
ask this clown for help.
Slip stream side step
commitment to commit,
dance card too full to
Hear your song.

What’s that?
Everybody at your job
is sweeter than cobbler and cookies?
Every single soul there
reminds you God is good,
love is possible,
and they didn’t cancel
your favorite TV show?

Maybe the problem is you …

”Equal Opportunity Employment”
By Hannibal Tabu

Poem for Myshell tomorrow, something about the 1992 riots on Sunday (as I’m appearing on Sunday Morning Live in person to discuss that) … in the home stretch now.

Playing (Music): “Allentown” by Billy Joel

We’re looking good for making it this year. Last year I failed. This year looks good.

You can see the Hollywood sign from my street.

Nine letters,
forty-five feet tall,
gleaming white and impossibly storied
symbolizing every runaway dream
and attention starved desire.

To the world,
they symbolize limousines
spotlights
forty five hundred dollar sunglasses
shielding bloodshot eyes
from paparazzi predation.

From my street,
those ideas might as well
be in another galaxy.
South of Pico,
there’s nothing like
petulant movie stars
demanding you pick out all the
Skittles of a certain shade.
There’s Guatemalan fathers
coming home late
from running businesses,
shepherding handymen or valets
while worrying about
eldest son grades,
baby with a rash.
North of Venice,
brother two doors down
picks aluminum cans
out of trash cans
rides his bike around the ‘hood
while his wife pushes
a brand new Korean mini SUV.
Daughters curse on sidewalks,
where a dead man sat
in a wheelchair
for most of a January afternoon.

Driving through social strata
to work in platinum scented suburb
contrast is not lost on me.
One foot in each world,
my phone’s filled with numbers
from two time felons
and CEOs.
Tight rope balance
between who I wanna be
and who church ladies
worried I could become
pulls every thread of me
every day.

One foot in front of another,
I see the sign
but never trying to climb that hill,
bringing my checks home
through clouds of Black & Mild smoke
across broken auto glass
because that’s who I am
and forgetting that
would make me as fake as everything
that sign makes people believe.

“I Wouldn’t Have It Any Other Way”
By Hannibal Tabu

I really do need to do a comic book piece this week …

Watching (Hulu): Scandal, “Hell Hath No Fury”

Here we go now …

There’s no such thing as peace.

Rocket propelled grenades
sit next to breakfast bowl
play with 7.62 mm shell casings,
find blood splattered on street
four days out of seven.
More dead from fever and hunger,
less discriminating surge.

Baba fights the Americans,
Kalashnikov his companion
more often than mama.
Baba’s baba fought the Russians,
Americans at his side
more than his bride
whispered Pashto in his ear.

I am eleven years old.
I have never been kissed
by anyone not a blood relative.
I can make out
a passage or two of scripture,
know rustle of baba’s thick beard
and coarse clothes
when he hugs me,
taste of mama’s kahdoos.

Two years ago,
American soldiers
left a magazine near marketplace.
Kept it hidden for a month,
buried behind the house,
before daring to gaze upon
impossibly smooth skinned westerners.
Smiling and immodest,
shaven faced men,
like children, really
women’s bosoms in view.
They look like they’ve never known
bits of gravel in stew,
like they eat meat
less gamy than goat,
and not just on special days.
They look like relentless,
cloying smell of poppies
isn’t woven into every memory.

I don’t hate them,
fat and godless,
but I understand those who do.
I’m too hungry
to hate them.

At night,
sounds of shelling and screams
hopefully far from my pallet.
Wonder what nights are like
beyond hills of Sharobi,
where baby faced boy-men
sleep next to red lipped harlots
on endless pillows,
in safety,
in safety …
too busy tracking down survival
under unrelenting sunshine.

Mama tells stories
about golden days of Afghanistan,
days when quiet wasn’t frightening,
times of plenty.
Baba snorts
when she’s not around,
says we’ve always been
stop on somebody’s road
somewhere,
never wanting to be here,
always needing to control the way.

Baba says,
there’s no such thing as peace.

I don’t know about any of that.
I know sand and stone,
I know running and gunfire,
body parts and explosions,
prayer and waiting
for freedom even I don’t believe
will ever come.

”Jangi Shah: A Hymn For Afghanistan”
By Hannibal Tabu

Thanks to my wife Myshell for this idea, driving and listening to KPFK.

Playing (Music): “Sin City” by Sin City (Verbal and Icarus)

My wife Myshell gave me a great idea for a poem that I hope to finish for tomorrow, but it takes more research, and this one almost lives in the periphery of my thoughts (as evidenced by two short stories I did), so it gets the slot to stay on schedule …

If I had three wishes,
out would come thesauri,
figuring out angles,
making sure there’s an undo button
weighing benefits of unlimited funds
versus super powers
and what order things have to go in.

If I got two wishes,
decisions would take even longer
raising stakes.
Johnnie Cochrane
meets jackal headed trickster god
sort of stuff,
until every last syllable
was wrung dry of possibility.

However, if I had one wish –
no backsies, no “wish for more,”
no loopholes or tricks …
it’s easy.
It’s not even a question.

End everything
for everybody
everywhere
everywhen.

Accelerated heat death for reality.
Eliminate possibility of Newt Gingrich
and cupcakes in one felled swoop,
even as latter helped make former.
If there’s nothing, yes, you lose good things,
but you finally, forever kill bad things.
George Zimmerman. Johannes Mehserle.
George Wallace. Willie Lynch.
Kim Kardashian.

All gone with a sentence.

Intoxicating possibility,
terrifying to consider
staring into toddler eyes.

I like to think she’d understand.

“Nihilism”
By Hannibal Tabu

I’m way overdue for another comic book related one, just gotta settle on which. Leaning towards Punisher or Vandal Savage, for wildly different reasons.

Playing (Music): “The Panties” by Mos Def

Written on PCH as we drove back from the Topanga Canyon Earth Day Festival after seeing Leon Mobley and Da Lion.

Always with the swords

Traipsing along in clanking steel,
they come, again and again,
brimming with piss and vinegar,
delusion of valor.
Hungry for legend
of who they could be,
I’m stepping stone to greatness.

This stone hits harder.

I remember stone that fell from sky,
world set ablaze,
decades without sunlight,
Survivors forever changed.
Almost broke every bone
first few times I tried to fly,
but roasting food as I eat it,
makes it all the more delicious.

Too little meat in armor
to be worth the trouble.

One day it’ll be something more
god-spawned barbarian
or one chosen by magic and providence.
That’s what happened to all my friends
all my family
everyone else who survived.
Accepted that
before they mastered steel,
Took down cousin
with sharpened flint.

Everybody’s mortal
if you wait long enough.

For now, belly warmed by gold,
head sheltered by stone,
dream of day shimmering morons
don’t darken cave mouth.

”Here Be Dragons”
By Hannibal Tabu
with thanks to Myshell Tabu

Back to work tomorrow. The day job, anyway.

Playing (Music): “The Fact Is (I Need You)” by Jill Scott

Almost forgot …

I’ll never tell you
Hate within me could eat worlds
Safer you don’t know

“I’m Not A Nice Guy, Even If I’m Nice To You”
By Hannibal Tabu

No stopping!

Playing (Music): “Tobacco Road” by Common Market

For Myshell.

Everyday I want to buy her flowers.

Pull dirty green Chrysler
next to broken sidewalk,
two feet higher
with tree root squatting
like a repudiation of civilization.
Run across Alvarado
through open glass door,
slowly speak English,
obtain Gerbera daisy,
lotus if you have it,
she finds roses too cliche.
Bring home single stalk,
because she feels more
would be wasteful.

Mundane money
won’t stop for saffron sentiment.
tuition’s due and
we’re low on pricy whole grain bread,
student loans won’t take study breaks
while income taxes invoke
Florida Evans frustration.

Doesn’t mean I don’t think about it
every day on home bound commute.
Imagine corners of mouth turning up
like thermostat temperatures
during Wisconsin winters.
Sparks of smiles
igniting my life.

I plant poems instead.
A sonnet on her steering wheel,
haikus in homeschooling supplies,
Routine reminders, maybe,
but sure never to wilt or fade.

”I Never Promised You A Rose Garden”
By Hannibal Tabu

Keep on keepin’ on the road that you choose.

Playing (Music): “This Is The Remix” by Girl Talk

This should be the end of this stream of thought.

Had to tell Mittens
Corporations aren’t people.
They can’t love you back.

“Haiku: Be Careful What You Wish For, Part 3: At World’s End”
By Hannibal Tabu

Tomorrow’s for Myshell, so let’s see what happens.

Playing (Music): “Tomorrow” by Quincy Jones feat. John Legend

Presented without comment.

She saw me at the store with my kids,
apparently.

Friend of a friend
social networked to me
blog link I probably
wasn’t supposed to see.

Before that errant click,
would have had to cycle back,
remember where I was working
to even know what her name was.

Yet there were two thousand words
lamenting end of a relationship
I’d have a hard time
pinpointing on a calendar.

I was pushing red-framed shopping cart,
it seems,
eldest daughter holding literal coat tail
toddler singing Coldplay
as we grabbed bread and soy milk.

This woman must have been close,
chronicling cell phone in camera bag
hanging at my left hip,
like promises I apparently made
to love her.
but I never saw her,
never recognized face so quick
to rest on my chest.

Digital reminder,
she remembered explicit details
of our year-long romance,
chronicling her oral fixation,
specific curls of hair on my left arm
(some of which are gray now),
hum of space heater
in my first real post-college apartment
while beige slatted futon frame
creaked beneath us.

Words retraced steps
through straw and sand
at Rancho Cienega Park,
African Marketplace Festival
during some halcyon summer past,
then detailed arrest-worthy embraces
in back row of USC’s Norris Theater
one Friday night
in the last century.
On and on it went,
flooding memory with
discarded data.

Reading all that,
I almost wished I remembered it.

But I *don’t* remember it,
because it wasn’t that great.
It can’t have been worth neuron space,
because I recall high school
one night stands
with crisp, high definition clarity.
Had to sit down and track back
before I remembered crestfallen look
on pouty lips
when she told me she was leaving
to step back into an older love.

I didn’t wanna “still be friends.”

Realization cracks me up.
I didn’t break up with her.
I didn’t even do anything wrong
for a change
yet decades later,
pining for me in prose.
Dude.
What the hell?

I show my wife the blog,
and ask her opinion.
“Wow,” she said.
“You two must have been something.”

“No,” I replied.
“She’s just somebody I used to know.”

“Y’all Never Should Have Let Me Hear Gotye”
By Hannibal Tabu

Likely a haiku or tanka tomorrow, as fried as I’ll be.

Playing (Music): “Somebody That I Used To Know” by Gotye feat. Kimbra

”… it don’t stop ’cause it won’t stop …”

Growing up in Memphis,
I knew one thing
better than any other.
Not oppressive de facto segregation
Lines of safety
I knew to never cross
Not even which parts of town
Attracted tornadoes
Like blue jays to bird feeders.
No, I knew boredom,
Constant companion,
Most loyal friend,
Clinging to sides of
Grade school life like
Skinned knees or unrequited crushes.

Like many pregnancies,
My wide-eyed creativity was born
Between ”nothing else to do”
And sticky southern heat.
I wrote, I drew,
Hummed tunes to songs
Plunked out on second hand
Upright piano.
Humid, slow paced reality
was too drab,
too mundane.
I sought to fill it
with things I’d enjoy,
fill it with something better,
spark of wonder
unknown in Shelby County.

Same spark helped drive me west,
always west,
chasing the sun,
for surely it knew
where dreams lived.

Stepped into bright sunshine
John Wayne airport
August 1991,
climbed into vintage ’80s corvette
T-top, jet black,
Engine roaring
like a fighter jet.
Mother’s friend
Did 80 on the 5 freeway north,
Passed by a BMW doing 110
Followed by a cop car doing 90 easy.
Quoted Mellencamp,
”lord, this must be
my destination.”

I haven’t slowed down since.

Between pressing ambition,
Day job demands and
sparing hugs enough
for wide-eyed daughters
and magazine cover wife,
boredom seems half-remembered fantasy,
idea of idleness inconceivable.
Even single moment,
Grand Theft Auto or karaoke
filled so-called ”free time.”
Chicago hustler blood
kept me chasing paper
like toddler on a windy day.
Now it’s four schedules
running ragged
racing towards horizon accomplishments.

Pendulum arc’ed from
bored Memphis kid.
I know
without reservation
He’d kill to be me.

Luckily
he never had to.

”Restless”
By Hannibal Tabu

No rest for the wicked. Working on a cuddle night — even Mooch is typing away, on my computer (guest account, though) but television may keep us company.

Playing (Music): “Helena” by My Chemical Romance

For months, I’ve been trying to promise myself that I’d chronicle my night time ritual with our youngest daughter before I forget it in rush of growing up and everyday madness. This might be as close as I get.

Ending begins in water,
Tugboat and floating alphabet,
Rubbery waterfowl
meets perforated bucket
Cleanliness is next to drowsiness
when baba’s doing bath time.

Everything has a song.
Time to start and stop
rewrites lyrics to
”Springtime for Hitler,”
Remix doo-wop classic
”Splish Splash”
For soapy main event.
Schoolyard rhyme
organizes finale,
”clean up, clean up,
Everybody everywhere
Clean up, clean up,
Everybody do your share”

”Where does the water go, baba?”
Explain drain pipe
as dark hallway,
Leading drips and drops home
To sanctuary beds.

Misremembered Chris Thompson lyrics,
“if you remember me …”
soothes while drying tiny feet.
”Sing me another song, baba,”
means it’s either Stevie Wonder’s ”As”
Or Coldplay’s ”The Scientist”
Before lengthy litany,
names of all the people who love her.

Three rules
Keep baba at bedside
Until sleep comes calling
Lie still
(some furtive fidgeting is fine)
Be quiet
(ignoring singsong whispers to self soothe)
Close your eyes
(no exceptions)

Snores like caterpillar footsteps
Soon march across pillow.
Time for me to engage
In acts of stealth
Twenty year vets of CIA
Would find laudable.

Five steps,
Carefully placed,
Memorized to avoid
Creaky spots on floor
Exfiltrate back to my room
Another successful mission complete.

”Bedtime For Fuss and Baby-ness”
By Hannibal Tabu

I envisioned a detailed blog with every songs altered lyrics faithfully rendered and what not. Meh. I’ll try to remember to record it all on my phone one night. Close enough.

Playing (Music): “Soundtrack Of My Life” by Deemi

Pretty sure I wrote about taxes last year. Here we go again …

Devil’s due,
pay tribute and fealty
warding off wardens and warrants
on annual concurrence of misery.
Life is a heist
strongest gets a percentage.

Monster under your bank account,
lurking behind every purchase
hungry for undeserved dividends
at least for those
equal protection considers unequal
bleeding from police-induced wounds
on Pasadena streets.

Last minute fiddling with filings
Desperate to retain revenue.
Relief dropping envelope
In blue box of obedience
Bittersweet, knowing cycle repeats
Before you take first step away.

“Pay Up”
By Hannibal Tabu

For real, I’m back on schedule tomorrow. Seriously!

Playing (Music): “Feeling Good” by Michael Buble

Gotta catch up.

Dark hours of morning
Prowls corridor, rubbing eyes
Someone wants breakfast

“Time To Wake Up, Baba”
By Hannibal Tabu

I’m probably staggering around like a jackass.

Watching (Hulu): The Morning After, April 11, 2012

Being late stinks.  Still, Fridays are for my wife, so here goes …

Lengthy to-do list
Sinewy satin, naked nearby
Work can wait a while

“Haiku: Cuddle Time”
By Hannibal Tabu

Screw it, I’m sleepy.

Watching (Hulu): The Colbert Report, Wed. April 11, 2012

Already a day late. Dammit!

Click.
Open terminal window into consciousness
finding line after line
of hardwired experience
is really just software.
Perceptions, programmed as reality,
just as easy to alter.

Search and replace
“I want”
with
“I’m grateful for.”
Click.

Locate
“I need”
swap in
“I have.”
Right? Click.

Eliminate
“I wish”
proliferating
“I’m working on.”
Double click.

By staying focused on what works
taking away processor resources
looking for what’s missing
the whole system becomes much more efficient.

Slow progress to save life
in a new configuration
Conflicts arise with
older subroutines like
doubt
fear
habit
exhaustion

Sooner or later new programming
is old red hat
optimized for upgraded happiness.

Don’t be a Luddite.
Coding’s not that complex
nothing in there to break
that can’t be fixed

Space between “where we are”
and “where we deserve to be”
is no more than an arm’s length away.

Click.

“Hacktivism”
By Hannibal Tabu

Friday is dedicated to my wife, so that soon …

Playing (Music): “In My Place” by Coldplay

Almost missed a day! Ack thbththth!

No ideas in mind.
Relentless ticking of clock.
Have to write something …

”Haiku: NaPoWriMo Desperation”
By Hannibal Tabu

I’ll do better Thursday. Probably

Playing (Music): “Find Out” by Aceyalone & Riddlore

Continuing a theme from an earlier work, apologies to Mittens.

If corporations are people,
can they suffer?
Can weight of cultural ennui
hang on their shoulders like laundry sacks?
Can they stare up at relentless
flourescent brightness, wearing them down
like riverside rocks
silently anguishing over decisions unmade
paths not taken?
Do they have the capacity to know loss,
not just record it on quarterly statements,
but feel gaping suck hole in center of mass
like hollow point disappointment?
Do they journal about it as midnight approaches,
scribbling furiously into would-be
moleskin, because times are hard,
and pricy paper’s one of the first
things that have to go?

If corporations are people,
can they laugh?
Not the malicious cackling
of watching Foxconn drones
try to end it all, only to
dive into net like flies caught for dinner.
No, I mean can they laugh like a motherf***er,
feel it rise without hope of delay or dismissal
from somewhere past that suck hole of anguish
ripple through their body like convulsions
take over them with simple, fleeting joy?

If they can’t do these things,
do they deserve to live?

“Be Careful What You Wish For, Part Two: Electric Boogaloo”
By Hannibal Tabu

One more of these, I think. Everybody loves a trilogy.

Playing (Music): “Akhnaten” by Intricate Dialect

Each year my love of comics has shone through, in poems about comics characters, largely inspired by one piece from the inimitable Rob Sturma. This is the first for this year …

I can’t fly.

Whip of wind past
Ridiculous red and blue
Clinging to every inch of
taut teen form.
Gravity seeks to claim me
Like tax exemption,
I could be a fast-moving
Spandex smear on Vesey
Before anyone could cry for help.

I’m going to die …

… until yank of web
almost pulls bone from socket,
hurling me in concentric arc uptown.
Legs slicing air,
Skyscraper reflection fleeting
As I defy every convention
My Queens background
Told me I had to accept.

Danger doesn’t scare me.

Can’t be a fly on the wall,
(duck the pumpkin bomb)
But I’m the next best thing
(blast of high pressure sand past my torso)
Calling every surface my floor
(metal tentacle misses spearing me by an inch)
Since I was a high school junior.

Avatars of impossible totemism
Threaten science catastrophe
Between photo assignments,
Smoky glances with secretaries
Late notices on bills.

Breathe between moments
that could be my last,
Everyday adventures,
Billionaire ideas in rent controlled rooms
My greatest responsibility
Redeeming one, terrible day
Power went unused.

“Peter Parker”
By Hannibal Tabu

I’ll admit it was harder getting into this one, as I don’t particularly like Spider-Man, but once I got a grasp on the kind of pressure he thrives under — like a Marine going door to door in Fallujah with a shotgun — it was easier to relate his personal struggle. Anyhoo, there that is,

Playing (Music): “Work It Out”mash up by Lenlow feat. Jurassic 5, Stevie Wonder, Beyonce and the Dave Matthews Band

Up since 3:15 with the baby. Hm.

Attention drifting like teakettle smoke,
Eyes locked on some screen,
Some book,
Some dance or errant butterfly,
Never panties on the floor
Jacket left on some school bench,
No narrative in her belongings
Compelling enough to keep them
Central to her mind.

She’s only eight years old.

Looking down when I walk in,
Reluctant hugs,
Cheeks almost pulled away
From ”welcome home” kisses,
I thought I’d have a few more years
Before surly and uncommunicative
Took residence in her cherub cheeks,
Found a home in crossed arms.

I’ll keep showing up,
Dance recitals, Shakespeare readings,
School plays.
Her memory of me
Will never be
An empty chair.

“Firstborn”
By Hannibal Tabu

Off to a movie and brunch or something.

Playing (Music): “Party Rock” by LMFAO

Thought I’d slack off on the weekend? SURVEY SAYS “NYET!”

The creative’s curse.
No concern ideas’ll stop.
Which one to do now?

“Haiku: My To-Do List”
By Hannibal Tabu

Kid’s birthday party today … off we go …

Playing (Music): “Silly Little Love Songs” by Darren Criss & the cast of Glee