Home stretch time! There’s a bare handful of poems (five or six) between now and the end of the saga that has been NaPoWriMo… I’m really very tired. I’ll have a final count of the number of drafts I’ve churned up this month tomorrow night, but really it was too many for any one person. Still, I do feel shocked into a more productive mode these days; spring juice is only part of it.
The prompt for today was to do Jim Simmerman’s “twenty little projects“, which I’m pretty sure I’ve done before. My extra challenge to myself was to get them all into twenty lines, and — by fudging the requirements a little — I think I managed to do so. You should go to the NaPo site to see the full list, and then if you want me to defend the presence of any one of the projects, I’m happy to do so, though I ma not articulate that defense very well, because it was friggin’ exhausting. Anyway, this happened yesterday, and I wanted to write about it. I’d like to write about it better, but one does what one can for prompts, ne?
Also, I crammed so much Greek mythology allusion in here that I’m set for a year.
Police stand off against the five young Medusas
whose backpacks are houses, whose dreaded hair hisses.
Though the day rings lovely through the flowering pears
and the sign reads “Open to the Public”–not all who share
this space are welcome, it seems. This afternoon’s agita
draws negative swords of light on each young Andromeda
chained to a penniless rock. Like the angel guarding
the Garden, sulfurous and skyscraper-high, like Moses parting
seas of bitter water, police shoo along the gutterpunk kids.
One shakes free and growls, a la chingada, you fuckin pigs…
now they’ll get it. Voices crescendo. The pear trees cower.
This diorama will unfold into a comment on the abuse of power.
Across the street, a friend says, Joe, get your camera out—
he does, jumps through traffic hood to hood as the cops are about
to take their frustrations out on some young sandpaper faces.
He films the ready fists– so the actors all freeze in their places,
and the cops turn, mad-dog-vicious. Their breath is hot and wet–
they back off. Footage will show them climb into their car saying get
lost. Beat it. And the kids orbit out, wary, having eaten of the lotus.
Democracy moves in a mirror painted gold with small heroics.