NaPoWriMo: Thirty//Thirty #4: Hacktion Hero

To the clutter

amassed upon the desk (and elsewhere):


The proper placement of your pile

is where I deem fit for

the time out of


articles bearing

some significance, hints

of stories deeper down the detritus.

Making mountains out of Moleskines

and boxes building barrios

for Spanish-speaking superheroes

though I don’t know a lick it of

el forko, el spoono, el knifo

Fascinating file folders facilitating

treacherous towers of timelines together

and that crate of 5-Star notebooks

reading through the years

mysteries in the margins

hoping to hear hack action. Continue reading

Water from a Stone

The stone they rolled away

the same that the builders rejected

served, as a foundation

built upon this rock.

Carried here

buried here

interred, with naught a word.


And the boy did not talk

for some time.


The shoot, gave root

and stood as it should–

the willow wept, for those

left behind.

He went to them at night

never in the flesh, but

in speaking, seeing dreams

laughing amid their branches

arms drooping, scooping him up


cradling him into the dawn.

Lying in the Dark

Is it but a lie you

tell yourself, if

it rears its ugly head,

nuzzles beneath your muzzle

this monkey on your back

is less of a pet

and more of a mockery.

Fast friendships, but

now, one that wont

let go, as you

let go

of everything else around you.

Control, spiraling out of

the gaping abysmal maw

taking, taking, taking

and offering up

empty slithering promises

that won’t


be enough to satiate

appetites of Cthulhulean proportions.


appendages caress

as I regress

the icky, sticky

Stygian darkness

welcomes me home again.

Forgive Us Our Trespasses

Another late night run

milk, for the bottle

the boy will need in the morning.


I detest shopping at the APlus

at the top of the hill–

some small way they offended

my father

a quarter of a century ago.

Can’t quite remember why,

but asking him would not

be prudent at this juncture.

I’m sure he had his reasons.


Me, since you’re dying to know,

having to walk into this walk-in cooler

because the night shift can’t be bothered

to wheel the cart back,

a stationary position, as I sneak in,

grab the gallon, making sure

not to be mistaken

by the color-coded caps

of competing companies.


Papa Conti the Elder

can stick with anger for

the sins of the father.

All will be well

with Papa Conti the Younger,

as long as I don’t walk out

with another bottle of skim.