Filler

this is a filler sonnet.         it has little
life its own, is meant to wedge in between
poems in a collection   —   for you, dear
reader, because at this point you’re inun-
dated with poetry and likely not
paying close attention, and not every
verse can be a work of genius, even
from a writer of great talent or skill.

it’s not my fault I’m a silly waste of rhyme;
a lazy toss off from a poet off
his game   —   had he compassion for his works,
his creatures, he might take a bit more time,
a bit more care to craft me into something
to catch your fancy and endear me to you.

David M Pitchford
6 Nov 2011

War Stories #79

without cindy here day in and day out,
I don’t know     .      .     .      but without the program, I
sure as hell wouldn’t be around to share
these stories of courage without strength, these
forlorn tales of those caught under the bus,
run over in life’s sideway paths lost be-
tween the cracks     .     .     .      without this hope, without
wisdom shared and bullets bitten within
fellowship, how could I hope to arti-
culate these dramas faced and unfaced drunk
sober and drunk again, now sober to
remain, twelve steps out of hell and walking
hand-in-hand with the unlikely love of my life,
my once and forever partner, cindy.

David M Pitchford
27 Oct 2011            *final of this project to be posted

War Stories #56

filthy. living in refuse. abandoned
dilapidated shack in nowhere’s backyard,
roaches and lice feasting my flesh, ants, mice
gnaw my skin, leave their bloody signatures . . .
recovery dreams can be worse than fugue
visions. and then comes the usage dreams filled
with unwanted drink and intoxication,
all good intentions consumed along with
perdition’s road itself. come morning light
and stark awakening, these dreams like mists
part beneath the sun’s glaring truth—some words
said in prayer, thanks for another day,
chases the dreams back to their dark repose;
one day won’t do to rebuildrome, I suppose.

David M Pitchford
25 Oct 2011

War Stories #47

maybe two weeks after donna’s funeral,
julie looked me up, dragged me from a meeting
to share some bad news. she had contracted
h.i.v. from somewhere, unsure whether
from a john or from a dirty needle.
either way, it was not to worry me,
as I had never shared her or her spikes.
but then she had to tell me that somehow
that gang from saint louis had gotten our
names and were on the hunt for all of us.
a banger I knew from meetings confirmed
this, and said I could buy my way free of it
for the right price . . . that’s what got me downstate,
and, by God, somehow it’s all for the good.

David M Pitchford
24 Oct 2011

War Stories #19

god knows what georgy was doing on top
of absinthe that night. all jacked up he got
it in his head that he was a turnip
or some such shit, and took a wire brush to
himself. billy told him a paring knife
might work better, and then we all watched dazed
and mortified while georgy started cutting
chunks out of his own torso with a dull
hunk of steel from the kitchen. back then,
roxanne, a trauma nurse, was hanging out
with us and helping find us fixes—she
clocked him with the absinthe bottle, strapped him
down and stitched him up with fishing line well
enough to keep us from repercussions.

David M Pitchford
23 Oct 2011

the older poet’s advice

he told me the trick is to cheat: with art,
it’s all about imitation, he said.
so it’s par for the course if you steal, mime,
borrow everything from everybody.
but there are laws about plagiarism,
so you have to slant everything ten to
a hundred degrees to make it new; so if
you see a poem about horses, write
your own about unicorns, if they write
about unicorns, then you write about
zebras—they write about black stripes, you write
about polka dots on an appaloosa
you lost money on down inLouisville, out
of luck and betting there the wrong weekend.

David M Pitchford
23 Sept 2011

Sunday Go to Meetin

driving through this rainy morning Sunday
you in your puritan dress and humming hymns
and me trying to remember when last I went
to service, to the gathering of the faithful, when
last I broke bread with the brethren and
feasted on the flesh of a two-thousand year dead
savior, heard the word beat into the pulpit straight
into my mind and soul, thew and bone, had guilt
rained down on me like hail and brimstone . . .
Now, you reach over and remind me that Jesus
loves me, that I am His lamb, that we are chosen,
and I smile knowing that I shall take you to the gates
of the church, escort you to the door, and walk down
a more familiar road to grab a beer and praise the sky
for raining after a long, dry summer . . .

David M Pitchford
18 Sept 2011

New Ambitions

1000 Poems

So yesterday I was out walking
around town thinking of whatever
came to mind. It took a while for me
to get out of a highly (deeply?) negative
headspace, me being in the redzone
on self-esteem. I tried to convince myself
of several things, but eventually it just
turned into a pondering of how many poems
I’ve written. I have lost or destroyed many.
So, instead of trying to count my poems, which
seemed a dry and tedious task of little reward,
I decided instead to begin on a journey
of a thousand poems and see whence it takes me.

Slow start so far – only a few verses today so far.
The rules are pretty simple:

1. write 1000 poems
2. blog one a day – whichever, doesn’t matter
3. quality is not a consideration IN THE LEAST!
4. this is strictly about production (like in NaNoWriMo)
5. stay focused!!!!!!!!
6. save EVERYTHING
7. plan a reward/celebration

start writing . . . GO

these childish scrawls that blacken
these pages’ white purity
what’s more, in ink, they seem
errant strokes: chisel ‘gainst stone
scripture defiled by error

and I feed you all unwilling, Titivillus!
surely by now these words
have sealed for eternity
my condo in Tartarus . . .

David M Pitchford
11 Sept 2011