writelikefools2021
writelikefools2021
write like fools
National Poetry Writing Month 2021
Statistics
We looked inside some of the posts by writelikefools2021 and here's what we found interesting.
Inside last 20 posts
Time between posts
23110.3
Number of posts by type
Photo
0
Video
0
Audio
0
Text
0
Chat
0
Answer
0
Link
0
Quote
0
Explore Tagged Posts
writelikefools2021 · 15 days ago
Text
happy birthday - uncle scooter - day 30
now now now more now please less then less last year less next more now less twenty years back less ten years on from now more now more now yes more yes less no now more ease with what is now please with the loss of what was yes more observance of what is still more now it was too late when we took our turn through the curve of the wood too late not to love you i swear though i tried to you took my hand but you said not now it was a moment of now that won’t last but it’s all that i had let that go though let in now though let in now through the cracks of my hips and the slips of my thighs through the squish of my joints through the holes in my heart please more now more douching in reservoirs of my own irrelevancy with the peace and the pulse of nothing else that matters however lacking however past cure more of the only balm there is for now am i essentially intrinsically elementally ruptured agape no ago no of yore wholly intrinsic wholly extrinsic wholly extroverted introversion wholly apposite opposites accommodated withheld and withstood and conciliated it’s all yours now so take it and i’ll keep mine if i take yours you can keep mine if i am now you are then so i am now i am now and you are then
1 note · View note
writelikefools2021 · 15 days ago
Text
Horsey Haikus - Joe Gallenstein - day 30
April gives way to May – horses graze on grass and Nibble on their hay
Young foals stretch their strides Testing new riders strength and Building partners’ bonds
Derby soon will come Igniting triple crown dreams And mucking more stalls
Glitz and glam cover Up the waste and poverty The derby surrounds
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 15 days ago
Text
Just Beginning - Knusprig - day 30
Poetry Month is already at the end, but my life feels like it is starting again. I've been making changes for me I have weeknights and weekends free. I'm slowly dipping my toes in ink before plunging in to write, to think. I've traveled back to Gielinor and the barrens of the Horde. I've read outside in the sunshine, read recipes, and cooked and dined. And Covid would take our lives just because it can, but Dolly begged Moderna to protect every human. I no longer feel like the option Free Will is off I am slowly taking back my life.
1 note · View note
writelikefools2021 · 15 days ago
Text
The Best Mint Julep I’ve Ever Had - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 30
i do not want that fresh air of living outside of new york
i do not want the green that comes without the city’s encroaching mewing legs
perhaps the city makes the natural necessary perhaps the the city is the natural
the piece of guarded lens you didn’t know was going to change your life
for the better or for the firmness of being a body living life
fully and with a bravery a courage that doesn’t know how to stop
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 17 days ago
Text
Puppy Days of Spring - Joe Gallenstein - day 29
Red Buds blooming mean that Spring has Sprung Spry and wet like a puppy from a fresh dip From the nearest creek bed.
But now the buds have given way to green leaves Spring is maturing to its more well-known verdant self Perhaps less colorful, but still vibrant And also deeper and full
Just as a dog grows and still longs to play A puppy in a full body Begging you to go outside
Soon it will be time to play Summer catch And better yet – take Summer naps! Fun in the sun and to sleep by the trees
The dog days will soon be here Long and hot days joined by humid nights The perfect time for an evening walk with your dog Basking in the warm moonlight.
7 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 17 days ago
Text
End of Big Earth - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 29
the silver slate of the swear word for goodness couldn’t have anything less to do with putting out to pasture the slightest bit of boy or other some sort of human being that would wage its war against the stain of sanded down body be it body of land or man or salt saturated water and then the fern is with leaf and the the cliff is with rock and it’s all roped off and there’s no way getting to it volume of cop and rabid dog is parasitic and i can’t stand it the word is just a letter and the paragraphs are ripping up until the moment the cheered up moon disappears into its own exceptional suspect darkness
3 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 17 days ago
Text
on the eve before it’s over - Uncle Scooter - day 29
i’m ok now. i think. like a still, breathless body, phrases are cold fingers now, intentions are flaccid muscles, meaning is a smaller vein drained of all its blood, love is a stiffening muscle rigidly mortis. a new gravity pulls upon those many thousands of words back and forth between us, and so easy when viewed from this exhumation to see the end in the beginning.
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 17 days ago
Text
edvard munch - elsa kennedy - day 28
i’ve unzipped myself out of innumerable skin suits for both crime and chastity. for neither does the metal tongue seek my permission
before a gaping mouth of nakedness closes around me and brings with it all bitten brutalities, like teeth thrust through a bottom lip.
all the swallowed screams erode for millennia, the approximate amount of time it took for an apology to drag itself up to die at my feet.
my silence is expensive and my patience is unyielding and my memory is inhuman; it will take sharp shape in strangers and saints, should i stop biting before the screaming begins.
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 18 days ago
Text
This and Many Other Islands - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 28
new york can come out of nowhere it can protrude and harden from rock
and sterilized crystal and woken glass and sand and hand and shattered earthquake
old begotten buildings of the unpaid and unfortunate the underclass of the overlords with battered wages
oh the work to sterilize the earth of tended brown man hand to slice the rock and pillage the already tended soil
to come down hard and never go up again to river and then to psalm out from salted slaughtered valley
open palm and clenching fist now pewter now rainbow or gold now everlasting end of relief to hardship or some other thing
to cliff face and ribbon and rope and beginning again same old chord changes you can’t miss you’d know them anywhere
here in the coming end with light of sun and break of day is this the verb for revelation is this a sign
oh permeation of dying entity will you not entice my rhythm oh idling car and bespoke townhouse virtual reality simulacrum
what wave and winding orifice is this the uncontrollable island that is new york and anthill lust and symposium dirt and dust-ridden mantle
however high the flame of candle whips it is bound to do so violently
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 18 days ago
Text
am I relieved? - max - day 28
the closest I can get to crying, is the heat my cheeks swelling with warmth my chest tight I fantasize about crying so much I wonder if it subtracts something from it and then when it finally happens is it a relief or a disappointment? (a question I’ve asked myself many times) am I a disappointment, am I disappointed? am I relieved?
1 note · View note
writelikefools2021 · 18 days ago
Text
History and Home - Joe Gallenstein - day 28
History and home are complicated Because the people who made it are too History and places filled with stories Passed down from the past to you
German-American neighborhood markers change Brevet Bavaria’s Bremen Boulevard became Pershing Plaza to put people in their proper place
As Brevet Bavaria becomes Mini-Mexico Pershing still stands tall But most visitors don’t notice him at all
The names of places reflect who we are And who we want to be As well as what outsiders seem to see
Communities named for displaces peoples Tacit acknowledgement of genocide That our history books too often try to hide
Or to systems that persisted too long Lasting long after we had accepted they were morally wrong Calling new residencies Indian Acres or Plantation Pointe
Statues of slavers sit in some communities That they never called home A celebration of courage and heritage To protect property, profit, and hate
Celebrations for those who sought To disunite the states Slavers whose confederacy for which they fought Aimed to cement white supremacy
And over there sits a googly-eyed general Protected on private property To prevent the forward march of progress From fully dismantling his legacy
That statues of people we erect Shows who we are and want to be Preserved in shameful posterity
History and home are complicated Because the people who made it are too History and places filled with stories Passed down from the past to you
3 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 18 days ago
Text
petrichor - Uncle Scooter - day 28
wallowing on two ounces of frangelico rain tapping on air-conditioned dust thinking about how chadwick wasn’t upset by the upset because vanity means   nothing to the dead though it means everything to those of us who need praise   desperately yet have no idea how to receive it no idea how to believe it when it comes and when i said the words aloud today in therapy that i never felt interesting enough to keep your interest how the tears came hot and quick but I know now this hurt isn’t about you anymore if it was ever about you in the first place smell of cleaned pavement smells like possibility smells like starting over smells like being young again and ready this time to be the things i was supposed to be i think somehow i missed some important rite when as a young adult i boxed up all my toys but never gave a single one away
1 note · View note
writelikefools2021 · 19 days ago
Text
The Land of the Brave - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 27
going well for you, is it, in the land of the brave? i sat through funerals and festivals and haircuts and elevator rides,
and nothing of value happened and i don’t think i was all that blessed. i never jumped ship, and perhaps i’m not all that better for it.
devise you your stunted riddles, your handmade truths. perform you your miracles—there are no mindful eyes watching.
i slopped through the mud on my way to stealth hell, and dripped through the roof like a leak in the living room.
television glass and static touch for the rangers and airpilots, and snickers bars and carports for the rest of us.
how old the stout city of concocted languishing nuances; how cold and blisteringly feverish the orange sun
convalescing with her ocean crash and bow-backed mountain ranges? on the ode and after the smart kindness.  
the world drinks its syphillic water.   the world bounds and rebounds.  
the world doesn’t need this land of the brave—it ensures it.
howling in the distance, a man explains, “we are in a relationship.” by no greater good than his own, the man sighs and lays his head down for nap.
elsewhere in same brave land, random brown man outside a rite aid begs a passerby for money.
when turned down, brown man ridicules passerby for stealing. he is called a name.  he is right in his accusation.
again, same land, different place on that same land— a woman with gnarly fingers coughs on the subway, craning neck,
bathless and above water.  she is gotten away from by any and all those that perceive her like a damned spot out.
i can conceive of greater things than to be forced buried by whatever dark amniotic monster is soon to be birthed
from this bloodsoaked, crisscrossed, stolen land. way out across my body from you is the other end
of the thick and bad bed.  we sleep tangled and shoelaced— imperfect and perfect, complete and incomplete.
there are other countries, other lands.  they listen in; they don’t. there are movies at play, radio dramas, still lifes.
on and on its rivers they go, braving their way, getting in the way of mine. the strangling, struggling, strawman arguments of it;
and then the normal and haphazard and great goodness god glory of it. the fascism gets contained in the puttering stuttering heart of it.
it doesn’t brave anything.  it doesn’t compare. it contains multitudes.  it will never amount to shit.
the land gayly responds to its own silly, small-minded norms. there are valleys composing soliloquies for me; for you.
there’s nothing to say.  i can’t consume fast enough to keep up with these bodies of water.  i can’t live weakly enough
to thrive in this heap of hay fever and boom box problem. the taxes are sky high.  brave me this constant that turns
its stereo too loud, too boom, too on that no one can care, no one can think, no one can listen.  maybe the song rings true
the same way that the evidence of what are things has died in an everlasting and neverending way.  the same way
that the soon and sad things are harder to bury, harder to let go off.  the brave land is sloughing off its weird skin.
it will double over and go back again.  it gets dirt in its hair. it tumbles.  it tricks.  it fools.  it divebombs.
the land and its cities have been laid out to pasture by those forced to give labor to it, to birth it till it comes.
next time i see you we’ll both be laid up together, trembling our breaths together, sloshing our sweat together.
next time we’ll have to have more of that stuff—the kind you don’t know what to do with; i’ll show you what the fuck to do with it.
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 19 days ago
Text
bucket list - Uncle Scooter - day 27
why are the most beautiful, puffy-clouded, blue skied, fat sun days sometimes the hardest? the numbest? the ones crammed the fullest with sad remembrances? why are there days when my individual experience of this collective trauma
 we’re undergoing feels like neither a prison nor a cocoon, but a warm blanket from which i never want to escape? why do people say shit like, “you only get one life” as if it’s supposed to 
- i don’t know - motivate me? and not as if the idea makes me (or them) want to set it all on fire and crawl right back into bed? i was not a sad child. sadness was something that happened to me. but don’t think this all means i don’t love life. don’t think this all means i don’t want to live life. sometimes i think i love it too much, so much so that i can’t bear to part with it, so much so that i can’t bear to take any chances with it, so much so that i can only set it free through clenched fists. no, worry not, dear reader, there’s no need to call the hotline, for i would never end it all. although someone told me once - and it makes perfect sense - that you must be ready to kill yourself to not want to die.
1 note · View note
writelikefools2021 · 20 days ago
Text
Estuary - Uncle Scooter - day 26
Glistening path of waves, expanding and contracting, stretching the watercourse, cleaving dry lands. Gleaming suspension towers pinning tight, greasy cables, fourteen lanes of traffic, boats in their slips. Lenape ground, tilled by the colonizers’ tools. I hear only birdsong and the long, thin whine of wind; I see only waning sunlight and smoke tendriling from treetops. An expectant child stirs, a nervous mother waits for word. Deathlessness of Now, force of creation detonating, I breathe into presence, edging free, if only for a moment, from the scale of my own grief, from the ravening need of our unrequited love. Here, where tide meets stream, clean from punishment’s bent (be it time’s shadow or my own mind’s whorl), I stand fleetingly at peace, beyond the broken heartedness of all who dream, only to watch their hopes dashed upon the rocks, and carried out to sea.
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 20 days ago
Text
april 26 poem - max - day 26
listen, they made a place for us to feel special, but also, not good enough and if they put enough of us in there they won’t have to worry about us anymore and we won’t know we still have each other and they will just think: this is it
2 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 20 days ago
Text
Domestic Life - Joe Gallenstein - day 26
Bathtime looms at 8 pm and then Time to put the kids to bed
After bedtime it’s time to chore Domestic life is such a bore
Laundry, dishes, trash and more … did I just hear a child at the door?
Another round of medicine, Bedtime stories and good night kisses
I guess domestic life ain’t so bad For this middle aged Dad
4 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 20 days ago
Text
The Word - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 26
the word was is and he had it pouring out his mouth
3 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 20 days ago
Text
Memory - Uncle Scooter - day 25
Does the tree feel loss? Like a fragment of its past gone, each time a leaf falls?
4 notes · View notes
writelikefools2021 · 21 days ago
Text
All Three Birds - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 25
the biggest slide is from top to bottom
this film is an examination of all the eeriest and weirdest parts of being considered stranger or being wanted at least likely part of being wanted because
maybe the ruthlessness of the heart is worrying about loving someone tonight
and how it is you’re going to do that
and what it is you’re going to do when you do that
there are always easier ploys than having those two birds in the bush but if you can ever make it happen try to get three or more birds
you don’t have to let go of what you’re holding in order to pick something else up
4 notes · View notes