Author Archives: Chado
National Poetry Month 2025
Well I shore had me some fun in this old Nationalist Poetry Month thang.
April is the cruelest month y’all know that anyways I done writ a whole slew of poems last month and HERE THEY IS for y’alls most eruditical poemic deelectation.
1. Codexes
2. To a Yogini
3. To Frank O’Hara
4. Do What Thou Art
5. Ports of Call
6. Minted
7. She is Not a Poem
8. Inclusive Ghazal
9. Tagged
10. Curated Content
11. Wisdom Calls for Prudence
12. Saga of the Wars of the Races
13. There is a Red Flag
14. Come Over My Place
15. Boom, Baby, BOOM
16. Musical Harlots
17. Sign of the Red Pelican
18. Strange Charity
19. Newport Blues
20. Inclusivity Training
21. Limericks for Sawako
22. Arrivals/Departures
23. Bird Flew Epidemic
24. Sparring w/Lisa
25. Garden Revisited
26. Signage Sonnet
27. Shout-out to Grünewald
28. Queen of the South: 1749
29. V. Chang [OBIT]
30. Generic Jazz
Generic Jazz Lines
possums know jazz
dig Coltrane/snap
to that bebop
groove to trumpets
louder than Vietnam, Iraq, Gaza
break like pregnant waters
born of dry ice
vaporized
bonobo possums, antipodeans
grazing on
Antarctic fission/fusion
fluxus fata morgana
needed like we need
Bonobo lottery tickets
(re)membered reconstituted loss
hard investment
in a well-lubricated account:
man-baby fake-ass banker
insolvent in liquidity
as if Bonobos actually played jazz
and Coltrane merely
interpreted (snap)
I followed this poetry template:
An irrelevant quip to start:
Some offhand remark
or a vapid pop-culture reference
then: strange mismatched ideas,
verbose obscurantism,
violently odd similes,
clash of madly-mixed metaphors.
Don’t forget
absurd line breaks/
spacing
a non-sequitur or two…
SUDDEN SEXUAL REFERENCE
(or race-baiting)
if U want your fake poem
to go that way…
then, repeat some line
from start of the “poem”
and finally: that PERT and QUIRKY
not-quite-closure.
V. Chang [OBIT]
Most poets now are boring clowns
Meandering, confessional;
Their muses quick to pawn their crowns
Claiming to be professional;
Credentialed by some stuffy place
That ruined all poetic grace.
Miss Chang is one. The current breed:
Murmuring, sighing in her tea—
Exhibiting neurotic need
To tell sad stories. Let her be.
She’s found her niche. She does her schtick
Repeating endlessly one trick.
We note the symptoms and the signs:
Turning dull maudlin thoughts to prose,
Then making of it ragged lines
(Post-modern sickness clearly shows.)
But adding line-breaks here and there
Is simply prose in disrepair.
Poor dear, it’s clear she dwells in grief
(And follows funerals to the bank…)
We realize, with some relief
It’s not her fault. We have to thank
The avant-boring visionaries
Praising her obituaries;
Milquetoast academic schools
Of well-degreed neurotic fish
Who spawn such vapid bubbling fools
As fit for neither hook nor dish.
And thus, we’re left with Rupi Kaur
In this, the muses’ dullest hour.
To say simply that Chang takes poetic medication and goes to sleep for us, makes it soporific, is to shed unrequited tears in your chamomile tea, for she truly ruins it, pours tepid water on what was left of the fire. This stunningly brave new poetry is prose, yes, but it is prose broken into weird lines of fake verse.
Willya KwitsubsidizingNPR
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