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

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.

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

PROMPT #29:
write a poem that takes its inspiration from the life of a musician, poet, or other artist.

NIGRA SUM SED FORMOSA

The queen of the South will rise up in the judgment with this generation and condemn it,
for she came from the ends of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon;
and indeed a greater than Solomon is here.

Matthew 12:42

She materializes
from ancient Marib and the Horn of Africa
to fulfill final prophecy:

Upping the ante of Solomon’s triple six
Erythrean Makkeda/Bilquis appears, manifests, descends
sweeps in amidst clouds of frankincense:
immaculate golden sandstorm
crossing over our threshold
having passed through Arabia
in her palanquin;
with retinue of camels and courtiers
spices and incense
invading, bursting into the Baroque,

King George II freaks out:
how to handle her—
arriving unannounced
in England in 1749 . . .
But Sheba is beatific
under a towering white wig,
enveloped in silk brocade;
Lutheran angels uphold her trailing gown…

Handel, inspired, knows what to do.

Saba: We come to the seventh day
we enter her rest—
a greater than Solomon has arrived.

PROMPT 28: write a poem that involves music at an event of some kind.