The Poetry Marathon

I hope this is real, handsome man,
and not just another cruelty.
The darkness I’ve drawn in is so adept at it.

I’ve had enough of cruelty in this life.

Oh, but haven’t we both?
I saw her push you away that day
dressed in bizarre white.

You deserve love, as do I. Yes, and don’t we all?

So, I made a promise to God,
as instructed by the song
my child sang under her breath.

“How will I know if he really loves me?”

“Don’t trust the feeling” a parenthetic.
For years, I have not hoped, having forgotten
the sweetness of holding hands.

Your essence has inspired me to hope for love.

You. This. Whatever is going on now,
whether cosmic intervention or human interaction,
has inspired me to be the best version of myself.

I had forgotten, somehow, to enjoy being.

That you know I exist or not is a moot point.
We are so much alike in so many ways.
If we are to cross paths naturally, I hope to be my best self.

Until then, love. Until then, I will simply hope for the best.

Too much carbon in the air
made them all machines.

Squared lips, rounded jaws
of organic steel.

A world of hot diamonds
and melted glass

upon which they roll
on titanium pegs.

A strange experiment!

Round.
Not for appearance,
but for the ease of making.

Nature requires at least an oval
for square is too much effort.

In my youth, pepperoni was it.
Mushrooms were gourmet.

But now, there’s figs and prosciutto,
pesto, and lamb with mint.

Introduce gluten free, and cauliflower crust.
I like it cracker crisp, and the toppings thin.

Spicy tomato sauce, not too much cheese,
and not too oily or droopy.

Pizza! God’s gift to the big butt!!

Running away has been
such a strange purpose
as I am chased by pigs
feigning greatness.

Peace, such an elusive
state of being
in this state of chaos.

I am almost ready to fight,
but I hate fighting.

Until then… I just keep running.

Brush my teeth as water warms.
A towel and a cloth.
My body ready
for its crystalline energy.

Shampoo, then condition.
A foaming gel of roses
meets my skin,
washing every inch in luxury.

Towel off, then moisturize
the face, the arms, the legs
the feet, especially.
Feet so ignored in the past.

Brush in the mousse
with hair still wet,
and wash my hands
of its stickiness.

Conceal the dark
around my eyes.
Chanel, my preferred
five minutes of cosmetics.

Then brush and blow
my hair just so.
Get dressed!
I’m ready to go.

Keyboard and computer.
My fatigue a palpable reality.
I don’t feel like writing.

Sleep.

Yesterday’s latte petroglyph
inside the rim beg for a sip
from a fresh cup.

Sleep.

Two notebooks, one for work
the other for wishes,
though both drift together.

Sleep.

What happened to ButterBeauty?
I think a mouse, perhaps
under the couch.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

She walked toward me
up a dark staircase,
as I put away boxes
of too many things to own.

I saw her dark hair in my periphery
wearing a blue skirt,
white shirt, short sleeve,
and a vest of Aztec design.

She was tall and thin,
like Sharon, the woman
in the room down the hall
who hated me for eating meat.

Strange bird, Sharon –
Gray with two faces.
Still, I tried, as I always do
to change her heart.

Then, just as I was about to say
“Sharon, you changed your hair!”
she disappeared. Yes, just vanished
into thin air.

It wasn’t Sharon.

Really? Look me in the eye and say that.
I don’t bite. I just nibble.

Shrimp! I love shrimp. No, really. I. Love. Shrimp.
All crustaceans, in fact.

Exotic fruits of the sea! But, I digress.
What’s the intention here?

In ramekin place
a butter base
so thin to feel
like silk.

And then esteem
a leafy green,
like spinach,
just to wilt.

The oven’s heat
let it meet
and make a sort
of bowl.

And sprinkle thus
some fennel dust,
and salt to heal
the soul.

Within this cup
an egg, sun up,
then tilt to place
just round

Some grated cheese
to hold with ease,
its creamy
yellow mound.

It needs a spice.
Cayenne, so nice!
Just dust it
barely there.

Yes, just a trace
a lovely taste,
but not too much
to bear.

Three and fifty
heat so nifty
sets our egg
apace

Until it wiggles
just a little;
twelve or more
in space.

The white is set
the yolk still wet,
like pudding
so sublime.

A toast of kings,
its buttered rings
await to soak
in kind.

But first a jam
of roses slam
to sweeten
oh, so thin!

And then on top
just scoop and plop
the egg and cheese
and green.

Oh, serve it swift!
It is a gift
to share with king
and queen.

This is hilarious!
Look how she’s reacting to nothing.
What did we do?

1. Send a 70s playlist to her phone
2. Mess with her radio station
3. Follow her on Twitter in his name

And now she thinks he wants to marry her!

This is too easy.
She’s onto us.
Yes, she is.

Dude, this is so cruel,
leading this poor old, lonely woman
toward yet another unrequited love.

But it’s hilarious!
Oh, my god, she’s writing him
a love letter in her website!
No, she doesn’t mention his name.

You know, we could use this!
See if you can book a hall
somewhere for some tech event.
AI or something.

Offer her a free ticket.
She’ll come. Yes, she will.

If we build it, she will come!
F’in perfect!

Do you think we can book him?
Awesome!

It’s beyond the budget,
but I can make it fly.

She’ll approach him like she did Mr. B,
and we swoop in with a stalking charge.

He has no choice!
None.

God, this is freakin’ brilliant!