The Poetry Marathon

you peer into my life and know the ins and outs
you see my rights, my wrongs, and all that I’m about

you observe and I let you, dear, I’m as open as a yawning sky
but when I press my eyes against your window all I do is sigh

give me a tour of the house you built that has an open view towards mine
I’m happy to give you everything if you just loosen your confines

what’s hidden in there? my knowledge of you descends into nothingness
throw me a bone, I’ll be okay with anything that you confess

the way I reach for you is something like searching for a phantom hand
lift me up, or please, let me pull you close—I just want to understand

We drove the car into the ocean
and drowned in the Gulf.
Our metal box sinks into
the trench of the unknown.
We land and settle on the seabed
like our very own Apollo 11.
The ocean floor resembles our dear moon.
How does life here endure?

The headlight high-beams upon
the faces of creatures who’ve never seen such bright.
They emerge from the black ocean floor
and swim towards the hope of a sunkissed surface
They don’t make it far
and are overtaken by pressure differences.
Little beings sacrificing home and safety to see
a beauty once unfathomable, again.

Once you know,
you spend the rest of your life searching.

The water takes over me.
I’ve seen it too.

In the end, will these words
of mine consume me?
Or will it be the worms?

When I go I hope
it’s through my own creation.
My final work
my final gift to the world.

No one
can take it away from me
I’ll use my last warm breath
on a rhyme, if need be.

Mourn not me but instead
what came of my fingers.
We all know it’s what outlives us
fucking alphabet soup.

The morning air is heavier than I imagined.
I have never been up and out this early
and if I am up, I’ve spent it contained within my four walls.
Summer days pass me by; this is the first time
I heard the palm trees of my street rustle and listened to it.

I pass by a neighbor’s house
a man I’ve never seen before mows the lawn carefully enough
to not hit the countless, colorful folderol on the property.
Come to think of it, I’ve never seen the faces of the people behind these doors.
I’m not from a place where people take walks.

There is no sidewalk on my street or the others surrounding it
if you want to roam you do it with four wheels not two legs.
Part of me feels there is no one in these houses
or these houses are flat slabs of wood painted like a backdrop of a play
and the silhouettes against the window at night are merely mechanical.

I laugh at the thought.
I wonder if someone looked out the window
they’d be surprised to see me walking on the road
and laugh at the realization that they don’t know me either.

I circle back and the house next to mine is boarded and abandoned
yet their lawn is greener and tamer than my dried one.
I’d like to think there’s someone in there
arising out of view, to water it each night.

When the gaps between the leaves
cast their spotty light on your face
I catch a glimpse of heaven.
Or maybe something astronomical?
Illogical? Magic?
I can’t help but refrain from blinking
as I’m tugged by a force that is not my own.
I’m afraid I might lose it.
I was never much of a believer
of the unknown:
aliens, ghosts—God? Is he real?
But now skepticism clouds all things.
Never before have I pondered over religion
or the weight of being devoted to
Someone
Some concept
Some otherworldly feeling
until I met you.

Do not think
I am nothing more
than the garbs
upon my shoulders.
Nor am I the hair that settles
against my painted cheeks.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholders
but trust that I am not my eyes
or the mouth that speaks.

I think I am the wind
or I want to be.
Yearning on windows ridden
by a cool summer night–begging to be let in
to embrace the sleepers and banish their heat.
Maybe I am the crosswalk countdown
or at the very least, I am the sound of children
scuffling their shoes on a busy sidewalk
in impatience to cross the street.

But regardless of what I am
it is certainly not up to you.