The Poetry Marathon

“Hey,
do you want to go get some
food?
I hear the new pizza place is good.”

America loves pizza.
It’s a fact.
Check it out if you want.
I don’t really care.

What I do care about are
scabbing,
oozing cow tits
that are being sucked
until they bleed.

I care about
a “food” supply that is
degrading to the point
where Surgeon
General Warnings
are required on candy
for children.

I care that we throw away
more food than we ingest—
that the sheer
volume of waste from this
greedy
self-centered
ignorant
puss bucket of a society
is enough to feed tens of millions daily.

I don’t care about the new Taco Hell breakfast
doodad, or the original McShit now for a dollar!

I do care about
corporations that sabotage
the livelihood of
employees by imprisoning
them in a labor force
that looks more like
indentured servitude
than anything else.

I do care about
conniving business tactics
such as
scheduling thirty nine hours per week
to maim workers
candidacy for health benefits,
overtime—
and in effect to keep them
dependent
but in a constant state of
social immobility.

I do care that
wages are so staggeringly low
that they are debilitating.

I do care that the people who feed us are
severely underpaid
deserving
and angry
and it is our duty to help.

I don’t care that I can get bloated in fifteen minutes
or less—or my money back.

I care that gluttony grips
the fat,
triple chinned throats
of people who claim
to follow God,
to follow Jesus–
to follow whatever
religious deity they want–
as they watch reruns of
their favorite sitcoms and
sink deeper into couches—
eyes glazed over,
pure lethargy as starving children
beg for money during the commercials.

I care that
diabetes runs rampant
because a corrupted “food”
industry discovered greater profits
from using addictive syrup.

I do care that
farmers are whipped
into obedience by
threat of lawsuits from
massive
international
pirate
conglomerates
that hire swarms of legal representation until the
beaten down farmer whimpers into submission, again.
I do care about Food. Do you care about Food?

Knowing which way to go, it’s quite the same
And what is thought to be right is right
Because at pinnacle light soon came,
From places made from cosmic remains
Where dark turned to light and light to night,

And from every peak a worthy view
That will be seen by new and old once there.
Oh, I had the heart to go and do.
But seeing the horizon I knew
My choices are mine alone to bear.
I shall be sharing this without delay
Nowhere eons and eons from here:
Three streets to choose from in town, but they,
They didn’t take any of them anyway,
And they never left that bottom tier.

Your prompt for this hour is to write a poem about moving. The move could be a real or imagined. It can be about moving as a concept or moving as a reality.
——————————————————————————————————————–
Through nebula clouds of shimmering dust–
amassing as meteors, planets, and comets;
falling through the heavens heavy as black
holes–I awaken in a new form. Laden with
memories of past motions, movements in a
symphony—playing notes that resonate through
time. Moving as swiftly as leaves carried through
white water—rapids that roar as they flow.
Emerging from a volcanic eruption, lava carries
me into a deep ocean trench, where I solidify—
petrified as wood. I appear silently, fulgurant—
accompanied by bellows that permeate the
storm clouds. Floating with winds brought from
southern seas, the ways of the crazy cloud will
never change, and my dear Ikkyu, I mean for them
not to. I’ll move down the gullet like fresh moonshine
scorching all those bad memories right off the back
of your throat; who really likes the taste of anguish
anyways? Syringes carry black tar into a blood vesicle
highway, rushing apathy to the senses. I’m moving
out, to establish home within.

Write a poem about dogs. However you cannot use any of the followings words in the poem: dog, canine, bark, growl, and puppy. You also can’t use the names of any dog breeds. So, it should be a bit of a challenge.
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A grim lurks in the dark corners,
snarling and baring its teeth, waiting
for the chance to strike. Summoning
six headed beasts from Hell takes some
blood runes, Enochian magick, and more
Will than most can muster in a lifetime.
I’ll keep my Cerberus close to my heart—
she’ll defend me when the time is right
But we’ve been bonded since youth, and
no foul creature can come between me
and my spirit animal. Not even a Grim.

Autobiography of A Face

The eagles perch on my wrinkles.
Facial hair of moss, grown over decades.
Rain has worn me down, now I slip away
into a gorge. A river runs through.
I take my steps slowly, winding through the
mountains and gripping the peak.
The trees that have emerged, like happy blemishes,
reach out to grab the last droplets of sunlight.
Time affects me little, but the climbers
blister my hide with spray paint, hooks and ropes,
they are changing me with every foothold.
A dark shadow cast by thunderstorms gently rises on
my skin. My fears are met by miners, who
thrash about with heavy machinery—clawing and scarring me
for the treasures found within. I’ll take my time and remember
what it was like back then. When the hordes of man had yet
to leave the jungles and meadows, when I was visited
only by beasts and things. When I was a nest and not a
resource.

Spontaneity is the hand of Hadit,
we live in a time of polished nonsense—
bunkum at every turn.
Well I say, Good Riddance.
Who needs euphemisms anyway?
Compelled to express a variation of
madness that seeps from the corners
of consciousness, I will manifest
an unwavering movement of action.
Willpower is spirit, spirit is me.
My outward expression is not representative
of who I am. My thoughts, speech, and deed
Will quantify me as a wanderer.
Can the magick of words bleed through
without the tone of the writer heard?
I want to divulge a secret… I am not me,
and you are not you. You are not your
job, automobile, prized possessions, family name;
You are not your fucking Khakis.
We are the all singing all dancing crap of the world.
If you have time to dance,
sit quietly you happy lucky idiot—thanks Ninao.
I ride a tide of emerald river water. Surfing
through the cosmos as a salmon upstream—
against the flow.

We want the things we can’t have. We want the illusion of happiness
painted in tabloids, pop music, and reality tv. We want to know
that love is real—trying to grab air with bare hands. We want to
be in control. We want our bodies to look like those photo-shopped
Barbies and Kens that are constantly bombarding our self-respect.
We want to live on through eternity in a fantastical paradise where
everything we couldn’t acquire in life is bestowed upon us in death.
We need. That is the nature of man—to need.
We consume and abuse the elements around us.
We need to feel to be real. Zombie minded dullards,
they can get by tasting less than Love, less than True
Life, less than Will. We need words that make an impact
like a sawed-off shotgun—we need to blow the minds
of all the “sames” who creep around in the night of day
looking for more to eat, use, and rob. We need fantasy,
we need reality, we need to dream to be alive.. Can you recall
the darkness when you looked in the mirror? That black
pit in the center of your eye? I saw the nothingness there.

Murder
of crows, breaking through dimly lit
tunnel entrances—Flinging violet pedals
from their wings. Caricatures, drawn on
cheap canvas—all my friends lining the walls
of my otherwise barren hall. Shaking you up
like a liter-o’-cola—Farva blowing his lid. Steaming
up and out, a sauna brimming out a crooked door.
I’m going home. Waiting for bad news and a phone
screeching through that contemplative silence. Freckles worn
like archipelagos on the face. A plethora of multicolored sun beams
radiates from the diamond. Pearls hang from Nuit’s arched back, glistening
with starlight—a planet revolves around a long forgotten celestial body. Ra
had his time, now is the age of the child.

Use one of the following three images as inspiration to write a poem.

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how long’s it been?
They said they had to go get a bone.
But now I’m just sitting here waiting,
alone; I want to go home.
Mommy, Daddy, brother, sister…
Where are you?
It seems like days, but the other
little doggies they are all playing
with their families. What did I do?
Am I a bad dog?

Write a persona poem. (Elitist)
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I see you there,
hustling and bustling—up and down
this busy street, pressing in on peoples
lives with your scummy rags and watery
Windex. NO! I don’t want my windows
washed by those hands. This Mercedes
deserves the gentle touch of machine
controlled brushes. I don’t care that your
children are here to help too, I don’t want
anything to do with you. Do you think I get
out of work and care to have my time imposed
upon by some poor folk? It’s not my fault
you didn’t go to college. You should
have tried harder, woman. No I don’t want
a bouquet of roses, throw them on your
grave and drop dead.