The Poetry Marathon

write a poem that feels like a dream 

flashing blue lights don’t make my pulse pick up

or my shoulders tighten 

or the possibility of my life 

flicker in and out 

flashing blue lights are just that: 

alternating hues of brightness

a color between green and indigo 

electromagnetic waves bouncing off retinas

my room

in the first apartment 

that i’ve paid rent for

doesn’t have a closet

it took months

of brainstorming &

experimentation 

to find some system

for clothing storage

i guess it helps 

to have no room for hiding

no space for baggage 

or maybe i just carry it in me

body made home 

for the discarded, secret & 

withheld

for that which should 

not be left out in the open

this is the same barnes & noble 

that i loved growing up

i would always beeline to the back 

to the young adult section

spend what felt like hours

but was likely only 1 

reading the back of every book

whose cover grabbed my eye

i won’t lie

i judge books by their covers

still do to this day

and i also won’t lie

there are a lot of good books with bad covers

that i would have missed out on 

if not personally recommended to me 

the young adult section isn’t in the back anymore

i’m always surprised to pass its’ new location,

by the romance section

where the cds used to live

now i explore a bit more then i did back in the day 

make pit stops in world history, new releases,

romance, and social sciences 

i still end my trip right back 

where it used to begin 

what is love if it’s not scary 

in the way that unfamiliar things often are

not in the way that’s it a wolf draped in a sheep’s skin

hate and anger and disrespect masquerading as love

what’s with the wolf/sheep binary?

what about the violent sheep? and the wolves

that mind their business?

who does it do good to act like good & evil are fixed? 

are stagnant and unchanging?

does it benefit the unsuspecting wolf, 

suddenly surrounded by sheep

but not afraid 

no instinct to flee

because sheep are the harmless ones

right?

i love how beet stains

a dark pink/purple hue

the color i would imagine blood to be

if i didn’t know it was blue

underneath this jacket of skin 

until a tremor of oxygen turns it

a dark rust red

the body a bayou 

an interdependent ecosystem 

a moist landscape

best traversed when familiar or by guide

we are not taught much 

about our bayous

i mean bodies

not about our elbows

or tastebuds or knuckles or gray matter

for that matter 

the lightbulbs of neural synapses 

cinnamon lights up my mouth

a heat that travels from tongue to tip of toe 

unfamiliar mechanics 

as unfamiliar as a bucket list made

with enough time to fulfill it

there is an elk that my grandma watches

from her window she can see it across the road

or maybe it’s a deer

hard to tell 

its’ shadow disappears behind the carport

after sylvan esso 

bass thump

guitar pluck

shoulders sway

finding a rhythm 

synth pulse

voice cut through

press into 

coherent cacophony 

marinate 

all together now 

words flow together

more feeling then 

decipherable lyrics

harmonies sneak 

voices crescendo 

another voice joins

three now

rhythm moves down

a body, to the hips

to tapping toes 

funeral singers

funeral singers

someone must 

bring the rhythm 

once the heartbeat

stops 

after franny choi 

the world keeps ending, and the world goes on 

the same could be said for the days

the months, the years, the decades

all neverending ending things 

it used to be hard to get out of bed on weekday mornings 

the world keeps ending, and the world goes on 

now i struggle to get out of bed on weekends too

even ones where i have my mom’s borrowed car

where autonomy of that sort is more within my reach 

the city seems too big to even see

perception sometimes too much a cost to pay 

seasons too 

cyclical endings

the world keeps ending, and the world goes on 

on & on & on & on 

tipping back and forth 

between axis and moonlight, sunlight and smaller stars

were worlds ever meant to last

certainly not this one, not at this rate

not in this way

the world keeps ending, and the world goes on 

imagine earths’ edge

far off horizon

defined end

sharp corners, hard lines

a tipping point 

what’s over the side?

all the other earth’s this one could’ve been 

if this were a different world

different humans

different histories

different systems 

different beliefs 

different theories

different realities 

different truths 

different possibilities

tipping point made endless edge

made ongoing expanse 

of what could have been 

of what might come to be

write a poem of all questions

how do you hold hope?

where does it hurt?

how long has it?

when did it start?

are you afraid it won’t ever stop?

it’s stopped?

for how long?

were you devastated when it returned?

i mean

how devastated were you when it returned?

do you feel alone?

i’m sorry

how long have you been alone?

are you lonely?

i’m sorry, what i mean is

are you still lonely

or has lonely become too familiar to feel?

Write a poem from the perspective of an object

pov: negative covid test on dining room table 

i wonder if they’ve forgotten about me

or if i’ve just been here long enough to become 

permanent fixture or maybe decoration 

kin to the dried flowers rescued from the neighbors trash

in mason jar vases, surrounded by a thin layer of dust

wonder if i will become dusk dusted

here 

in a landfill

or in the sea