The Poetry Marathon

Fire Safety

What one thing would I save

If my home, my house

Was completely engulfed in flames?

I want to say my Memaw’s Bible:

Her copy of King James.

But her voice

It calls to me,

And the modesty, that I keep quietly locked inside of me,

Keeps telling me,

This

That I’m telling you,

And it’s

Compelling me,

To tell the truth,

And so

Honestly,

Depending inherently on the severity,

Or if I

Would even feel inclined…

Go running back inside

My fiery house for anything…

Because

If I went in there and died,

Then where would I be?

I hear dead is not as glamorous as they make it seem

On the radio box or on

The movie screen.

Yeah,

There were all those nice people

Who attended my wake

And the others who came

And said goodbye to me, at my grave

And yeah,

There’s that pretty rock that they had carved

For all to see,

Telling the world of my vanity

And the bane of being a sex-symbol at the young age of 23.

But then, after that,

When they’re all gone I’ll be

Left to spend the rest of time alone

Reciting lines

From my long forgotten eulogy.

So If I

Am to be honest,

And in lieu of sounding vain,

I would

Accept the things in life

I cannot change,

Letting what burns

Burn,

And keeping only

That which may or may not

Remain.

The water here is no longer viable
And food deliveries, are at best, unreliable
If we are caught here, its undeniable
That we would all be held liable
But be like Hickory wood, unpliable
For no bounty on our heads is even remotely justifiable
For no bounty on our heads is not remotely justifiable
not just water here is viable
They would hold liable
If we are caught undeniable
And are, at best, unreliable
to be like religion, unpliable
like steel, unpliable
is any remotely justifiable
Theater no longer viable
That which would be liable
caught here, undeniable
And delivers the unreliable
yes, even the unreliable
however unpliable
calls for the  justifiable
thirst ending viable
absent of liable
its undeniable
undeniable
is this our reliable
no longer viable
remotely justifiable
still unpliable
liable
We hold liable
If caught here undeniable
at best, unreliable
the forever unpliable
bounty on  justifiable
The viable
no longer viable held liable
best unreliable, its undeniable
like Hickory wood, unpliable remotely justifiable

Sometimes I try to do as others always say you should do when you feel, say, your lip tremble for a split-hair second
when you realize that she never calls
And when she does it’s basically to pretend for whoever she’s around that I’m even a blip on her radar screen
throughout the course of her day-to-day goings-ons
As though she suddenly snapped out of some bout with amnesia
and miraculously remembers everything
as though she hasn’t been out of frame for the last several seasons of the show
Like she can walk back in
And demand the producers resurrect her character
from the most recent death she suffered;
the last being the fatal fall
she had when she slipped on a stick of butter
while making oatmeal.
Just one in a long, long list of necromantic revivals.

You get so tired of writing her
in and out of the cast
that you finally just say,
“Enough is enough!”
and resurrect her zombie of a character,
one last time…
…to be played by a different actress.
That way, you don’t have to worry
whether or not she will be on set for her scene
Or have to wonder
if she even cares that she is holding up
the entire production- cast, crew, staff, the writer (that’s me)
every time she injects herself
only to eject herself,
with a quickness like Jackie Joyner-Kersee
But then there is the sadness,
the whimpering emptiness
that she cuts out of you,
leaving a void of blistered lacerations
and pink, fleshy scar-tissue.

You ask yourself,
“What is the difference between now and then?”
trying to find the good memories
Of a time when she cared,
before she shut the world out,
before whatever cog shot loose
and she quit loving you
Which is the moment
the numbing truth of the matter sets in
and you realize
that you don’t recall any so-called happier days
Because she’s always been
like this, to some degree, on some level
And on some level, to some degree,
she will always be like this

But you will carry her weight,
not because she deserves it
or because she’s changed
Not because she’s earned it
or because she does or doesn’t call
to ask about your day,
your week,
your month,
your year.
It’s because she is your mother,
and it is what a son should do,
because you hope
that if the shoe were on the other foot
That she would
do it for you
Hell, that she would
do it for herself

But in the back of your mind,
you always knew
That life isn’t fairy dust and rainbows
And that those sorts of wishes
don’t ever come true
Hurting is this one’s heart
This story
My story
The story of a broken son
And his broken Mom.

Crispy
Too Crispy
That’s what they invented milk for
To De-crispy the cookie
Not that it’s a cookie-cookie
Because it’s a ginger snap
Rather, they are ginger snaps
Extra emphasis on the plural: snapS
They don’t really snap though
They are much too crisp
Not crispy
Crispy means crisp-ish
Or crisp-like
Something similar to crisp
If it were not a snap
They would probably call them ginger crisps
But old people and children might lose teeth
Thinking they meant crispy when they said crisp,
And bit in expecting the cookie to crumble
But it isn’t a cookie at all
Which is why they call them ginger snaps
Because if not for milk to soften them up
That’s what your teeth will do…SNAP!

Burberry and Birkenstocks,
And anything with Carol Burnett,
Get these things together
And watch how wet I get
If that’s a problem with you
I’m sure to get upset
Girl, you can have your own thing
But you’ll stay my filthy pet
So I grab my kicks and spray myself
And watch Little Orphan Annie
Get in the mood
Because I’m on my way
To come invade your panties
So when you want to start me up
Just sneak up to my room
Turn the tube on Nick@Nite
And spray that damn perfume
When that odor hits your sexy body
I’ll come running, in my shoes
Ready to sing about “Little Girls”
And drink a little booze
Overfill the bathtub
Pull the curtains to the floor
Tonight we’re getting freaky
You’re my dirty red head wh*re
I’ll be yelling, “WHOOOOOOOOO!”
And you’ll be screaming, “YESSSS!”
Do like Daddy Warbucks do
On your body I’ll invest
Then I’ll ride you like the stock market
Top it off with a cigarette
I’ll spritz you down with Burberry
And call you Miss Burnett
In the morning you’ll grab my sandals
To go and turn on the T.V.
Get back in bed
And shnuggle up
And watch some Mama’s Family

1, 2, 1, 2, left, right, left, right, left
and lingering…
lolly-gagging…
loafers are lace-less, listless, laughing
at the language-lopped, flopped flipped
Flying florid and flowing to

1,2,1 first, fourth, final

1,2,1,2

Millennia have eroded the once great giants of prehistory into watered down effigies of what their ancestors once were.
While time transformed the lands, the climates, and the creatures into museum pieces, we have pulled one another through.
Through the murky uncertainty that both is and is not, our shared experience called life
We have grown together, evolved together, survived together.
A symbiotic expression; an oxytocin-addiction; a man and his best-friend
We trust them with our homes, our property, our lives, our children’s lives
We raise them, feed them, teach them, befriend them, and love them.
We communicate across a gap greater than mere language, but a gap between species
Effectively relaying messages in ways we aren’t even mindful of,
Through means we are only just now beginning to break the surface of
When they look at you with their big eyes and you see through the thousands of years that have braided us to our best friends
You know that they too are looking through the foggy glass of the ages since the day, that they met their best friend, too.

Autobiography of a face
Is the Prompt for hour ten
But is the face not
An autobiography of the Prompt?
Time and transition, the ancient Janus
The personification of duality through rhyme:

From the line dividing now from then
Came the greatest pursuit undertaken by men:
The question that asked if not now, when?
Giving rise to the notion that what happens will do so, again and again
Clocks are just flattened spheres, that model the earth’s spin
Around the clock face we move our lives and further into madness we descend
Meandering about through time, with a false purpose and convention,
Wandering through life until our time is up, lamenting this construct of sin.
Yet we move through time as time moves through us,
Each containing the other, within.

Tis the sword of the good Lord
That which he hung of his own accord
Just something to do because he was bored
Radiant glory is his divine reward
But then, the sun!
Now moon ignored.

From the scabbard twas pulled
Placed against darkness bejeweled
Left to make sure that Earth doesn’t cool
Held opposite the sun, in darkness she rules
Mover of tides
Iron core refueled

When Irma Juanta was about 4 or 5,

Or was it 3 or 4?

What year was that again?

The year that she was born?

Oh yeah, that’s right, borrow the 1,

Replace the 3,

then subtract 9…

…which brings us to the age of…

wait…that cant be right…

…hmm…oh well, it doesn’t matter, we’ll say she was ten,

that’s fine (if I’m a few years off, I’m quite sure she won’t mind)

Anyway, where was I?

Ah yes! Dear, sweet, little Irma,

(who went by I. Juanta, by the way)

always wished she could own everything,

just because the T.V. said.

And if say, the tele-tube was to show, i dunno… a blue sled,

And even though there was no defect or flaw with the one she already had, (it was red)

She would take it, break it, and would stash the pieces beneath her bed.

And then dare her mother not buy her a blue one!

If a rare display of parental nerve, a simple “No,” had she said

You’d better hide the wire hangers, Joan Crawford!

I. Juanta would emit a wail so loud,

And with a shrillness that could raise the dead

So loud that you’d need an Advil, even though you live on the other side of town

Meanwhile, since we’re on the other side of town

I’ll introduce to you another tiny child,

Her name was Anita, and the poor girl’s family was quite wild.

…And when I say wild, I really don’t mean to sound vile-

It’s just…well, it’s nothing offensive at all, really, for the fact Anita is a crocodile.

Just in case that fact there, happened to make-a you smile,

I regret to inform you that, surely, the end-part will…

…make-a you cry-le.

(Don’t judge me for having to make up a word, No, not today, no Sir.

Not when applause is deserved, to reward my ability to stylize such beauty

from an idea this absurd)

Poor, poor Anita was little, and some might say she was itty-bitty,

So all her classmates at school called her Wee Nita…

Which brought down her self-esteem and generally just made her feel plain sh*tty.

And to make matters worse, Even for being so very small,

In spite of all the makeup and fake hair she wore,

She wasn’t pretty, not even a blind person would hit on, not pretty at all.

So there’s Wee Nita, right in the swamp, right? Living in filth with nothing nice or fancy;

Existing on only the things she requires.

Then there’s I. Juanta, right? And she’s spoiled rotten, and gets everything she desires.

By the way, in case you were wondering,

Which one of these two heroines, history most admires?

Well, see what had happened was just this let’s just say this:

Well I heard, that I. Juanta met Wee Nita…

…and an altercation transpired.

I hate to say it, but KeKe said that from the looks of things

Although in size comparison, To Wee Nita,

I. Wanta. Stood like a tower

But it was necessity that moved Wee Nita,

And I. Wanta became the wanted

I. Wanta got devoured.