The Poetry Marathon

There’s no valid explanation for her moniker.
Perhaps the disaster of her male dress
when high collars and long skirts
were called for.
Or her trek west atop horse,
fearless where others were not.
Credibility is called into question
when alcohol scents female breath.
Besides, we all know Wild Bill
would never fuck such a catastrophe.
That hero of American masculinity
and murderous spirit.
Truth belongs to history and sharpshooters
And you’re the liar if you disagree.

Being a novice in these matters,
I was duped.
I took the smile and wink
Given over Tuesday tequila
To mean love, or something like it.
The sweaty romp between
Egyptian cotton climaxed
With fury and need.
The desperate hunger
Of a single moment in time
And weakened inhibitions.

You see, purity is overrated,
Despite patriarchal claims.
Being a novice in these matters, I was duped.

The steady beep, beep, beep
proves I’m still alive,
in case you were wondering.
Every time the line peaks
rest assured my heart
is performing her duty.
Blood is traveling,
pumping through this vital organ–
in and out, in and out.
The only question I have is:
why didn’t you monitor
my heart this closely before?

Watching my goldfish,
I wonder about his natural habitat
imagine his gold tail swishing
in crystal clear water,
mouth opening and closing
on exotic cuisine
not flakes of brown, orange and green.
They say a goldfish
has a 30 second attention span.
Terrifying idea, that.
An entire life boiled down
to 30 seconds. No before.No after.
I tap on the thick glass of his bowl,
amazed at the power of Nature.

The world is flat
with a fence
around the perimeter.
Braying, mewling
people scramble
seeking freedom.
But no one
can be bothered
with the gate.

The canopy of stars overhead
create the perfect backdrop.
Phoebe reflects bright white
on the placid lake.
Wading in I begin to panic
as water creeps over hips,
breastbone, eyes. Chill envelopes.
Darkness consumes. I think,
“Tell my mother I did it for glory.”

When feet long to wander
the only choice is surrender.
Slipping home into my pocket
I take to the road,
gypsy dreams
my map and guide.
Stopping only when fancy
strikes, sustenance comes
in the gifts of nature and man,
comfort in a fleeting kindness.
Perhaps, when I’m old,
I’ll sleep under cover, warm
by fire, and love in safety.
Until then, the wind says,
“Move on.”

Not all haunted
places are houses

Memories rattle chains,
mistakes pace hallways,
regret wails through the night.

And the ghosts,
they own everything

Leviathan gave birth
to iron bars and execution
Locke’s order morphing to beast
Cruel and unusual
the order of the day

Gavel cracks
on the back of poverty
Survival becomes violences
screaming isolation,
violating dignity
demanding obedience

Our Lady crawls along pipeline
choking on legality
grasping for morality
Words of 240 years
form shackles, tilting scales
weakening Her constitution

Citizen spectators silently watch
and await their judgement

Slightest flirtation was sordid beginning
Pubescent tears welled into self-infliction
In order to appease the voice of my affliction

Then Death courted me into bed
Disguised as solace, relief
Like all lovers past, He is a lying bastard
Telling secrets, revealing bits I prefer to ignore

Lurking in dark corners of subconscious
He reminds me that we are star crossed lovers,
And meant to be