The Poetry Marathon

*First line is taken from the last line of James Baldwin’s Tell Me How Long the Train’s Been Gone (1968)

And so found myself

presently, 

standing in the wings again, 

waiting for my cue.

Rocking on my heels

in anticipation,

I reach to run my lines

and find a blank expanse where 

pages and pages of narrative

once sprawled across my memory

flanked by scene descriptions 

And parentheticals

in 12pt Times.

I am making it up

as I go. 

However,

I can recall you.

All of you–

Unscripted

reveling in divine ferocity

tongues stropped and gleaming

in an extravaganza of impeccable style

flaunting the kind of walk

that could eviscerate me

And burn Paris to the ground–

as my inciting incident.

I am playing hot potato again

turning my histories

over between veiny hands

always desiring 

something more delicious

and burning through a forest

of tastebuds,

old journals, and bridges 

that used to lead to familiar places

But, if it was easy, would it be an adventure?

Often

I have been a coarse red brick

Like the one my grandmother heaved

Through the window

Of the family car

And when my ex caught me 

Baring my teeth and banging

My head against a kitchen cabinet

I wanted instead to turn to dust

But, if it was easy, would it be as much of a lesson?

Perpetually 

defiant of my own density

in body and mind, I rebel 

and when I am sluggish 

I set my sights on greater altitudes

refusing to be limited by heat and the

melting of my wings as I make yet another attempt

At proving how far I can climb

to again throw myself into the searing sun

But, if it was easy, would it be as much fun?

All of this 

is merely the brief shadow 

of a thing in motion

and from a distance

my bumbling and missteps

are forgotten by all but me

and when I look back at myself 

through the telescope of infinitely loving eyes

all I can see is a star eager to expand

And if it was easy, it wouldn’t be worth it.

May I rise each morning 

remembering to wash my face

brush my teeth

and say “Good Morning”

to invisible things

perceiving the subtle shift in gravity

the presence of small birds on my shoulders

firmly rooted feet and a rustle

of leaves as a greeting 

Send an invitation to the unseen

write it on homemade paper

with pansies and mistletoe 

pressed into the pulp

Sealed with gold wax

And stamped with a honeybee

Cast it into the wind

and wait

for the busy and

barely perceptible hands

to respond in time

When I remember

I am quietly watchful 

of the shape of things

buckled brows 

the texture of words

the outlines of a human heart 

yours and mine

Dissonance is rough on a heartstring

I perk my ear to catch it 

and I hear their hands at work

modulating tense tones 

smoothing them over

into lightly plucked arpeggios

with dancing fingertips

their arrival is often accompanied 

by the absentminded humming

of some tune in the shape of soft love

I met myself 

in the quiet 

barren darkness

the suspended hollow

of time 

and eternity alone 

just me

and a ticking 

discontent mind

insisting that 

I was not

had not 

indeed

been

fine

I laid down

laid the whole of my body down

letting the curling tendrils of night thought

wrap around the ill-fitting body

that I could never quite

turn into a home

I relinquished my bones

to the feeding of tomorrow’s soil

In my old apartment 

there was a silversmith

who lived on the other side of the wall

I would hear her tapping 

hammer on silver and brass

and admire her discipline

Having been moved for some weeks

she reached across neighborhoods

and offered to work a bit of alchemy for me

blending salts and mercury

a game of transmutation 

Cu + Zn = a summoning of 

a golden sun breaking dawn 

with dancing rays 

a glory cutting into a silver sky

She asked what spell should be inscribed

what I chose to wear pressed

against the skin just above the knuckle

beside her maker’s mark

a stack of ore and stone reads

“be daring: 

fear is boring.”

I was out walking late beneath the stars

to soothe my brain so tightly wound

I glimpsed a thing which gave me such a start

and never had I heard such sounds

Footsteps shuffled, running in the clearing

the woman must be some enchanter

straining to see what it was I’m hearing

a creature cometh wearing antlers

This vision wearing flowers in her horns

the sight already made me pale

her points with seaweed she is such adorned

a gentle face and mermaid tail

They sang together at the waterside

when the moonlight was well spent

then it came to time to say goodbyes

and back into the river went 

I tend to wonder 

At what things really are.

Once I asked a friend

What she thought cats were

Really

With such expressive tails

And mollifying vibrations?

She rolled her eyes

And looked away.

I like to run my hands 

over the furniture

coddle plants 

and smooth over the rocks

as I encounter them

briefly asking if they have a story

that they’d like to share.

Sometimes a convivial stone

will propose an adventure.

We will go to the ocean’s edge

beaten by the salty air

and gaze out to a large rock formation.

In the middle, a doorway 

streaming with amber morning light

will open and the rock in my hand

will ask if I would like to meet its family.

I want you to understand 

that my calculated dances

of pleasantry and avoidance

are part of my survival

Yes, I want to play and laugh

but not here because someone

with a burning hatred in their heart

might mistake my smile for bared teeth

No, I do not always have it in me to care

when the air is sucked out of the room 

and there is none left for me to breathe

so I can speak as the protagonist for once

I want to heal–to forgive and forget

without tearing of parts of myself

crumpling them between my own hands

and throwing them in the river

More than anything I want to move on

and find a way to ground into this place

and I want to know beyond all doubt 

that while I walk this earth my black life matters

I had a little lantern once

there was a man who broke it

I crackled with electricity

and learned to light internally 

A candle on my altar burned

they were afraid and snuffed it

My ire this did set ablaze

and made my heart a fireplace

May the fire in my heart 

become the fire in the sky

and shine as brightly as the sun

so it will never ever die

Should we, as humans, be so wise 

to realize that when we are alone

we can only focus on base survival

when the one with the most, indeed 

is the one rival who will lead

and, despite the smartest of phones

the greatest number of Gs

or the slickest new line of kicks on TV

we can see that divided is divisive

Now, how would it be possible, 

how to weave a dream to be one

Big Us, not to struggle separately 

to sit where we please on the omnibus

to build a new connection

each link smithed with intention

with the resources shared 

in the people’s grip

fare is free and it’s always round-trip