The Poetry Marathon

There is poetry that spills out of you

like curse words when you stub your toe on the leg of the bed.

There is poetry that is written slowly,

methodically, over years, as you grow and learn and age and it will be perfect then.

There is poetry that must be put off

because there is pizza dough to be made

and laughing.

There are many kinds of poetry.

There’s a faint ticking

– always –

when I’m around her.

… and her floppy, floral sunhat

and her formless, multi-colored dresses …

It’s soothing

knowing

that seconds are going by and we are living.

My body is the only enclosed space where I don’t feel claustrophobic.

I asked for something fun,

a line, a compliment, a joke, but

“…ultimately, even the sad ones can be happy.”

He’s reading my book

and thinking about memories.

I want my book to make men think about cunninlingus, so I guess it needs an edit.

Don’t tell me about sadness.

Don’t tell be about happiness.

I know those well.

I can get enough of those.

Lust, though, I want more of

always.

On a summer’s day,

sitting by a glassy lake,

a girl is content.

She wanted to touch the chubby legs of her sister’s baby, but by the time her fingertips touched the child, he had turned to hot blacktop.

The toe beans of her best friend’s corgi puppy? Turned to a handful of pebbles you’d find on the rocky beaches of Croatia.

Her first love, a marble statue now, that several boyfriends later made her get rid of because he was insecure about his latissimus dorsi muscles. She sold it to a gay architect.

She had never used her power for bad, unlike popular theory.

All accidents.

She wasn’t the vengeful type.

Finally, she took out her eyes with a ice cream scooper and as she rolled them around in her hands to take a look at herself, she found the smooth, caramel skin, the dark hair, the red lips were a gray, rough concrete.

1. Why had anyone ever thought she was a beauty?

Life oscillates between too much space

and not enough ————–

We plant sunflowers in the front yard

then pick them for our patio (beauty can never be close enough).

An oak tree is cut down for poetry.

Nails are bitten to the quick.

And there’s pain.

And you want to jump in the water but then you’ll be all wet.

A wine glass is poured to the top with whiskey and in the morning, it’s half empty.

You want to be touched

but also left alone.

The beauty I see
spans ugly things

and lies, so many lies.

I’m trying to be observant.
I’m trying to learn lessons.
I’m trying to be a role model for people who don’t wear bows
and have to purge what has                                           ossified in the pit of their                                                 stomach.

I like a clean house
but I want to sleep in soiled sheets.
You wouldn’t let me…

The streets are piled high with trash
and I see a 9-year-olds favorite Barbie,
a picture frame that held a wedding photo,
a breakfast, lunch and dinner of preservatives.
That’s why I don’t love you anymore…

All the preservatives,
all the ugly things that they say
have saved millions.