The Poetry Marathon

There are pictures in

the pictures of my past; I

grab them with my head.

The famous people

live in transparent boxes

made of shredded skin.

All the sights are glass—-

all the sights are black and white

when I feel fine.

There’s an entire

universe over the wall;

I hear the knocking.

Ev’rything’s brighter

and lighter at midnight, which

is my third eye’s time.

My mem’ries are doors.

All I have to do is knock

And they turn for me.

Past lives are silent

whispers on your ancient tongue,

waiting to be bit.’

How long until we

turn to plastic and become

the technology?

The sword’s no threat, for

the sword bearer has left and

returned much stronger.

The trees used to close

me off and now ev’ryone

can see me right now.