The Poetry Marathon

Nothing was born again today.
And, again, nothing died.

Is this heaven?
I’m not so sure.

Flowers clipped just re-appear.
Nothing ever moves,
But me
On free energy.

How long have I been?
And, how long will I go?

I forgot the day I last used those.
What were they?

Objects.

Not sand nor dust
Can cover up my wonder
Here, on this eternal day
Of no decay.

“Chicken mole.” Gasped wife four.
“I made it!”

Saucy chocolate decadence
From a too wet spoon
Soils her cleavage screaming,”

“Voila!” in high pitched bird calls.

Amanda’s kitchen wizardry
Was unclutched.

“Look!”

Husband number two,
Pure panicked sweat,
Like rain,
Splashed off glistening
Abdominal flesh,

Nods, delivered from
Cold feet.

“No fire.”

“Warm tortillas.”

That look again…
Oh well.
Only innuendo.
Man died.
So?

“Thanks, babe,” he snorts while laughing.

Nervous
Tick.
“It looks great, but…”

Feed the dogs?

“Stomach encore?
Awe, honey.” Whined self-entitled
Miss Jingle Tits, USA.

“Just this teeny bite.”

“Open sesame!”

He caught her eye as she swung past,
Her partner tossed quite often,
Showing off his leading skills,
And her, in ballet motion.

Ah, that authenticity!
Poetry with music.

“Cut!” he yelled.

“Break for lunch,” another voice.

“I almost thought you meant it.”

She smiled. He smiled back.

“Good job, kids.”

“Next.”

I was red.

I’ve been red for a long time now.
Red since the day before I was born.

Every now and then, I’d be purple
Drifting in and out of the blues.
Hues, like waves washing my feet.

And now, I’m blue.
“What’s come over you?”
I ask myself, and laugh sometimes.

I’m blue, and at a new end
Of the spectrum, smiling
At you.

I like being blue.

“He has eight.
Legs,” the spider said.
“Come…”

Slowly, she flew
Closer. “Where’s your
Website located?”

“Closer.”

Whispered ever softly, did they
Plan the fate of whom they met.

A dark and darker room. They went in,
Dignified, to seize the day of a
Martyr in a bowl.

No questions did they ask of
Hell or spirits who are molten.

Only of Gold.

Gold was in the air.

Credit: Carl Sanburg, “Two Fish.”

Here I am.

Inside this bubble
Experiencing life.
I can feel
If I want to feel.

I can heal
If I want to heal
This tiny bubble.

Well, large,
By some distortion
Of Beauty.

This tiny bubble
Is mine.
All mine.

How ‘bout dat?

Ears burn inside.
Trying to heal.
My head frets,
Like a dry guitar,
“What’s it like getting old?”

Fat puddles in the mirror.
Ugly? I don’t know.
Pretty is as
pretty rare, really.

There it is.
90 seconds closer.
I never knew my clock
could do that.

Phone clock.
Phone game.
Phone everything.

The phone, the phone, the phone.

Bill.

“Tired of the big bill?”
They ask.
“Tired of all your bullshit!”

Tired of the fight.
It’s a tired fight.
Fight or flight?

Tired of them!

Them, them, them!
(Crazy ass brazen liars!) THEM!
Fear them! No, THEM!
What might they do next?

Tired of my rubber neck
sprained to the latterly
hateful view.

Why should I care?
The skies are blue.
and the tree in the distance

Waves.

A pine trie,
Elfin hands,
Seeing me.

“Hellow,” says he.

“Hello. I see you;
Yes, I’m blest to see you,”
I smile.

“Say hello to the one below.”

White Goddess’
petals whisper a
gambol on the breeze.

“Halloq!”

“Hellow, if you please.”

“Ah, whee! White butterfly,
All flaw away
When she spake.”

She spoke.

The pond at the end of Clearview Street
wasn’t much of a pond, really.
More of a puddle.
A big puddle.

A big, scary puddle that I vaguely recall
as the place where only boys could go.

A low spot in an otherwise
flat
landscape,
featureless fields of rice
and cotton mouths.

In dreams I find the pond
nearby lots empty.
houses gone that once were
vibrant with other lives.

I want to walk their path,
yet, I am bound to the street.
a kid imprisoned by such
strange
fate.

Flood covered hooves,
buckets of rain,
deluge for days
drained
all
too
sowly

across saturated clay.

Still, they stay.

They stay
and say
“It was a great place.”

Dragon fire from below;
A seed of youth is planted.
From whence he came I do not know,
Nor how I was enchanted.

From whence he came I do not know,
Nor why my strength should fail me.
Then, like a kitten I did flow
Around his ankle, wary.

Dragon fire from below
Used by a king in sapphire
To force his way onto the throne
And end my wailing satire.

From whence he came I do not know,
Nor why my judgement failed me.
He fell with angels from below
And seared betwixt lunati.