The Poetry Marathon

I should have said yes… kissed more girls
and more boys who looked like girls
and more girls who looked like boys.

I should have said yes
to not getting married.

I should have said yes to college earlier
and yes to touring even earlier than that.

I should have said yes to Juilliard.

I should have said yes
to American Records
and yes to Willie K

and yes to the extra scoops of ice cream
that drifted in and out of my life

and yes to more random encounters
with beautiful strangers.

I should have said yes
to my glorious big belly
and luscious round ass

yes to more braless days.

I should have said yes
to honing deaf ears
for other people’s critical thoughts.

I should have said yes
to saying no to fear.

I should have said yes to permission.

So, my twins live in this nice big tank
here in the kitchen.
Johnny and Suzi.
This is where everythin
that’s anythin happens.

They’re happiest
right here in the kitchen
in their tank.

When we brought ’em home
after they’s born
all they did was cry and cry
and scream and cry

except for bathtime.

They’d scoot their little heads
under the water’n
blow bubbles’n giggle giggles
so we thought
why not put’em in the tank?

They come up for cuddles and loves
and food and singing songs’n such.

S’bout it.

They sure are sweethearts now
ain’t they?

I know we go way back
to the days of the Tim’s
and Richie and Gary and Monte
and what you deem your finest hour…
Paul
but I have some things to say to you…

It’s been many years ago now
since you brought into my office
two new babies in one season,
and convinced two little grandma’s
to come to you all on their own.

I never told you
but these are the reasons
you and I rarely speak these days
although there was your nasty bit
with Dad five years ago,
and then Greg and Mom just two months past now.

I have to tell you
I don’t have the stomach anymore
to handle the casualties of your folly
the inevitability of you
the inescapable commitment
in our relationship.

It’s time you keep your distance for a while.

This must have been
in the fine print somewhere
but I missed it.

Rather tricky of you
to send Birth in with the contract.

Rather tricky…

This year stole him away from himself
hijacked his craving for sunshine
held his friendships for ransom
annihilated school
depleted his hopes
dangled normal
from the thread
of a
shot.

One Spring
she planted periwinkles in the front yard…
spread them over two clouds of dirt
she herself forest rangered up
wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow
from the backyard

southern grit barefoot
inside her old faded gray gumboots
silently rising to her own occasion.

She was the needle
in our suburban
neighborhood haystack
of wives and mothers.
She was our skyscraper.
She was our Sears and Roebuck
Christmas storefront window

every single day.

It could always be counted on that regardless of what the rest of the year held, Christmas was magical. It was perfect.

Regardless of what
the rest of the year doled
if you could hold out for Christmas
everything would be okay.
Hope would be restored
enough hope to last the whole year.

It was everywhere…
in the giant tree neighbors and friends lovingly referred to as our Christmas bush

in innumerable lights and garland

in the family cut out cookies

in oyster stew morning
in Dad’s meticulously placed tinsel
and Mom’s handmade gifts

in genuine smiles and laughter
and easy peace

Hope enough to last a whole year

to remind us that even when we
weren’t our best
it would all be okay.

Hope enough to get through Thanksgiving

to make it to the magic again.

It is clechically common to say “When you assume, you make an ass out of you and me”

But, if this were true wouldn’t the word then be spelled “assoutofyouandme” ?

And isn’t it pretty presumptuous to assume that the spelling wouldn’t change?

And if we can assume this presumptuousness, wouldn’t the whole issue then simply be accused, as in “When you are presumptuous, you press them up to you and me” ?

Yes. I suppose it would.
I would presume so anyway.

Wouldn’t you assume?

She is our wild world
allegory mourns
we weep as she burns to ash

The new normal wants so badly
to be the old normal
tries so hard to be carefree.

Maskless is the new breezy.
Everybody wants to be the new
Marlo Thomas smilingly skipping
across a busy New York street
tossing her hat into the air
not ever getting plowed down
by a yellow cab.

Poor new normal…

that just isn’t gonna work anymore.
That was the old normal
so pretty
so sanitary.

This new one needs some time to marinate needs some shots
probably lots of shots.

This new normal just might be
still and hot and hard
like Cardi B in the desert with a gun.

Cool freshly wet sand under my feet

Not yet too warm sun breaking stained glass blue over Hale’akala, exploring my early face, directing shadows into every crease.

Ancient lava rock
up over up over

Navigating kiawe trees
kiawe thorns
kiawe thoughts

Turning higher sun hot massaging my shoulders reassuring my back

Rewarding crisp swim waiting

Mornings camping Ma’alaea.