The Poetry Marathon

I have locked away the monster under the stairs
Exiled now for crimes against my life

Finally done because they did something unforgivable
Going against everyone, myself, instinct, society, sanity
We will be forever stared at for what they accomplished

It doesn’t matter that what they did
Ultimately saved a life

It doesn’t even matter that what they did
Was agreed upon by everyone

This one action has completely frightened me
I have locked away the monster under the stairs

It doesn’t matter that what they did
Was what I needed them to do for me
Because I was terrified of what I had to do

I have unlocked the door that holds the monster under the stairs
Because it saved my life when I truly needed it

My body has turned against me
even more than it has before

Now items from the humble wheat plant
are poison in my throat

I was told just to lay off
just a reduction will be fine

But subsequent experiences
have proven otherwise

It’s a good thing I took a picture
of my last gluten rich dinner

From Mémo

I hope you return to your native land
Where everyone should be
See if you can get in touch with your cousins
Despite the fact that they abandoned me
Live a good life
Don’t let the bastards grind you down

To Mémo

I will be back there soon
As I celebrated four decades around the sun
I am in touch with one of your children
The damage you did will live after you
I will do my best
Unfortunately, you became one of the bastards you warned us of

Dead vines encircled the tower
Once green, budding flowers, and thick thorns
Now withered, dry, and brittle
Half the bricks from the structure have fallen
Black vegetation still clinging

Above all, the princess still sleeps
Once dressed in a pure white gown
Now caked in dust, stained by sun and rain
Her face remains forever frozen in a state of youth
As the rest of her body wanes

Long ago there were hopes
A prince would come to break the enchantment
Take the princess as his wife
And carry her off to his kingdom
To live the fantasy

But the legend grew old
And with it, the location was mistaken
The trials to face exaggerated
And no one could remember why
The princess continued to sleep

shattered
busted
torn
and
twisted

warped
burned
infested
and
rotted

alone
decaying
into
the
earth

again

Have this dance with me
Run your fingers over the wood
and play a harmony

Duets are forever dances
even when we aren’t moving
our feet to the rhythm

And yet we are
as the notes fill the room
and we sway in time

Each of us shining
in our own way
with the music

Stay with me
for this one dance
before the night is done

Let me have
this moment with you
to keep forever in my heart

“Stopping by woods on a-”

Stop
Right there
Do not continue

I hate that poem
Twenty times I heard that poem
in the same year

They kept playing the same Reading Rainbow episode
every time they wanted to put something on
just to occupy us

Every
Damn
Time
it was the same episode
Always, midway through, a man standing uselessly
in a snowy forest
with a horse wondering
“What the fuck is this guy doing?”

You and me both horse, you and me both

A novel tried to save the experience for me
and pointed out the suicide elements
I understood those by then
but still…

The poem drives me crazy

I wish it would rain

The sun keeps beating down
Heat rises from the earth

Every step feels like
wandering further into the witch’s oven

I’ve been out in the heat long enough
that I feel like I should be well baked now

I wish it would rain

The sky is full of clouds
and threatening to pelt us

Staring out the window
with begging eyes

Even if the rain hits and immediately evaporates
it will be better than this

I wish it would rain

Houses make me nervous
They can burn down

Buildings with floors
Have the possibility of collapse

Bridges are unreliable
London Bridge fell after all

But the Mississippi River
Is the one constant of my life

Sitting on its banks
I feel at peace

When leaving, I am not fearful
I know it will be there when I get back

It does not burn, collapse, or get razed to the ground
It is a constant

It is my home

G. K. Chesterton: “Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.”

It’s no mystery
Cheese speaks for itself
Its dizzying variety
Their names a poem alone
The unending possibilities
Either eaten in slices
Placed on pieces of bread
Melted
Scorched
Toasted
Covering pasta
Smoothing over bagels
Resting on crackers
And soothing the tired soul
Cheese is not worthy of poetry
Cheese IS poetry