The Poetry Marathon

I ride the bus

from one town, to another.

Leaving behind

my mother

and her whispered lies

(these lies have grown inside me…

malignancies

that have become my truth)

Carrying everything I own

in a ripped green plastic bag…

(mostly clothes from the Hospital’s lost and found, but there is a special glass bong and my journal, as well)

The Hospital told me my insurance

would pay for one night in a motel, upon my release

from the psychiatric ward.

I am 18.

I decided to go back, and spend the night with  the man who beat me, instead.

But in the morning, I got on the bus out of town, away from his meth fueled love and violence.

Different town,

same voices in my head.

There is some comfort

in the insanity

and violent drama

of instability and chaos.

It is the known,

in a world of unknowns.

I praise the earth

that tilts and turns

and floats among the stars.

Upon her ground

I’ve often found

the most amazing things.

I praise my ears

my voice, my mind

for bringing me to song.

Without their gift

How could I lift

my spirit

to belong.

Along the boardwalk

there are reeds

mosquitoes

and giant ferns.

I hear

the song of birds

and the gentle whispering

of trees.

The air cannot be more pure.

This

is paradise.

Listen to the radio

Watch it on the television

Read it in the paper

See it on the screen.

Watch it on the television

Propaganda as machine

See it on the screen

Believe what you are Told.

Propaganda as machine

Read it in the paper

Believe what you are told

Listen to the radio.

Oh the deception of Fear,

with it’s False Evidence Appearing Real

and the redundancy

of future tripping.

Such anxious delirium

produces naught

but frozen tense

reaction, inaction

and restless hamster wheel spinning

in the cage

of my mind.

Conscious awareness

of each breath

brings me home

to Now.

Although the high speed rabbit hole deep digging net

fascinates, infuriates, eliminates, reiterates, and obliterates my knowing,

the hyper link

has actually altered

my attention span.

Matrix wizard curtains,

community of like minded spirits,

notwithstanding,

my heart is torn.

I know where my grandmother’s typewriter sits.

The new ink reels are online.

Metaphorically speaking,

it’s a net loving Luddites conundrum.

The crow came to my window

requesting more stale bread, please.

There are two of them, really,

they must be mates.

I wonder at their loyalty.

One has feathers missing from his head.

Perhaps it was a valiant battle with a hawk,

protecting nestlings.

Mama fierce, I know this.

I’ve seen them soaring over my street,

a flock of crows.

(I looked up this word, flock, disdaining murder..)

These crows know everything

About my hood.

This light

an awareness…

reckoning in

sinking sun and revelations.

Eyes open, stars hidden

in plain sight.

Shadows sweep the ground,

as a  worthy broom.

Refraction,

the beams of dust motes

and angel wings.

Before darkness,

silence and light

fall

like a slow

motion curtain.

The kitchen clock  reminded me

I missed a poem

Clearly there is more at play here then I think

Discipline

and words

swirl together like soft serve cones

my daughter craves

in summer.