The Poetry Marathon

I play the accordion. In a band.

Yes, I’ve heard all the jokes:

“definition of perfect pitch?”

(accordion tossed into a dumpster)

“don’t leave your accordion in the car”

(someone will break in and leave another one)

Whatever.

My friend who is also a musician tells me:

“You can make hundreds of dollars doing this. Hundreds.”

And I have.

Splitting up the proceeds of the tip jar, walking away

with 20 1-dollar bills and a beer buzz.

Playing for $500, playing for $350,

playing for drinks, for dinner, for “exposure”…

My bandmate says,

“Enough with the exposure already. If we get any more exposure,

we’ll be rated X.”

But there was that one time 15 years ago in San Juan Capistrano

where we made $950 in CD sales.

Someone brings it up every time we’re driving home

from Pasadena, from West Covina, from Fresno, from Portland.

“Remember that time we made all that money?”

There are lots of stories like that one.

Okay. Not lots. A few.

It’s good enough.

My closet door opens on its own,

exposing my lack of organization and

preponderance of

stuff.

My cats love it.

They plunder the bags of yarn

and leave string trails

of forest green and fuchsia

throughout the house.

I took out all of my skinny clothes and

put them in storage bins under

the bed, and wistfully visit them on occasion.

On my last visit, I realized the cats

had peed on them. What message are they

trying to communicate to me? That my aspirations

are stupid? That I should have let

the skinny clothes continue to mingle with the chubby stuff?

That I should be content

with who I am? No, not that… But

I just cleaned it up, sighed, and walked away,

closing the closet door that

popped back open before I had even

reached the hallway.

Extraordinary in the Ordinary

It’s just a teacup

until it’s filled with steamy hot PG Tips and

lifted to the lips for that first sip

and then it becomes the elixer of the Titans.

Drink it and grow in strength.

Grow in size. Grow in

daring and intellect and beauty.

Grow in wisdom and compassion…

Is it the tea? Is it the cup?

No. It’s when the two are together and the

sound barrier is broken, and

my day starts.

What is Love?

You say my name and

my heart spins wildly

out of control, but don’t flatter yourself. That

could mean anything.

What is love but a

series of cheap parlor tricks:

A saw that cuts me in half

and yet I remain whole.

A word wrapped in chains and

thrown into the pool, the key

in your hand and yet

somehow unlocks and

I swim to the surface.

A knife thrown from

50 paces that

pierces but never kills.

A 5 of clubs pulled from the deck

again and again even

as I scrutinize your hands and

don’t see anything up your sleeve.

They felt the tremor all the way

to the bayou, where folks turned

beet red at the thought of impropriety and even

the elk head in the dining room was embarrassed

by the way you elbowed your way into their lives,

only to kick the bucket without even

a howdy-do, sending another tremor all the way

back to St. Louis.

It’s hard to tell when the sky

turns from night to predawn.

The air changes first

smelling of wet earth and

hope,

the growing sense of urgency —

only moments left to

share secrets, to

be anonymous, to

imagine yourself alone

in the bed

and feel that incredible sadness

without the rest of the world

ever knowing.

A breeze comes from the east

and I pull up my shirt to feel it on my belly.

All around me, people smile and

the dogs being walked lift their noses

and don’t even bark, because

when a breeze comes from the east

it means the southern Sierra has decided to share

a good thing with the valley

and remind us that there’s more to life

than just this incessant heat because

when a breeze comes from the east

it plays with hats not tied down on our heads and

the kids on the soccer field run a little faster

and a mother pushes the swing a little harder and

all humanity just feels a little more human when

a breeze comes from the east.

At the edge of the world

I get on my belly and ease my way forward,

peer down into a void velvet black.

My eyes adjust and I see it is not a void at all.

Slowly shapes emerge: other

flat worlds are floating by,

each with a woman

peering back at me.

The flowers you gave me are

still here. Still beautiful

in a room that captures light

as if it were a wren

uncomfortable in such a small space

flying into the glass and its double-paned barrier

again and again.

If we come together

link our finances, our

fatigue with this world, our

hope for something better for

our kids, how can this

be a bad thing?