The Poetry Marathon

Taken from the first page of “The Introvert’s Guide to Survival” pub. 3186 
*FIRST A very quick, very necessary, very punctual definition of introversion* (to simply and responsibly whet the pallet) Introversion, as it happens is not a measure of one’s ability to be charming, debonair, dashing, or resplendent. In fact, Introversion versus Extroversion signalises plainly the idea that humans gather energy from other humans differently. Extroverts can plug in to any social situation, positively teeming with other unfamiliar humans and thrive, whereas for an Introvert to do so, it would take an immense amount of Self Actualization, and, well, courage to venture out and capitalize on such an endeavour.
For a human to survive, it needs human contact, and therein, as they have been wont to say
Lies. The. Rub.
The steps for cooking and assembling the Introvert’s Breakfast leave room for improvisation. But, in order to provide a rubric, the following guidelines are recommended:

FIRST: Start with coffee. Coffee at any time is never a bad idea. Any roast will do so long as it’s rich to the particular taste. (for this step, drinking the coffee is not actually required, ‘tis the ritual that comes with making the coffee, simply to “get the ball rolling” as it were)

SECOND: A journal entry. Experienced introverts are well versed with this step, however, it is more often forgotten or simply not mentioned in other recipes. The cultivation of one’s own handwriting is an essential flavour. Basic, yet essential.

THIRD: A series of decisions. The combination and variety of decisions varies, but can usually be whittled down to “what to wear,” “where to go,” and “whom to see.” These are important, for they must be bold, defining, decisions. Robust things that will put you “on the radar” for potential conversation. These decisions flavour the outing. The bolder they are the more savory sweet bitter sour spicy
your encounters will be.

Combine these elements on a plate and indulge. Sprinkle a little “alone but not lonely” or “mysterious, single bar patron” on top for taste.
*If you didn’t get it right the first time. Choose to try again. Though the public can be draining, a balanced diet calls for the consumption of this recipe at least once a week*

When a boy
is granted a family
comprised of
Women
He is privy to
The Intelligence
The Power
The Influence
That X can have over Y
and
if he has the courage to grow
to feel with his whole being
He knows that the old parts of the bible got it wrong
He knows that the Head is turned by the Neck
and doesn’t see how when someone says
topple the Patriarchy
they can’t understand that The Matriarchy already has control

I won’t show you what I see
you’re sure not to believe me.
My view is shrouded, clouded,
sad, and sweet and tragic packaged
in goofy, filled with more darkness
ridiculousness. There are dragons
outside my window. Dire wolves,
Huge, haunting, and lurking things,
dragging oversized knives, lugging
pyramid heads. Continuing in their
dreaded existence. Doomed to roam.
Because I caught them and kept them
here. These bringers of death and
destruction set to a sweet symphony
in a minor key. So come, play me a song
and I’ll trade you a tale. One that I
cannot promise you will like.
But one that will help you find something
that you didn’t know you kept hidden.
I am the one at the gate. I am the blue eye
in the window. Come and dance with me
Beneath the waves of my haunted ocean.

I never (don’t say it) I never
had ever hoped to be without you like
I am now. You, sitting high with your God
Praising praises and good works (mother, do not encourage this)
and shit. All of it. You can have my empire of dirt and mud,
because you are so sure what you believe. Everything that was
fed to us (with a silver spoon, do not be unaware of that). So
positive of the mythology (and it’s all mythology) are you.
I want the girl who cursed. I want the girl strung out on conspiracy theories.
I’ll take the demons. I want them. Give them to me.
I want the girl with the darkness before it consumed
her and turned her into a golden plated hypocrite.

Wolfe

Unsolicited elegance. “just paint your picture and be done with it”
she says. Unamused, not impressed. “I do despise this dress with the lowest of my being”
she’ll scoff, and reach for the decanter. “Madame, you mustn’t move, I must capture your essence”
aye sir, you capture her essence, and aye, sir a portrait can speak a myriad of words
But are they mine, sir?
she turns, the writer she’s invited to entertain her on this errand that some father’s suitor has put her to, it’s the writer that has caught as they say ‘the rub’.
Aye, sir, the artist has the eye for capturing beauty in a moment.
But tell me what you see that eyes can’t. (and now he has her attention)
I see
Something wild. And flourishing, like the crimson wildflowers of the banks in the Heart of Darkness. I see a beautiful something that has been harnessed for posterity’s sake (curse posterity and the sake of his libation) harnessed and shaped into something, while fetching,
is more like a cage than a display. She is not to be displayed. Why, the only thing I see that you maybe have put in perspective for the rest of the populace, sir,
(and now for reasons unbeknownst even to himself he finds himself in the throes of a tiff)
is the manner in which she folds the front of her satin! Godssake man! The wildest part of her that we can see is the crumpled fabric held begrudgingly in her grasp. In the whiteness of her knuckles, which, by the grace of Odin himself seem to have escaped the sculpting of your oils on this canvas!
The writer, exasperated, throws himself onto the Louis XV loveseat that pretentiously slides, screeching on the tile in exclamation (the dogs have since started and stopped barking due to the passion of the writer’s exposition). Applying pressure to his temples with thumb and forefinger, a hand accentuates a visor over the eyes.
“just paint your picture and be done with it”

If words were
as they should be
LITERALLY would no
longer be used to exaggerate

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years, decades, centuries, Millenia
build and build and build just to see it all taken down to be rebuilt. Upgraded.
lived in. loved in. cast aside. Trashed. Spat upon.
oh.
oh, but how beautiful she will be
When she takes herself back.
Towering cast iron skeletons of stark industry decayed.
glimmering glass scattered and shattered cast among giant roots. Greenest leather leaf. Vines reaching, reaching, reaching building, building, building, ruining (how does it feel to be suffocated)
The evolution of things taking growth to an extreme.
that feels, just too good to say no to (the possibility, even)
Massive roots, gorging themselves on liberation. Shattering pavement, scattering concrete, flinging dust into the air as if in some mode of escape (or is it celebration).
Trees. Cities of trees and roots and vines where the captives can roam and roar, and play and run and gnash their teeth (the cages have been pried open by the vines).
Climate instability turning driest desert into a monsoon that brings life. Wiping slates clean in flash floods. Laying it’s upgrades to waste.
And from the solstice comes color. Orchids, lilacs, jasmine, Oh, the jasmine, the jasmine and gardenias, and lilies, wildflowers of such fragrance that would kill a human.
Were there any left.
They don’t deserve it.
We don’t deserve it.
And so she waits.

Time to come in, Rog. Oxygen is at a quarter
fuzzy. The com tells me my daydream is at an end. (daydream?)
I finished repairs a decade ago. But the minutes…
the sacred minutes I get as my own spec of dust.
Harnessing galaxies in my eyes and catching novas
in the glass of my visor. I’d spend my life in orbit.
To witness the stars live and die and live again.

Hat. A fedora tonight, I think. The air is a white plume on black noir.
Boots. Laced, no, buckled tonight, yes.
Blue-grey smoke, (not like that faggots’ eyes.)
from my cigar, or is it my pipe, no, it’s a cigar tonight,
Dominican, Full bodied, just like I Like ‘em.
A little scotch, just enough to singe, and lite.
Jazz, jazz to a slow groove, with a silky alto.
My soundtrack. Don’t mean a thing, am I rite?
A stray cat crosses my path. Lookin’ like a, you know,
not lookin’ half bad in thrift store frock, hopin’ some
Shmuck gives her more than a night. She gives me the luxury of a
second glance. But with evening fog like this
who knows what I might be.

So sweet. So sad.
Minor.
Major. But mostly minor.
I finally understand
why violinists make that face.
Because they create the songs.
that trees would sing.