The Poetry Marathon

11:58
it starts in my stomach. Something bad at lunch. Shouldn’t have had sushi. But then that sensation creeps away. Giving way to a flood of endorphins. Like a dam broke somewhere inside. A delicious head rush I’ve only ever experienced when that one girl let me fuck her tits twice in a row. Almost as good as getting sucked off. Almost.
Again. Heavier this time. Burns more. But I almost cream myself in the flood afterwards. I laugh.
The bite on my wrist starts to burn. But the burn you get from putting on too much relieving muscle cream.
11:59
All at once, I’m thrown to the ground of my bedroom. The neighbors think what I would hope. Rough sex. That’s what it feels like. So good. S-s-s-ooo goood. All over. Tense. Stretching. My bones crack. And blue-black energy flows through out my fingertips. Out my open mouth. Through my eyes. Something in the canines. She might’ve said. Two lifetimes ago.
00:00
my hands, stretch, fur, my feet, sharpen, digging, my back, the power, raw, feral, the best, my laugh, my laugh, I’ve heard it before, from my neighbor’s husky, my eyes. I can see everything. Supremacy.
00:01
howl with me

Ode to the Norse god

Bitter wind whips cloaks and furs as the riders crest the final hill. A fist rises. A signal to hold. Horses wicker, a restless hoof stomps, Words, guttural, soothing and then the wind again.
Below, a village, quiet, silent even. On this, the eve of Samhain, there should be laughter, songs, merriment filling the air next to spiced mead and mulled wine, roasted beef and pork over an open flame, but here, nothing, the wind off the snow, the sound the trees would make if there were any left. The wind cries for the trees. The one with the fist. Removes his helm and hands it to his second, still atop his horse. He dismounts. Speaking soothing words onto its muzzle, guttural, like the purr of some great cat. The horse understands. It’s seen war before. Knows the cost. Riders. 4. Look on as they watch the one with the fist heft his hammer. And march toward the ruins of the town. Dark whispers. Things creeping in the shadows. Slithering. Watching. Nipping at heels underneath ruined houses and charred buttresses. The one with the fist and the hammer marches towards the middle where it must be done. Heavy cloak whipping. Furs against the winters wind. Back on the hill the riders watch their captain march his slow deliberate charge into the blackness of the mist that has since enveloped the village. It knows. Something is here. Back on the hill, eyes shift, under helms. One set looks on, sending silent prayers.
It happens quickly and in succession.
A burst of white-gold light, and a rumble of thunder that starts far off and grows. And grows and grows until the ground feels like it might crumble. Deafening. Then a roar part war cry, part god-like decree, echoes from somewhere deep. A shriek like the casting of millions of unholy voices. Thunder again. Overhead this time. Then the whoosh of great wings. Great raven’s wings on the body of a woman. His shield maiden. His Valkyrie. Gliding. Swooping. Finally grabbing. Clutching. Like lovers locked in lust. Gasping into the skies. Into that velvet swath of jewel encrusted ecstasy.

Wolfe 

Late evening in the country
is colored differently than in the city
the smog shrouds the colors that would be
in mystery. A mystery that the country sky
does not peculate. A wash of dark blues and violets
soft in the clouds with undertones of fuchsia.
a veritable palette. An artisan plate of deliciousness
that the cuisine of the city keeps masked in too much
oil. Out here frogs are frogs, in there frogs are roaches.
Out there steam rises in healthy billows blown away by the
Breeze. In there the steam petrifies.

Salutations and Attention!
Attention wondrous citizens of the world!
This is a public service announcement administered by the VVVVU corporation.
Commencing at the end of this prestigious declaration any and all works of art, forms of expression, or attempts to satisfy any artistic proclivity
will be regulated through the use of our (and your) society’s competent technology.
Citizens of artistic predisposition may use approved digital canvases to administer consistencies of oil, acrylic, pastel and watercolor. Blending and shaping perfectly to fit your needs.
Citizens of artistic written predisposition may use approved ‘sketch-pad’ writing utensils that will reflect three forms of perfect calligraphy to fit your needs.
Citizens of artistic musical predisposition may use approved keyboards, keypads, drum pads, and sound machines programmed to perfect 4/4 and ¾ time signatures as well as perfectly set tempos to fit your needs…

(perfect. perfect. perfect. perfect. I’ve stopped listening, and have since put down my brush. I really hate leaving pieces unfinished but this canvas, once blank, now based in a mixture of cool ocean colors that I have since lost track of swirling and moving as the ocean once did. The last time I saw it anyway. They’ll be coming for this unfinished canvas. And my djembe sitting in the corner. And probably my other originals that will never have the chance to reach the insurmountable value of deliciously imperfect fine-art. What The Echelon doesn’t understand is that the best art isn’t perfect. it hasn’t been. Bristles caught in the strokes, buried in the rubbery acrylic, painting then repainting and rebasing and starting over again, it’s a part of the process. The pain is a part of the process. The pain. The numbing pain in my hands that I’ll never feel again. The only type of pain that comes from spending hours at a drum circle on the beach. I sit and wait now, waiting for them to come.
Wondering if I’ll ever feel real pain (good pain) again.)

What if she does?

I mean, there are plenty of reasons that anything along those lines could happen. and, nope, can’t think of any leading to the contrary

This is of course, the city, and people are everywhere. There’s no way…

but say, maybe, that I did…what then? How would that account into everything else…

should I try to…no…or… should i?
I can’t think about the situation now. there are other more important things at stake.

human lives are in jeopardy! the very fabric of my being lies within this one decision…

“I’ll have a dozen donuts please”

I hear it.
In the distance. Over the cliffs. The arctic breeze carries the tune.

It flies over the waves that crash against ancient granite.

A stirring. In my blood. Something ancient like the sea against the stones.

The tune rolls on sea air brushing grass fields where wolves hunt.

It echoes still through the waves providing its chorus.

Gliding over villages singing about Molly Malone

And through a wooden door held on cast iron hinges

Forged by the blacksmith. Who is still the blacksmith after generations.

“I’ll have a pint of the black stuff” and my bartender smiles.

My accent is wrong. But my face says that somewhere down the line,

The drunk English girl who kept yelling ‘Tipperary’ at me at my bar back home,

Might’ve been on to something. For posterities sake, he asks where I’m from.

I sigh, and that’s all the answer he needs. He laughs. A massive laugh.

Then he asks my name. I tell him and he says “Boyo, coulda fooled meh oot the gaet”

The strings start again. This time, something new. Something that reminds me of
voluptuous, red curls, on an even wilder girl. the highland air whips clouds of mist

from her icy blue eyes. She’s the one who tells me to stay.

And to experience the end of life as I know it. I say I might, though I know I will.

It’s the air. Not filled with the smog and shards of fragile promises or the glittering

Of shattered dreams. No ‘know-a-guy-who-knows-a-guy’ or ‘pay-to-play.’

Only life, fresh greens and bright blues.

Ferries to the market and pints when the day is out.

Brought together by four strings.

Everyone has a color. You’re not a person if you don’t.

I don’t know what you would be if you didn’t but you should

Pick one. Mine? Blue. My color is blue. Ultramarine to be exact.

A glowing blue. One that makes the eyes feel fuzzy and warm.

The type of warmth you get when your body has acclimated to surrounding

Water and you don’t want to get out. A blue that cradles and protects

but is dark enough to hide secrets. Where mystery can float in black wisps

like tentacles of an octopus on the ocean floor. Or like wings on a manta ray

in the open water where the bluest of whales sing to each other.

Everyone has a color. I’ve met red. Red and I have our disagreements,

but the shades of violet we make when blend (between sheets) and in

our minds are vast. We discover things about each other, Red and I.

I have Purple, not grape (even the word seems as artificial as the flavor)

But lavender blended with merlot, was this purple. She is one of my

Very favorites. The coolness of our colors blends like the last

vibrato of an evening sunset or the first chord of a sunrise symphony.

I’ve met most of the colors attached to the humans. Too many to list.

Each blends in one way or another and my people are the coolest of colors

(my fur does not do well with the heat) Emerald. Aqua. Turquoise. Viridian.

Cerulean. Lapis, Violet. Colors of waves in a waning sunlight. Revealing the

Darkness. These are mine. They stay with me. Those and any on the spectrum.

Everyone has a color. I want you to be mine. Come swim with me amongst my waves.

“why?! why?! why?!”
“What?”

Then she tells me what. An unwelcome guest. In the shower.
We live in the city and there are bugs. There are bugs where people are.
Maybe people are bugs. (ever think’a that? No, you only think about yourself)

I come into the bathroom, our bathroom, she covers up (though we had just had sex not half an hour ago, [but maybe you’re not supposed to know that). She’s still fetching, in that towel from Target. I look. “Really, Christy?” side-eyed. “Will you kill it please?” puppy-eyed.

I picture my friend (he’s vegan now) reprimanding me for killing something ‘just because it’s in the way.’ I could then tell him about the cricket that sang me to sleep four nights ago. Then I remember. I picture myself as Muldoon the Witch-hunter, Torvald the reluctant, dwarven Prince, or Rhogar the Dragonkin who slayed the Orc War-Boss of Ursul. I arm myself and crush (literally) mine enemies (with a square of toilet paper), legs splayed and crooked, I feel the torso pop between my thumb and forefinger. I like it, I shouldn’t. Just another geek. Rescuing his distressed damsel from a beast threatening her livelihood.

Just like the novels I lose myself in.

Wolfe

8.

Not a day, week, month year goes by that I

Don’t think about the weight of the experience you carry

I was not there, how could I have been, I hadn’t been given your

Existence yet. Your soul was not made apparent to me, and a lonely heart

Wandered the street of the city, searching, searching for something not even I

Knew. But it was that one time that your iridescent amethyst managed to carry

Me into the shaded darkness, where the light no longer hurt my eyes and It

Felt like I belonged. You told me to look because you knew before I did, something In

Your soul told you, that night of sapphire and violet, that your colors and my

Colors would always mix and that you and I are two people of the same wandering heart

Wolfe

words inspired by 
[I carry your heart with me (I carry it in] – E.E. Cummings  

WHAT IF OUR WORDS ARE ONLY

          Images

              &

        Emotions

mELtiNG tHe iNSiDeS

of our hearts, until we are empty

like the body of a guitar that only

SINGSSHOUTSSHREDSSLIDESSPEAKS
when pluck’d