The Poetry Marathon

Everyday, we find reason to drive past the trainyard
where the river runs along the north of the city.
Under JMW Turner clouds, the lazy cluster of rusted cars
huddles in plain sight; Dylan’s idiot wind takes no pity

on the overgrowth of dandelions taking residence at their cavernous doors.

I’ve not been sleeping.
Willing myself to remain in situ, hostage to the factory bell
only confirms that the hours I have are a conceit
of schedules, a yoke I swore I would escape when I prayed to less
flexible gods.

Playing a woman of leisure with no money
isn’t the role I coveted, but, apparently,
it’s the one for which I’ll receive a lifetime achievement award.

I look for phrases to occupy my hands – anything to keep me from
getting up and down every minute a noun shakes itself from my late night promises.

I wade into projects of little urgency,
the completion of which tires me just enough to toss
book and turn off screen.

Tell Melatonin my name.
I have flames to subdue.

Suggested by and quoting selected words and phrases from “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot.

Some soft October night after we’ve wandered as far as you’ll allow yourself to be walked
past sawdust restaurants, where straw arguments are dipped in tar and left
to adorn gardens designed to resemble ancient ruins,
we finish dancing around each other’s point.

We never window shop without overhearing some tedious argument or another,
but for a hundred indecisions, we agree it’s not worth​
telling each other what drugs we took before we predicted
their hundred visions and revisions.

Nothing shouts disturb the universe like disagreeing which one of your visions
has heavier implications for all the voices dying with a dying fall
and then, which one of us will admit that limping at dusk through narrow streets
is just circular logic?

Which one of us said we couldn’t relate to the songs of our peers because
we doubted those artists will sing to me?
Sure, you’ll still sing Nat King Cole in your best crooner’s voice,
but your morning shouts will wake us before we drown.

Following up on my early morning Dylan listening, I’ve given myself the prompt to write a poem about a line from any song, choosing a line from “Visions of Johanna.”

I haven’t seen the house I shared
with two housemates I’ve since lost contact.
But, once your bed gets sold out from under
you – and after you painted the walls to grow themselves –
some phone numbers are easier to forget.

That summer, there was always a party.
There were always ants on the kitchen counter.
And I dated a boy who worked as a waiter
who wanted to be a photographer.

After getting off our respective shifts,
we’d meet on the covered porch, through which
the evening breeze blew
and we were lighter than Gatsby and Daisy in the cool night.

I would write stories and he would photograph them
and our certainty was its own redemption
for what other things we said
and can’t remember.

There’s an hour for every kind
of music, but, after midnight
on a lonely night,
finding the right Dylan songs to play
seems the only way to serve the time.

And sit
with a glass of red wine,
looking at the cover of Highway 61 Revisited.

He still has that tilt to his head.

Dear Democracy

It’s been awhile since anyone – except for Colbert – has said so,
but you are missed.

You have so many well wishers, but
some of them have the wrong visiting hours.
Or, are sitting in attendance for someone who claims to
speak on your behalf and in bald attempt
at harming your good name
to our allies.

I won’t say I wish things could be
as they were;
we both know
the electoral college is an unnecessary holdover
and the doctor says our votes are strong
without this procedural shunt.

Please know that, after your you’re back on your feet,
you may want to take things slowly, but, again, the doctor says
you’re strong, stronger than you know,
and your three branches will, once again, work in accordance,
not defiance of each other and their constituents.

Know, too, that your absence makes our hearts fonder,
and that we know to deserve you is to earn you.

Let us see you rise again, and
all of us will flourish.

Yours,
MN

We were walking down a Westport street
one summer night
after seeing band.
Someone had asked me to dance
and, not paying any attention to the man’s face,
I’d demurred.
In your penchant to reinforce the temporariness of
our arrangement, you suggested we walk to another club and come back for the car.

How far we got down the street
or what we talked about,
I can’t remember.
Behind us, headlights and the impossible moment of
thinking,
no, that can’t be

The moment after impact
everything – police cars and lights – was in my view,
but nothing – including the stranger who leaned down solicitously and stole my purse – was in my focus.

I remember you standing over me,
your hand on my shoulder,
steadying yourself
as much as reminding me
I was ok as you stroked my hair.

Later, after our respective healing times,
we made it part of our banter.
We weren’t a couple; we were survivors of the flesh.
It was easier to see how ill-equipped we were to commit to a future
neither of us saw the other belonging.

I think of that night
but not often.

[EXT] [DAY]

Feet, all men’s by the types of shoes – loafers, wingtips, sneakers, cowboy boots –
all walk on a sidewalk. Again, by the types of shoes, we can see the styles are
early ’60s. We’ve just elected the first Catholic president, and girls are wearing beehives in this
small town.

As the camera pans out,
we see a sidewalk in a nice town in a state we don’t have to
address unless/until we want a specific reference that necessitates
(so, of course, we can shoot anywhere)

Over the above visual, per the opening scene of MEDIUM COOL, which this film references:
the Byrds’ “You Ain’t Going Nowhere.”

Poor for a reason
a politician’s excuse
for no parity

There’s no chance to miss the rain.
It’s a sheet that falters every fifth day and transforms into hard pellets that feel like a bruise
you can’t return.
The region has more rain water than the means
by which to clean it,
said the
anchors
five weeks ago
when they pretended to joke
with the meteorologist,
a dapper man
whose suits used to predict whether
our sports teams would win or lose.

A day back, maybe outside one of the
last gas stations that hadn’t been looted,
a fellow kept me entertained by
telling me how, in the army, he turned urine
into potable water.

I wish I had learned the skills the world needs now.
Like how to make one’s pee a refreshing glass of clean water.
Or, how to rebuild a generator.
Every new day is waking up to the worst internship ever.
And the credit is being deemed worth a place at the shelter –
what used to be a Pier One Imports –
when someone in the group has found something not contaminated
for the night’s dinner protein.

We all sit on our floor pillows
and, when anyone’s in the mood,
crack jokes at the guy who got a major in Marketing
to write content for the weed-killing industry.