The Poetry Marathon

Marry me postcards and poisoned roses,
flan, tequila lollipops,
stern nose, son in a trunk

————
Christmas Polaroids and Blow-up Bozo,
parking tickets, barbecue
sauce and Northern accents

————
Thick lenses, thin ties, gray serge and guitar,
real estate license, Best Boy,
dog-eared Home to the Stars

———–

Mary Tyler Moore listens to the sound of fireworks.

Normally, the exterior backdrop of her one-step living room layout
featured falling snow.

But, hey, it was almost July, and the neighbors were ready,
no they were READY, to celebrate.

“Mar, you better throw that hat. It’s gonna catch a spark,” says Rhoda on her way offstage.

Let’s talk trash.
Let’s talk genteelly about trash.
Let’s talk about trash and call it cute.
That cute trash…let’s market it.
That cute trash now has a demographic.
That demographic can be sold so much more than just the cute trash.

Cute trash with ribbons
Cute trash with bows
Cute trash in photos with pitchers of margaritas.
Cute trash testimonials.
Cute trash that got its own TV talk show.

It’s the perfect storm for a bloodless coup.
My brain, your content.

The greens
stand in photos,
verdant soldiers plated:
A fox hole for the tomatoes
to rest.

———

The clock
is the only
sound in the room except
for the clattering of keyboard
right now.

———

Street noise
announces for
some, it’s a weekend night,
but the nights all end with waiting
for you.

A bus driver bleeps the horn
at a red Saudi that steals in front of the lumbering vehicle.

For a second birds rule the audio sphere.

Then a motorcycle scrounge of wannabe stunt boys churns past. I ignore the Instagram op and look over the trees.

Attention to the birds is all I want to pay.

What century could I escape to and not have been interrupted by the noise of progress, impatient to be anywhere but where it wasn’t?

My favorite recipes have an element of danger.
Then, I observe how not to follow them
until I can make maximum example of my shortcomings
and the performative chagrin I convey just short
of a bow.

Only my select audiences know how I juggle
an armistice in one hand
and a cleaver in the other.

Tell me how you’d like my job.
Don’t I know it.
Haven’t I gone through the machinations
for you to take my mantel?
Or at least keep it clear of the riff raff
who think democracy means
they have a place here.

Call me a turtle.
Call me a hare.
Call me a fascist.
I’ve got a place in a bunker.
It’s just the right temperature.

To all who
live must sell
to earn rent
and must tell

all who buy
what angels
are they to
heed the call:

Do value
your own mind;
let them clothe
their own hinds.

We were picking our favorite scent
when someone said sweat and peppermint
were called Union, but he pent
up to recall an accident

in which he tore a ligament
and swore at the vice president
of his chapter. Forms went
unanswered and it put a dent

in his cheer and he spent
all his backpay to stay current.
He repaid what a brother had lent
but never forgot the wrong intent.

(I’ll have to tweak this; I have not got the right syllables per line or the right end word syllable. Call this a marker for a better attempt at this form.)

“Remember me?” the note taker screamed.

We were at a party and I was already wondering if I knew anyone here
besides the hostess, who had made herself scarce to the point of having
French exited her own soiree.

The character in front of me had too many underscores for me not to realize
I was supposed to remember her.

“Did we work together?” I asked, with fingers crossed behind my back.

She seemed crestfallen. Her ambersand fell in like a sinkhole.

“Oh, you have to be kidding me!”

Before I could answer, my arm was grabbed as my interrogator was swooshed to the side.

“Hey, Nellie, don’t hog the guest of honor!”

My new friend was my new friend for all of three to six seconds.

His name was an almost endless array of letters and numbers that
I wouldn’t have tried to pronounce but, knowing this, he pointed
to his nametag and proudly proclaimed himself,
“Sa5555Kaw9!%win8@_tha_R3^^^^3&.”

He beamed out of sight immediately after I told him my name.

If anyone had noticed the moment, it appeared I was talking to myself.

I sat down at a small table and listened to the chatter above my head.

One of the other guests was telling another that her name was Imp3ach18! I did know her,
but didn’t want to be the third-party intruder.

“Maybe this party won’t be so bad,” I was telling myself when one of the other guests came
to me on his knees and reeking of fluids both organic and inorganic.

“Will you tell me your name again? I think I have a message for you about your account.”

This time, I made no attempt to be polite.

I stood up and reported him to someone who knew the hostess and seemed already aware that
the troublemaker, now turning a spongy pink color, had a nest of complaints surrounding him.

My mind scrolled the room, certain I’d meet variations of the same individual no matter to whom I spoke.

It had been a long night and hearing the beginning of a joke was all I needed to find the door.

Just as I was making my exit, I heard “How many passwords does it take to enter a new password?”

The cacophony was shambolic.

Freedom! To Wait is to get know a man in uniform.
Ire is such a pretty word for such dogged labor.
Registered, certified or just unclassified, let’s have it.
Enough with the Notified Delivery and just deliver it.
Delays in service used to be the exception, not the norm.
Every day my mail arrives sometime between 9 pm and the next day.
Just who makes this late night work necessary?
One man whose name sounds like a folly, a 19th century circus act.
You won’t get to mail in a ballot at this rate.