The Poetry Marathon

Green wall with a diamond shape

Looking at my phone

Green Hooded sweater

Sitting all alone.

I am not a clone

I am just an image

We are not apart

It is just a scrimmage.

10 more poems to finish

I am filled with venoms

This is my release

Winning my defeats

Everyword completes

Every nerd competes

Marathons for geeks

I am one of these

I aint one for wars

I am one for peace.

But in wanting peace

I prepare for war

Let us eat the rich

While we feed the poor.

Let the pistols pour

Bodied up the floor

I redact no thing.

Muted birds won’t sign.

If I am tasked to do a service,

I must ask, what is its purpose.

Otherwise, it’s in the furnace,

I cannot be none but earnest.

I leave marathons refurbished

Dropping megatons of verbage

Hosting telethons of courage

Homemade teleprompters urgence.

Holy helicopter surgens

Only hell is topped with virgens

Hold me yell and stop them urges

All WE, fail, in godless churches.

(Please forgive my stupid questions, and my ignorent mindless ranting, and my lack of understanding, but what’s the purpose of redacting?)

I am an illustrator of thoughts,

I am author of sentiments,

Producer of poetics,

Director of dialectic diction,

I am a liaison of literature

Scripter of scripture

Writer of picture

Mixture of blood ink and liquor.

Composer of the spoken texture

Builder of verbal architecture

Lyrical director, ink think and inventor.

Painter of paragraphs

Blacksmith of wordplay

My birthdays are earthdays

On Fridays and thursdays

I’m steady in earthquakes.

I am the word based word face word ways word pays.

My profession is proficiency in prose and propaganda poetics, paragraphs and ethics, Prolific methods, penned penitence.

accupation. Computation.

Problem solving. Calculation.

My profession as provider.

I’m a lover and a fighter.

Hard to say, but,

I’m a writer.

Enclosed. Never me.

I do not have a closet.

I have a clause set.

I set clauses because closets can be clogging-up our process.

Or our progress can be compromised by counter claims and crosses.

No need for closets, only secret Santa clauses,

Be free and just be, never shut-in your prowess.

Dreams may end up with mothballs and cobwebs,

And ourselves made to hang in old suits in closets.

I cannot be hid in closets.

I am spotting hidden clauses.

I will never hide my gains,

Just to not remind your losses.

Burning everybody’s closets.

My pen transcends and makes amends it makes comments it makes common sense makes threats makes poems and makes applications it makes graffiti it makes signatures and makes autographs and makes plans and makes plots it makes sentences.

My pen, my best friend, my weapon of choice, translate thoughts into voice. Represents me my pen sharp as any other sword deadlier than any gun to begin in the end of War let the ink pour from my pen.

To a mortal, it’s a portal, to transcend from the informal to the informant to the infamous to the infernal flame that blaze pages in my journal.

Wild words written in the wind time in rhyme intertwined within the pen-etentary.

Pentacle, a pinnacle of scripted spectacle.

Both respectable and Despicable both disposable and indispensable. Both terminal and medicinal.

Expresser of a twisted principle, disciplined disciple of discourse and dialectics.

Pen, forever in my palm and fingers,

Some have Venom, some have stingers,

Some have fangs, some have liquors.

I

have

a pen.

Love is doing good deeds when no one is watching.

It is the absence of your self within your actions.

Love is that which all require, but none is willing to acquire.

Love is that which all aspire for, yet, dont inspire.

Love, the thing that everyone wants and nobody wants to give.

Love, is that which seems to be of no importance to the culprits of disordinance.

Love is that which is counterfeited and sold as fools gold in the form of flesh and bone. Moist kisses of cognac and Menthol scented regrets.

What IS love? A drug? A natural herb that one can tea and boil and spoil.

Is it soil that saw you young as you stepped upon its ground, is it mother who has left, was she Love? Is love dead?

Is it only in our hearts, in our minds, in our dreams?

If not us, then what is love

Then what is love,

If it ain’t me.

Lightbulb

Ideas flash

I hear the beat of the streat underground like a beet

The tremor of bass beneath my feet

I carry the jacket of jackin and packin

shelltoes, cellphones, elcos, elbows, hellnos melrose, eggrolls deathrows.

Rolling in buckets a box full of fuckets

We couldnt play trumpets

And so we play glasspipes.

Melanin cinnamon hooked on the medicine all my bucks go to Exxon and Edison.

No carports just cardboards

No artforms, no elk.

No bayou, no no,

We hardly afford milk.

Look at what my circumstances built:

A brown man with white guilt.

American dreams fulfilled.

Venture into my pain if you care

Venture into my pain if you dare.

see what others see and feel as we feel

speak our words and feel them Rumble from your breath,

face the dark colors of humanity,

see the results accomplished by greed,

how malnourishly we feed,

anoint yourself in humanity,

poverty is neatly pressed.

wear the uniform of poor,

as you pedal over puddles,

accumulate pennies

gather aluminum and plastic bottles in trash bags,

ride the Metro,

see the children full of dreams streaming from their eyes,

Beautiful Smiles that Echo lifetimes

see them play and watch them grow

witness them emit that glow

that gives life to the dead hours of unfulfilled dreams that lives in you.

Water then and teach them so . . .

Stare into them, love them slow,

then, suddenly, let them go

into the Mist of gunpowder, sirens.

into that noisy silence,

for you must spend your days and hours and minutes

and your health is felt diminished

and your years have turned to minutes

only minutes you enjoy

and see glimpses of your precious

little girl or little boy

they no longer care for toys

they no longer seem to care

since you are hardly ever there

they developed other interests

they no longer have the Glow.

but you have to work and slave

to afford a lonely grave

What about the years and years of ourselves that we gave . . .

Venture in my pain if you care,

venture in my pain if you dare.

People dont usually like me,

Even though they hardly know me,

If only they would take the time,

Then they can hate me for me.

Even though i keep to myself,

People dont usually like me,

But they should take time to see,

The reason why they will hate me.

They dont even know me

And dont know nothing about me,

People dont usually like me,

Altgough i keep to myself.

Even though they do not know me, and though

They know nothing about me,

Even though i keep to myself,

People usually dont like me.

I see,

This round earth bullshit belief,

Was all a big hoax by the morbid elite.

Who knew it was true no planets, no orbits,

Just pancake flat earth on the back of a tortoise.

That’s a big fucking tortoise, I wonder who feeds it.

I try to see God all I see is a beatnik.

He tells me “be mellow man expand your horizons-

-existence is full of exquisite surprises”

Are you God, the all mighty, the grand lord and creator,

He said, “Na, I’m his cousin Winston man, I’m just here to feed Slater-

-Slater, the turtle”.

Oh, ok.

Winston.

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