The Poetry Marathon

Pins and pockets are a must

If you leave your hair down, pack an extra hair tie

If you usually wear your hair up, pack an extra hair tie

Money, of course

Probably a lot of it

Some little form of carrying tote for memorabilia– fast passes, receipts, whatever your nostalgic muses demand

A change of clothes or a poncho, or maybe both

Extra socks… and maybe extra shoes, too

Even if you forget all this, remember

It’s most important to pack your patience

There’s nothing quite like

the capitalist super port

of Disneyland in Anaheim.

Sometimes I feel bad, that

The place sucks our money

but I guess the stamp they

put on it suffices.

It’s one of those things

where the pretty surface is

thick enough to dismiss the ickier

parts way down below.

Sweet like morning dew on

blades of grass before the

ladybugs come to drink.

On our lapels, the stars

we used to keep in our eyes,

safer where they can at least

be washed and pressed.

The glens roll in the spring,

white then purple then yellow

then blue with the scent of

summer, and the heat takes up

the flower colonies.

Pollen drains into our pores

and we wait, wait

for spring again.

I am a cat

in the summer heat

with a soft breeze that

blows through my ruffled fur

soaking the rays of sun

deep down to my bones

browning my whiskers–

or burning them, really

since I’ve never been good

at tanning

To hear la cumbia floating from the windows

To taste the spices on fruta con sal

To stop by the stands of tacos and gorditos and quesadillas

To drive along the tunnels with the smell of old water

To name the stray dogs that come to lick the crumbs at our feet

To hail los taxis verdes with distant shouts and cram aunts uncles and cousins in the back seat

To jump at the sounds of cohetes that ricochet off the valley walls

To wake in the morning to the cry of las gallinas and the man who walks the early streets with baskets full of fresh pan

To see family again, just to stop missing them

So many fantastic stretches

rise before me full of

bones and tattered bridges that

break no one’s falls

I’ve asked sweet things

of terrible people and had the

nerve to play victim to

their inevitable disinterest

We pity fools for playing

their part without the courage

to admit our own roles

in the pages we write

Sing angry songs with me

alight with that

despondent fury strung

along marmalade branches

sticky perfection

that catches everything

but the flies

I’d rake my words across her skin
spit gum in her hair
and forgive myself because she
did the same and worse to me

when you’re a child, logic
is the enemy of pleasure
and age changes only the word
from “just” to “cruel”

this is the wheel I’m helpless
to break even when I know
to do better, be better, think better
even when time keeps turning

because in the end the pattern just repeats

I flew straight into the flower
that shoots flames at you
and he looked at me
with those hazel eyes

I told him he’s the best brother
right before he could yell at me
for being bad at the game

Sweet praises are empty
when all you do
is scream them

I hear you, I hear you

Hold back what
little dignity the gods
have blessed you with

I see you, I see you

Forget the ravages
of those dreams you
abandoned for adulthood

I feel you, I feel you

Sugarcane woodburns
the rake of a whip
across charred asphalt

I taste you, I taste you

Morning fog that
dissipates in the heat
gives way to cerulean skies

You’ve been gone for a while now