The Poetry Marathon

Dull orange lights of civilizations distant
Sky pinpricked by civilizations ancient
Constellations comprised of collapsed stars

Echoes of the primordial across sea’s expanse
Ride the rhythms of ever-changing tides
Gaia groans, bemoaning civilization’s scourge on Her perfection

The Wild waits, impassive yet impatient
Traces of ancient wisdom winding down through generations
Our only hope for self-preservation

Civilization’s artificial illumination dims
As Luna’s light exposes it’s superficial nature
Casting silver shine on slowly rusting iron

Oily sludge
Drips from war machinery
Lubricated by blood-seasoned crude

We watch it on our TV
In air-conditioned misery
Wonder if there’s anything we can really do

In a world where fame supercedes the art that makes us famous
Where image misportrays the essence of who we really are
Where everyone’s not good enough
Just getting by is so damn tough
But we’re all just this close to being stars

Update Instagram to the rhythm of the war drums
Drone strike videos suggested on YouTube
Is this what we’ve become?
Constant passive viewing of atrocities make us numb

But not dumb

Overeducated, overworked and underpaid
Too informed to be anything but jaded
We bow to the gods of profit-driven resource extraction
And wonder why America is synonymous with hatred

Gears grind, dripping tears of Afghani mothers
Of Iraqi children
Of Syrian refugees
Of a world under threat from those who view their fellow man as others

Lubricated by petroleum
Habituated to violence
Inundated by conflict, chaos and distraction

So many distractions

The only sane reaction is to isolate
But that level of alienation McKenna spoke of is unattainable with the drones above

Dark skies punctuated by military satellites twinkling in space

I am not what I write
No, these words do not define my thoughts
These little characters do not define who I am

But I am what I incite
A re-reflection of all I’ve been taught
An inspiration for those that give a damn

I am the owner of nothing
Protector of land and sea
Spinning filagree figments of imagination,
Heyduke ressurected

Head lacking chemicals
Boiling water by buttery moonlight
Grinding coffee in the still night
Like Mikey said, it’s not all good
But it’s good enough to know I am all right

At least well enough to write
Or should I say expunge
This ordeal I am embarking on begins,

An icy plunge into the depths of my subconscious, my unconscious, the infinite beyond…

Aloha from the middle of the pond

Is everybody in?
Everybody ready?

I remember years past,
These 2:30 a.m. Friday night Saturday mornings were a breeze

Now I’m setting an alarm to wake up because I go to bed at 10.

Twas the night before the marathon

And as the sun set,
I was hunched at the keyboard just starting to sweat

The deadline approaching, I done ate all my snacks….

…shit’s wack.

But the muses are nourished not on smoked almonds, cheese and crackers

The succulent nectar of inspiration their only necessary nutriment

As they flit round the edges of my consciousness famished, mouths parched with too many words unexpressed
Too many concepts left to gather dust like these stacks of old notebooks that weigh down shelves with dreams unfinished

A cool breeze chills the nervous sweat beading brow
Sun sinks behind islands on horizon, last wisps of golden sun drift into indigo sky
As yet devoid of stars
Still and darkening
Soon to start

Itzpapalotl stretches her obsidian butterfly wings into meteor-streaked skies
The muses reach for final burst of inspiration, scavenging words from dreamscapes

Words jotted down in notebooks find their final form in lines
Not so much written but intuited by zombie-like autopilot mind
All the remnants of ideas unformed nearing completion
Dive into the deep end, pull the last glistening threads from dreams of those asleep
We creep towards the finish weeping tears of gratitude

Anticlimactic poetry addicts beaten and drained by 24 hours of pleasureful pain
Finally able to rest our aching brains trying to process what the fuck just happened

Scorching dust drifts across blacktop
Shimmering mirages just out of reach,
Slipping closer to the horizon each passing mile
Desert heat searing nostrils,
Sweat drips from nose, sizzling on pavement below

They call 50 “The Loneliest Highway in America”
A straight shot across barren nothingness
Sagebrush and distant mountain peaks gilded white
A lone vulture seeking roadkill screeches,
Shattering high desert silence
Chastising solitary traveler for disrupting serenity

Stretch lazily in the oven-like breeze
A quick pee
Then back to chasing mirages, full speed headed west
As vulture bids a not-so-fond farewell

What is this masochistic urge,
This strange compulsion to ignore important biorhythms,
Walk this jumbled path

As if the sacrifice of time and inspiration weren’t enough
As if the eyelids of the mind’s eye haven’t closed and given up

We stumble on

With leaden limbs
With muses bleary-eyed and cranky
Cycles interrupted,
Punch-drunk, slap-happy staring at empty page

Coffee shakes and face unshaven,
Triscuit traces on the mousepad
Eyes bloodshot and glazed,
Just a reflection of our weary minds

The battle for unconsciousness
Necessity of sleep ignored
Dig deep and deny every conscious thought imploring you to rest

Nyx cackles gleefully as we deny her Hypnos power
All we have to do is hold the bastard off for two more hours

Dear Cody,

I regret to inform you that despite your best efforts to maintain and nourish your rational thinking capacities, we in the brain department have decided our time here would be better spent exploring the more fluid and chaotic morass of the subconscious, as it requires a more relaxed approach unconstrained by the limitations of linear thought. Therefore, from here on, we hereby declare an immediate and total suspension of all normal brain activity associated with clear thinking, logical processes and ask that you direct any further inquiries of this nature to our technical department, located in the spleen. We appreciate your cooperation and hope you will refrain from overexerting our synaptic network this way in the future.

Sincerely,
Your Brain

P.S. Your intestinal flora has also requested that you stop drinking so much coffee and perhaps eat a salad, as the Skittles content of your lower intestine is reaching critical levels and may cause rainbow flatulence.

Phil knows the way
Knows the path, knows the trail,
Knows the shortcuts, the subtle lay lines
Phil the vanguard,
Phil the scout,
Without Phil the journey is aimless
Without Phil the mission is mindless,
Wandering through hostile territory dangerous without his guidance

Phil the mind, the intellect, the unspoken guide

Phil leads by intelligent design
Leads the bear body corporeal
Leads the childlike wandering heart
Leads the threefold tribe through urban jungle
Through man-made labyrinth back to natural state
Back to Source
Back to the old ways
Back to where it all begins
And will always return