The Poetry Marathon

Perhaps you’ve heard of it.

A game of chasing the bouncing ball,

Only your chained feet can go slow or

As fast as your tethered limb can carry

Another body, vying for leadership,

Sometimes taut, sometimes limp,

Submitting to your pace, if necessary,

Seeking the elusive finish line

If only they find the rhythm, even

For a step or an oddish two down the aisle,

Up the avenue, across the street, a dead end

Where the banner reads: Till broken ankles

We part.

The politician roared,

His lips swollen with alphabet soup.

Adherents heard him say, “Challenge,” though their feet burned on the infernal asphalt and their razor gazes slashed this three-piece suit on a sizzling stage.

They smelled his smoky words, tasting them like passing perfume in an elevator, stale and repellant.

“I am Sir Ellwin Darwin of Pointless Promontory, outside the state of Michigan, and I am here to fleece you of your vote.”

The crowd cheered and dared him to shed his swimsuit.

But he only whispered, “I never wanted to be here. It just ended up that way.”

The crowd discombobulated, their spirits rising once the brainstorm rushed in.

One mother gave her tiny son the peace-out sign, while a bystander heard her say, “You know what that means.”

And all I could make of it was the throttling gurgle of love—a peace sign, wrapped in a finger-shaped heart, a violent cry for help.

Then the mouther of promises levitated above the crowd, and Piggy was not impressed. She, leader of the church of disbelief, set her cup down and knew the ending: they will return to earth but never be grounded, like a hydrogen barge out to sea.

I’d give them my lunch money if I didn’t have to walk to school. Mais, alas, en fin, je ne sais quoi—politics and me never broke bread on a Sunday morning. Yeast lies, as untrustworthy as a sunken balloon.

And yet, here we are, you, me, the shouting floater, mother, child, neighbor, and countrymen, sweltering under the weight or wordlessness, a nightmare history will look back on in astonishment and then repeat itself.

Hey, can you give me a sign?

I’m blind, so let me touch your murmuring lips,

While you preach transformation and dharma,

How suffering is alchemy

And change is the only guarantee.

Tell me how the brave belie temperance, detachment,

Indifferent to sideline cheerleaders, hope

Harvesters on megaphones blaring left,

Right, anywhere but straight through, and truth,

A man-made obstacle in a rearview mirror.

But I terror-sleep since the tank, strafed

By grimaces that swallow faces whole,

Beasts in uniforms tossing brown paper

Lunch sacks into a dark hole, its dank air

Like a fireless dragon’s last gasp, a hoarse whisper.

I reach for you, there in me, a space to blossom;

you, wizened ravage on shakier legs, and yet,

A stalwart heart, gilded by smoke and simmer,

Emerged from dingy light, a door exploding closed,

Booming me, an inverse perp walk bathed in moonbeam.

An optical illusion, the light

So near in the distance I could almost see

How darkness is a trick,

Retinal magic,

As if light dies, disappears

In vacuous depths

Of Unknown formulas,

Mathematical solutions drifting,

Falling from a time ledge,

A mere absence appearing,

Ending where infinite limitation begins.

So much,

I know,

We don’t know—

A lighthouse

Pixelating fog, like

A doubt haven, full

As half-way moments,

Declaring safety by

a glint, the light

In the flash of a bullet

Seeking its target.

Nine lives to live, a tree’d cat mews;

I climb up high to rescue Boots,

the calico con artist

Cheshire smile peeking through

leaf clusters, hiding

protracted claws

awaiting hands

reaching out

to scratch

me.

Paint a portrait.

A sunflower splash.

No azaleas for the spring.

Daisy do, I dream of you.

No where to go

to play when the sickness

is here to stay, so

I color my pods’

chords, in fresh foray

in the summer time, too,

when winter cools

the pastels blue, I wait

the icy days through

till robins chirp a tune

the blue of trampled masks

in the gutter strewn.

Let’s play an afternoon away,

splashing color to a song

to frame the lonely long

year, electronically sung

through organ pipe soot,

dusty choir echoes, I put

my ear to the ground,

where once the sound of

children played, dancing

sun beams in the garden–

but not today.

We play.

“Oh, don’t even try to connect the dots,”

he said.

It’s true.

The space inside and the one above

the cosmos of you and me,

no way to comprehend.

Particulate matter we are,

no less starburst than shredded skin,

chutes and ladders,

helix twist,

the cellular merry-go-round

that tells tales of why

you lie to me and I lie back.

We’ve grown accustomed to the fable.

New aliens and a nearby planetary commune,

where we respond in airwaves,

traveling to when the earth,

long gone up in flame,

reaches and touches

the vibrations they are.

He laughed when I said,

“Let’s have a drink and test the vibe.”

I meant it.

I, as matter, feel your integrity,

just as you feel my heat.

The light in me bows to the light in you.

A stuttering twinkling of time and we connect

the stars with fated fingers.

No body survives.

We were pen pals.

First, we were friends.

Then, we went to college,

she up north, I down south.

So, we bought stationery,

envelopes, and fine point pens.

The mailbox held word-gifts,

much awaited,

and, in return, smiles

at the little red flag at rest–

the letter box surprise.

We once lived together,

the three of us,

in apartment 3G,

like the comic strip

no one remembers.

Only two parking spots,

one of us running

to safely make it home

from across the street

of a shady neighborhood.

After, she lived with me,

in the circle, a house

we could not afford so

rented every square inch

to pay the mortgage.

Holly’s room, the queen

suite, suited her.

Her royal touch,

like the fingers she lay

on my shoulder, as

she leaned over

from the arm of the couch,

as if we’d always known

each other, as if we’d

been in mid-conversation.

“I’ve got these spots on my arm.

What do you think they could be?”

I was mortified.

Who dared speak to me, hiding

out in the back room, away

from the party’s throbbing center,

avoiding people?

And she captured me.

Somehow, she gathered my ease.

So, when I penned my words

on a neat square of yellow flowers,

a half dozen years later,

and sent it north, the red flag up,

she responded:

“He won’t leave you.

And if he does, it will hurt

until it doesn’t.

This too shall pass.”

It did.

She returned.

We toured the states

in celebration of college degrees.

Drove a Volkswagen Bug

her boyfriend’s friend rebuilt

cross country, losing parts

along the way,

swollen tires in Tacoma,

loud muffler in Yellowstone,

and ball bearings in Ohio,

and yet,

we made it to DC.

I took an Amtrak to New York,

where everything changed,

including a reason to be there.

Thirty years later,

I hugged her as she cried,

tears of shame and remembrance,

as I called her my “forever friend.”

My palms cupping her cheeks,

thick from stuffing grief,

I spoke her words,

“This too shall pass.”

And she did.

A warrior who declines to fight

needs counsel.

So, he confides in his friend, his trusted charioteer.

“Tell me what I should do?

I see my family, friends, and rulers before me.

My job calls me to slaughter them.

My calling is to love my neighbors,

love my father, brothers, cousins, and mothers.”

The blue one regards his champion,

index finger to chin,

consternation narrowing his eyes.

“Your calling is to fight when there is battle.

You are not God.”

But the warrior was not convinced.

“How can I know God’s will in this war?”

And so the purple one turned his insides out,

vomited all time and space, evil and divine,

like a carnival house of mirrors,

showing the truth, the unknown,

and the couldn’t possibly be known.

After, the warrior fell to his knees,

nauseous,

afraid,

beaten,

shaken, and

persuaded.

“I will fight.”

And it was bloody but for the best.

I normally don’t use the word.

I mean, how could I?

Whose standards, yours or mine?

Whose conventions, society’s or family’s?

Definitions slide off a palm like silken scarves,

the meaning lost in context.

Two years ago, we hugged,

two years later, I peered at you,

searching your eyes,

fearing the demons within.

Once, if you loved too much,

you went to jail.

Now, your hate prison corners you.

And truth your mother taught you

turn lies to the spring winds,

shifting, like the dying fall leaves.

Chameleon, snakeskin shed,

twist of fate, kiss of death,

what do you call it?

It’s the new new, old as time.

What’s normal?