The Poetry Marathon

Never enough of it because the throngs crash into me
When all I want to do is get to the other side of the street.
And the rare time I sit down to watch a movie or t.v.,
There’s the dog’s head or tail blocking the screen.
So I call her over to me, and in 90 degree heat, she,
Whose heredity traces back to Alaska, lies against me.

Relationships, the worst for the coveted thing since
no matter how hard you try, you can’t get him off,
To let go and do something on his own, without me.
I have a friend who’s a close talker, another who pokes,
And yet another who slaps me every time she laughs.
My mother was a hugger but even she could sense.

What is this prized possession we never have,
Well, not enough of, but we all need and want?
What’s her name? You thought she was beauty,
And you were wrong. Not money, nor fame, either.
Yes, family, marriage, children, some of us crave that,
But others could care less. No the thing is Ah, yes.

She sets your table, plops dinner down, and you eat.
No lust for the chore, no love for it any more, she washes dishes.
She serves you, like a debt, a duty, or a dog—for exchange.

Me, I’m dessert. I undress your mind, place desire on your table,
Luxuriate in your spine, the cup of your back, and your lips.
I serve you like a wife, a partner, and a chum—for love.

We laugh, talk, fuck, sleep, spoon, and wait, drinking in the hours
Until next we meet, a pair of arms entwined in exhausted heat.
For all that, she’s the one on the reservation, table for two.

Lawyer
Soccer coach
Girl Scout leader
Umpire,
Art teacher
PTA auditor
Arts Advocate
Non-profit CEO
Board director
Referee
Volunteer
Room mom
Academic Senator
Secretary, committee
Adjunct
English professor
TA
Lecturer
Law school Dean
Partner
Owner
Time keeper
Team Rep
Manager

One step
Trip
Fall
Arrest
Jailed

Naked.

Daughter
Sister
Aunt
Mother
Wife
Child
Lover
Friend
yogini
Poet

Human.

Singing, trouncing, pounding tables,

goblets splash mead on caked mud.

Who are these creature who swear

God’s face they deign is theirs?

How could they be so bold when I,

and all I sired, eat men like sows?

I chomp their bones to hear them cry,

Call me ogre, call me son of Cain.

Too late your words, feeble weapons,

are no match for my teeth.

Come charge me, you sons of Hrothgar,

who will protect you?

My life’s a charm you can’t defeat,

so bleed, be quick my mother’s feast.

Hear me, Geat, come take a stab,

I’ll give you a running start.

By darkest skies, you’ll see the light,

Take my claw, I’ll help you up.

Come sit in the misty glen, Kore, and recount the time
Demeter held her torch, Hecate by her side, and cried,
Searching for you mightily to find Hades had done it,
Abducted you, my sweet, and fed you pomegranate.

Married you he did, while your mother held back spring
And rainbow’d fields and gardens’ golden Dahlia dying
Unlike the queen of the dead, who swallows down earth
Each time you retreat from sun, a grave mother’s dearth.

For Father Zeus could strike no bargain on your behalf,
In seeds, succulent and raw, lies like the Golden Calf
Blood chained you to desire, an ever fading blossom
Half in hell, half in heaven, a grain goddess’ seasons.

But bury the bones now in bottom sight flesh as risen,
Unshutter their mortal blinds through care and wisdom
To them you owe humanity in a silver sceptered palm.
Give them true insightful eyes as to the poor give alms.

For only the darkest night can steer their walks in light
Their sins burned smoked the day he raped your mind
Your body long ago lost to wild lavender and plumeria
For you, fragrant as frangipani, we two sing hallelujah

I believe in the mystery,

—of what the frog choir sings

as they vibrate sound oscillating
breath from lung to vocal cords
in late summer evening light,
the throaty croaks in full sermon
at the pulpit of love.

—of how a wrist to elbow

measures the length of your foot,
or fingertip to fingertip is my height
And the width of your mouth
Maps the distance of pupil to pupil.

—of the steam rising from tomatoes.

Beans, grape, radicchio, cucumbers,
And basil after the mid-day heat-pour
Or the churning earthworm writhing
To the sound of five beating hearts.

—of the soulless men who’d peculate

Our children’s futures on a handshake
Rob their health for pocketed pennies
By those who love their babies too.

If the world stopped spinning,
You with shallow grips on realty
Would hurl to space, flora and
Fauna: trees, mountain tops,
Cats, mothers, SUV’s, and dirt.

Or the endless day burning on
Would singe sight, burn stars
And the Northern Lights? Out.
The moon, introverted admirer,
Would silently spin out alone.

The earth’s sudden surcease
May clear the planet of drift
And all living slack and softly
Yet we who levitate, risen up,
Afloat on lily pads and dust…

The cosmos cops wave us on.

Scolding our waitress, “Last time I asked for three olives.
It came back with only two, just like this one.”
Surprised, she apologized, and replied, “Be right back”

Sure enough, one server returned, martini in hand,
Four green swimmers decorating the ginned vodka,
Only my dirt sat aside soaking a stained soda glass.

”Why separate them like that?” inquiring minds ask.
Well, that new bartender makes them dirtier than scum
So aproned Sophie confessed (tattled) all a’ flutter.

Five last drops glugging down a salty gullet, “ahhh,”
Smacking briny satiated lips audibly, complainer
No more noted, “I’ll mix another, please.”

When we hung the babies from the door jamb,
Perched in a canvas seat, their turkey drum sticks
With plump sticky toes decorating the bone, leapt,
Pushed off the Pledge-polished wood floors, with the
Strength of an Olympic dead broad jumper in flight.

There, they’d pop up and down, jolly as Irish jiggers,
Songs I often clapped in time to their rhythmic throes.
And so, when I hear fiddle and penny whistle squares,
Baroque hints of ornate mantles and powdered wigs
And gardened promenading intrigue, I see red waddles.

Not the terraced, mossy ridges or jutting rocks on plains,
Not the low clouds, cushioning the sky for its safe landing,
Heavy with burden, nor Shetland sheep grazing meadows,
No, not the smell of salt and sea, as the swallows return,
But the scent of talcum and apples, the toothless grins
Of guileless giddy girls in flight, the heart of a giggled jig.

I painted at your feet plaid in orange and blue, while you called me “whore” and “cunt,” your toes brimming like the koi pond pressed in concrete, center square of the shopping mall.

Like, small eruptions, they blazed the fire of God’s scorching tongue dimmed only by man’s grey blunt greed.

You promised to cut me, bleed a poem to my thighs, while I raised my glass to meet your eyes, full of razor smiles slicing suggestion.

And while we slashed each other so, the violet poison misting our ears, making rhymes echo and crash the canals, cascaded down to pool in pelvic hollows of warm, viscous amethyst paramnesia.

Ending, our ruby sighs flushed pink, sailing me home to harbors bottom deep, I whispered in your smile: “Let me paint the coral’d sea beneath you orange and blue.”