The Poetry Marathon

I go to bars 

Alone

Just to be hit on.

I like it when

An older man

Leans into me

And I can ask him

About

Why he’s sad

Today.

I toy

And play

And this is

Why

I respect cats.

Sometimes I want

To threaten someone

With an,

“I’ll go Vegas on your ass!”

It’s not a threat,

But it isn’t a promise.

Growing up in Vegas,

You knew parking lots

And movie theatres.

You knew mesa’s

And hot leather seats.

You knew

Jumping off roofs of

Tiled rooftops

And climbing back

Up

Into windows.

You knew pools,

And kissing,

And missing,

And wanting

Enough

To create

The world

Where we lived.

Dancing between

Slot Machines.

And riding

Casino elevators.

I take walks home

Alone.

And they

Whisper to me

“It’s better without

Your jacket on

His shoulders”

But that was

Fourteen years ago

And I like

That

When I’m not

Alone

Your hand

Feels nice

On my shoulder

When I dance

I express myself.

When I’m depressed

I detest myself.

When I’m drunk

When I’m stoned

When I’m living

When I’m boned

When I’m stroking

A mans mustache

When I’m eating

Alone

When I’m biking

Or hiking

Or tryna get

Toned.

When I’m slapping

My belly

or firing off loads…

I’m living.

You had long hair

When I saw you last.

That time

I called you a ghost.

You walked by

The window

Of a bar I’m at

With short hair.

And I thought

How inconsequential

To me

You were.

At the time,

The weight of your ghost

Consumed me.

I’d lay in bed

Haunted,

I was possessed

By your coldness,

And I’d

Ouija

With no answer.

Your haircut

Looks fine.

I want your mess

While your heart

Flutters.

I want your trash

Garbage

Street signs.

I want

Your dumpster

Fire.

I want your guns

Arms

Smoothed

Like those rocks

You throw at boys

When your only choice is

To throw back.

I want the

Parts of you

That don’t know

Where to go

And I want

That look

You give

When you

Don’t know

Where to put

Those parts.

Let me fuck

You wrong,

And treat

You right.

I’m sleeping

With a pillow

I could make

You bite.

And my wrist

Is fucked,

Cuz I hold

Myself tight.

When I go

To bed,

And miss you

At night.

In lockdown

I sniffed my pits

To make sure I could smell.

And thought

Of your nose

Buried into me,

Sheets on the floor,

Curtains drawn

And your closet mirror

That I pushed

To the side,

So I could ignore

My gut screaming

We shouldn’t be

Here.

Again.

I’ll go down

With him.

I’ll lay.

If a man

I’m with

Doesn’t get

Deez poems,

I’ll at least

Make him

Feel

This body.

It has

A lot

To say.

I think

You maybe

Dulled my shine.

That is to say

You were great,

Sure,

But also the worst.

And there was

A time I made

Quirky poems

And since we’ve parted

My quirk

Has lost its splat.

Because I am

Writing sad poems

And dreaming of

Kicking over your moped

Outside

My window.

My scheme isn’t

Even the same

But I’ll keep talking in an endless sentence

To break that mold

And splat

Enough on a honk

After tooting that chickacowowow

Like a little

Quirk

Like a return to me.