The Poetry Marathon

The tides are in the midst of turning.
Fog is low
and heavy over the hills.
The owl is half done whoooo-hoooing
and the mission that I had is done.
Soon, the earth will rotate again;
currently is experiencing a tight
hiccup,
as the magic that I wrought has brought
it all to a halt. The birds half awaking
and the sun is taking the time
to catch its breath before
continuing on
and cubs are still half dreaming

And yet only half awake I walk,
silence so loud,
no water trickling, no racoussing snores no early washwater being tosssed
no smell from the baker’s chimney
just a frozen cloud of scent and
the feeling that If I wait long enough
I could grow old in this moment, forever.

The stages for my dreams are
sometimes unfamiliar, but mostly
places that I know. A flood plain
by an old bike path, a bus route I used to take,
a bus depot I used to frequent, my grandma’s
house, my uncle’s house, a grocery store
or two. Because apparently my dreams are humdrum.
They want nothing more in sleep than they do in life;
to go shopping and deciding which sweet
treat to get and working out the best
sale price in the produce aisle.
Missing busses,
always missing busses every damn time.
Missing busses, missing stops, and transferring to
the wrong train.
My favorite dreams are the ones where I go running.
I run
to a place that is familiar
in dream state,
but when I awake I’m unsure of exactly where it is,
part of the path by my old Niagara house
and part of the path my my old school
and always by a dead end and sometimes I wonder
if the places I dream are just the ghosts
of the places they once were. As if the earth has muscle memory and that
is what it wants me to see while I’m dreaming.
So I continue deciding, searching, and deciding in my dreams
as if there’s any hope for me doing those things in my awake life.
That is if that is not a dream as well.

S
Is for the stars I long to see
L
Is for the longing I have for dreams
E
Is for the east that beckons so beguilingl-
E and
P is for the people who forwent sleep but soon must crumple
Oh
Sleep is something we love to do
Sleep is where such rest is opportune
Sleep we need to take it for without sleep
We can’t reawaken yes sleep we surely love to do

L
Is for the laughter that you stole
O
Is where your oath exposed it’s holes
V
Has varied verily though remains incendiary
and E
Is where such elation depreciates from high inflation

LOVE is such a pointless race for you and
LOVE from you is something I’ll eschew
You and LOVE can’t make it; when hearts you love to break em
LOVE is not for me nor you

Tongue tied
Finger cramped
Brain dead

Let me count all the ways I can forget what you said

Toe twisted
Lung frozen
Eye burned

I won’t help any more with your petty concerns

Midnight
the witching hour
and here I am magicless
but for the blood magic
of moon and menses
yet still I strive
to remember the chants
from long ago
when witches were a dime a dozen
and mere mortals their familiars.

Let’s talk
about those creatures who are the darkness,
who are the night.
Who are they? Bats.
Bats, those tiny palm-fulls of fur in flight.
Those big eyes and noses that glisten
like they’re
glazed with sugar syrup.
How are those sweet things the cause
of so much fear.
Rabies is over rated.
and the blood,
well, they don’t love
blood
so much as ripe juicy fruit and
whatever fat moths and plump bugs that can be sonarred on the summer breeze.

I once heard about a dog near death
his owners granted his last wish
for cheeseburgers

He lay, unmoving on the floor
hadn’t moved for days
they sat around to say
their goodbyes and cry and hug
an to gift him with a feast
a celebration of his life
in the form of cheeseburgers

The dog saw the cheeseburgers,
jumped to his feet,
gulped down the delicious treats
and proceeded to live 2 more years.

So when I look as if I’ve given up
I task you with the very important job
of finding
what exactly cheeseburgers mean to me.

I said I wouldn’t write a love poem
especially not one for you
There’s not enough content for one anyway.
Not the first time that I met you
with sweat dripping down your brow
and how you wouldn’t let me help you bring
in your luggage.
And how you said I was your best friend once.
And I made you cupcakes for your birthday
because you were new in town and all alone.
And I loved you even then.
Or how I love to watch you
watch you walk, watch you stand
and even though you hate singing
you have the voice of an oceanic god
and it doesn’t turn me on, not one bit
And I’ve never ONCE imagined what it would be like
to crawl over your lap,
sit in front of your face and kiss you
senseless
Because I’m not in love and this isn’t a love poem.
I never once thought about how I loved your knowledge either
Who cares what you know about birds, or about mushrooms
Who cares that you like your coffee black
or that for some reason having to pull
a U-ee on a narrow rocky road
sends you into a tizzy of panic
That’s not even endearing.
And I never even cared that liked to
stop your car and roll down the windows
just to look at a cute pup
I don’t even like dogs, just like I don’t love you.
Nope, because like I said,
I wouldn’t write a love poem,
especially not one for you

There are endless books about the anatomy of the heart
but not a one that tells you
how to cook it.

How to cut out a heart and eat it? A rabbit heart, a deer heart, bison heart, or hey, even a human heart if you’re an evil witch or perhaps a descendent of Countess Bathory.

A recipe for a properly cooked heart is what I want.
How long to marinate and in what spices. Can I deep fry the while thing, or serve it raw as ceviche? Perhaps a nice rub and a slow barbecue in a wood fired stove would serve it best. Would you like yours sous-vide or perhaps in a nice hearty stew? Slow baked? Steamed? Broiled? Boiled? Sauteed? Seared? Charbroiled? Flambe? Poached? Roasted? Rotisserie? Smoked?

Or should I just shove that sucker in a microwave for 3 minutes on high?