The Poetry Marathon

God is a woman.

All you need to do is pay attention to

-the pink watermelon slices and their sticky seeds

-the warm, thick perfumed air of flowers from miles away

-the delightful sweet, pop from compressed grapes in your mouth

-the curve of every hip, every breast, every cloud

God is a woman,

so pray.

Thick book spines,

crack and spread open for me.

Ink smears, paint drips, lead scrapes

a symphony of creativity.

Lesson plans stack, towers of knowledge,

crinkled around the edges, warm from the copier.

The power of a single slip of blank paper makes some people sick with pressure.

Give me a clean sheet of paper and I’ll give you a piece of my soul.

Last line “Are there any questions?”

History is watching.
Question your humanity.
Any faith will do.
Your silence exposes you.
There is no silent, easy way through this.
Are you ready?

At the blue circus,

women in clenched corsets,

fishnet stockings, and shined shoes –

smiled.

They were distractions, assistants, 

and quiet artists. 

Silent, beautiful mothers

of the moon and the stars. 

Dreaming of Jupiter,

sleeping in forests,

counting time gone by in the 

bumps and wrinkles of an elephant‘s skin. 

These are the women that Father Time forgot. 

Every tarot card read,

tea leaf swallowed,

and palm touched,

brings new life to them. 

The old Gods gorged themselves on the hopes and selfishness of humanity. 

Their dreams and desperation created an immortal diet –

curing illnesses and smoothing skin. 

As unattached, husbandless creatures,

they live warm, wild, and wicked lives. 

They are gypsy women,

the daughters of Pluto

eating sweet purple plums,

sticky pitless peaches,

and Persephone’s decadent pomegranates,

all the while, dancing atop frozen ponds

Hexes are weaved into their twisted manes,

curses outline their lavender irises,

and spells are cast between their thighs. 

In their childless existences, they find

potential, passion, purpose. 

As they hold hands and chant lullabies for the lost,

lightening seeks vengeance. 

The clouds sag and drip with 

the grief born from dark suburban homes

and unlit alleys. 

Go. 

Go to the circus. 

Ask to be blessed by celestial, circus women,

and you’ll know how stardust tastes. 

The boogeyman hides in the moon’s shadow,
unlit doorways,
and under beds never checked.

He steals changelings and replaces them with
demons.
They feast on children’s rotten teeth
and then get high
on your bad decisions.

The boogeyman walks the world by many names and in many shapes.

He remembers you, he may have even love you, but
he’s only ever wanted to kill you, and make love to you,
in the moon’s shadow.

Death wore a mask of fireflies when he arrived.
At his command, a cloak of butterflies clung to my shoulders,
fluttering, creating an iridescent heat,
an indigo flame,
an all but strange romance.

Death’s love was heat in a bottle,
ocean kisses, smothering and salty –
oxygen deprived, suffocatingly sweet,
I never knew a safe word.

Death proposed on bended knee,
presenting an onyx stone, infused with his blood.
Simply inscribed: Forever.

He always took me dancing.
He always kept his promises,

Together, we were never hungry.

Strange

Fantastical fictioned future

oblivion

once conceived, it would not leave

just a terrible bedtime song.

Lolly flowers are singing

laying lush.

The tarot cards spread,

waiting to be touched.

Dark coy wallflower, delicate matters choose

you,

All my fantasies. Each it’s own journey.

Still, you’re a fool.

Season of the Hunted

Before I learned
to conceal my pink bunny nose and twitchy whiskers,
to hide my shiny, sleek fox tail,
to cover up my sweat,
to slow the pounding of my heart,

I moved and smelled and loved like prey.

Intended growls of rage always came out a softer mew,
a kitten’s snarly spat.

I played with
wolfmen,
bear types,
and sharks.

All alphas,
all sharp teeth and rough tongues,
all big hands and bigger egos.

All hungry for
tiny toes painted with strawberry pink polish,
sugary, parted lips,
knees, thighs, eyes, to be tense with anticipation.

All demanding.

I hopped too far,
far into the rabbit hole, I fell,
too far and off the deep.

I was the hunted –
the chosen wild.

I ran further from them, and, unknowingly, closer to you.

Pain and fear driving a single-minded desire to escape.
To never love again, to run, faster-
harder.

You pursued.

I caught your scent and intent
somewhere after a thicket of raspberry bushes and honeysuckle,
lilacs tangled in my hair,
heart thumping,
jumping,
like it knew you.

I was so undeserving and you were so relentless.
I bled, you repaired. I wept, you embraced.
I was the worst of my kind, and you,
you had the audacity to love me anyway.

Buttery pancakes,

Twisted sheets,

Sleepy dogs,

and you.

Meet me at the bottom of the river,
where we can no longer speak,
existing beyond the horizon in a current of stars and sighs.

Let me wash you with stardust and rinse you with moonlight.
Let my skin say a prayer against yours.
Let me grant you one wish between my thighs.

Leave me at the edge of sunshine
where I can bath in shadows and midnight’s dew,
existing beyond twilight’s secrets and too many cloudless skies.