24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
I am done.
I think this marathon has one.
I accomplished what I set out to do
12 hours of poetry
In that I have succeeded
Soon, I will be fast asleep
Maybe i will wake early and play catch up during that little bit
Maybe I won’t.
And you are welcome to call that whatever you want.
I have nervously awaited the POP
and sharp pain— ice pick
through my temple?— the shrieking,
shrieking, shrieking of a something
that cannot be said, the dizziness,
the euphoria of weightlessness,
the wild and the wild and the wild
of my curls grasping at latex
gloved fingers and claiming,
the squeaky wheels (less squeaky now),
the no-time-for-anesthesia, the ethereal
confusion and cloudy, the shine
of fluorescents and glint off the tray
of surgical tools, the surgical knife
and first incision— but wait!—
the shaving of my scalp, the vulnerability
of psoriasis barking back and biting
the razor, the— okay, now— the first incision
along my hairline vacated, the screams (mine?)
and the screams (someone else,
maybe through glass)
and the screams (mine again), the knife
opening as my forehead blooms, the blooms,
the incision precise as India ink swung
on a twig, the sweat collecting on
a hovering brow, the sweat dabbed away,
the sweat absent from my face, the life
absent from my face, the CRACK and saw
and another bloom, the smell of disinfectant,
the smell of another woman scrubbing in,
the smell of toffee, the lights (oh! the lights!)
in my unblinking eyes, the blood suctioned
off my brain, the grey matter that isn’t grey,
the pinch and the screams, the screams again!
the clamp carefully placed,
the anesthesiologist’s apology, the drip
of the IV (finally!) blessed IV,
the warmth in my groin, the morphine,
the stainless needle stitching in an arc,
the morphine, the vomit, the morphine,
the morphine, the morphine, and
the sleep.
Here am I
The Beggar Queen
Irresistibly disheveled
Scraping knees, grasping hands
And begging in the smallest voice
Please tell me- am I pretty?
There are you
The Mummer King
Unfailingly disarming
Stroking skin, cupping chin
I’m begging with the biggest eyes
Please love me- am I worthy?
Oh, say can you see by the dawn’s early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:
‘Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh long may it wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more!
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war’s desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav’n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: “In God is our trust.”
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
Pins and pockets are a must
If you leave your hair down, pack an extra hair tie
If you usually wear your hair up, pack an extra hair tie
Money, of course
Probably a lot of it
Some little form of carrying tote for memorabilia– fast passes, receipts, whatever your nostalgic muses demand
A change of clothes or a poncho, or maybe both
Extra socks… and maybe extra shoes, too
Even if you forget all this, remember
It’s most important to pack your patience
the beginning grew, a scar opening from a time before
a mumble tasting the fresh dark, growing into a song
flew through time, seeding it with stars
Hungry, the stars fight, cannibalizing each other
until they are so bright and full they become suns,
the crumbs join to become planets,
the song looses her voice and sleeps quietly
in the sky, a lonely darkness, searching for her melody.
There’s no chance to miss the rain.
It’s a sheet that falters every fifth day and transforms into hard pellets that feel like a bruise
you can’t return.
The region has more rain water than the means
by which to clean it,
said the
anchors
five weeks ago
when they pretended to joke
with the meteorologist,
a dapper man
whose suits used to predict whether
our sports teams would win or lose.
A day back, maybe outside one of the
last gas stations that hadn’t been looted,
a fellow kept me entertained by
telling me how, in the army, he turned urine
into potable water.
I wish I had learned the skills the world needs now.
Like how to make one’s pee a refreshing glass of clean water.
Or, how to rebuild a generator.
Every new day is waking up to the worst internship ever.
And the credit is being deemed worth a place at the shelter –
what used to be a Pier One Imports –
when someone in the group has found something not contaminated
for the night’s dinner protein.
We all sit on our floor pillows
and, when anyone’s in the mood,
crack jokes at the guy who got a major in Marketing
to write content for the weed-killing industry.
Stars used to dance and fall in love.
They dreamed during the day
and told stories throughout the night.
They were friends with the moons and
guardians of the plants.
Comets taught the stars to shine
and Pluto always made them smile.
Chaos grew bored and hungry.
After he gathered the black holes
and quasars, he pulled and mashed
Earth into something only he could enjoy.
The trauma of humans will be
enough to sustain him for millions of years.
The stars have stopped laughing and dancing.
They now watch us and cry.
Gather around children let me tell you a story about Zero, the most powerful number in the universe.
In the beginning, the quiet was interrupted by a stillness called Zero.
Zero was born out of a life force like no other.
So strong Zero didn’t have a mother or a father.
An existence no one could follow or copy.
Zero’s gender was neither male nor female.
Nor animal or beast.
It was peaceful and calm, centered as a collection of elements waiting to be released.
Simmering like fire, cool like water, breezy like air and solid as the ground we call earth.
A mystical creation holding the very essence of life.
Levitating in the vastness of space, Zero was a mere collaboration of energy created to bring forth truth.
With the patience of an unborn child, Zero gave birth to the darkness in your eyes, the light shining in the sky and the endless landscape of the sea. In reality, Zero created you and Zero created me.
How can one describe what’s empty and what’s void?
To those who’ve never seen it, what use does it afford?
There is only One, who knows just how it was,
And believing what He did, takes faith in things above.
For God commanded all that there is now, to come to be,
And He set things in motion from His eternity.
The only way to see what’s not, is to see it as of now,
And erase the very thought of it; remove, if thought allows.
The only way I know to describe the awful place
Is a lonesome avenue that stretches far through heaven’s space.
Or a black hole that collapses–what does that even mean?
Such knowledge is too great for a human mind, less keen.