The Poetry Marathon

Genie

Genie

 

It’s the genie in the bottle

I didn’t ask for.

If I want her

hips

lips

and tits

I have to work more.

To reach that far

and be

that porn star.

 

Eyes and ears everywhere,

I can’t escape you.

Watching street corners,

doors,

and more –

you see through my xbox, too.

 

Ok, Genie,

here’s the rub,

you can bring together

and

rend asunder

and the chip in my Spark

could fire a heart.

 

It keeps some alive

and

slowly kills others –

lithium leeching

in water

near Bombay

but here in the West

everything’s ok

because

we’ve got the cash

and the political will

to

put chips in drones,

which

helps stock to sell

for those

who never see

the shadow

of the Genie full grown.

 

I don’t know who did it,

but I’d like to fuck them up,

for

wishing for infinite wishes

we can’t bottle back up

cuz

while we have our fantasies

in everyshape

and size,

someone’s finger

is

poised on the trigger

and we’ll never see their eyes

when they

squeeze it.

(c) R. L. Elke 2016

The Day The Fascists Died

I forget where I was
The day fascism was born
In America

Older than me,
Of that I am sure,
But I was somewhere.
Somewhere pure.

I forget where I was
The day fascism walked
In America.

I was a babe
In the woods, not born.
Not yet, anyway.
Somewhere far away.

I forget where I was
The day fascism first spoke
Into my ear.

I was a girl
Naked, not afraid.
On God’s mission
For America.

I know where I was
The day fascism won
In America.

I was a woman
Asleep, but not dead.
Blasted awake
By a fake, yes, a fake.

And now here I am
I hear it’s last breath
I see it falling, falling, falling.
Wheeled and propped.
Armed and steadied,
As it dies a slow death
In America.

We, the people, woke up.

My Lover

I am too far away

From where my heart truly lies

Where all my hopes and dreams

Wait for me to come back

I don’t know when I’ll go

And meet her again

But I hope it is soon

Before my life comes to an end

I miss the way she lights up

The way she breathes at all hours

I miss her music

Her screams

Her hums

I miss her chaos

I miss her peace

I miss the way she creates adventure

The way she feeds my soul

I miss the person I was with her

More complete

We made a whole

But I know I’ll see her tonight

As I sleep, my dreams

And it is there

I live inside her

She is forever mine

New York City

Resuscitate

I was walking towards the door

Keys in hand

Purse hanging on my shoulder

Wiped out from a long day

Of reading, editing, trying to avoid unnecessary banter with my supervisor

And I don’t remember anything

Yet waking up in a hospital

Family gathered around

And confusion from coming back to consciousness

Having felt nothing

Numbness a welcomed escape from heartbreak

But that wasn’t the case

I headed towards your door

And fainted

Only your touch

Could revive me

 

Poem Seven ~ #TheStruggle

 

Oh my god,
my pizza,
like, came
without extra cheese!

Y’know the new shoes
I got from Amazon?
They were three days
late! A whole three!

And my mom,
dude, she totally
doesn’t understand
me!

It’s just like, ugh,
I wish I could just
like run away and
everything be free.

SEVEN

From the Pacific Ocean the land sprawled eastward
wide and flat, crossed by dry stream beds
and arroyos carved by twice-a-century rainstorms
— gullies roughened with dust-coated weedy scrub
that sheltered small brown lizards.
The hills heaved from that unpromising plain
oily green, sage-scented, parched by fickle seasons
that promised relief and delivered none.
We settled there, bewitched by the sky
and the thundering shore, by perfumed
orange groves felled as neighborhoods
bullied their way into bouquet branches,
all shoulders and boot prints, unforgiving.
Once it snowed, and occasionally the ground
would rupture in displeasure as we clung
uselessly to doorframes, the doors bruising
our hips in their undulant dance. We wrote
letters to pen pals in places we had not yet invaded
and saw how astronomers envisioned space travel
in the little book we bought at the observatory
after sitting under the dome of the starstruck sky.
We could pretend the everpresent shushing rumble
of cars was really the sea and even if the seashells
and the pelicans vanished from the water’s edge
we would not blame our hunger, our eagerness
to erase the landscape’s flaws and our own,
to be made perfect, to be discovered
at the luncheon counter of desire.

© j.i. kleinberg

Seven 

Eternal Bliss

You taught me of beauty, of hope and of love
And how all that we are is born up above
Your hard work and struggle, and yet all your grace
Shown brightly despite the lines on your face
Your love for one man left you widowed for years
Yet you held tight to memories to conquer all fears
For you long believed that true love comes once
’tis something you shared in e’er abundance

I grew up not dreaming your life would be mine
As I sat, mourning in each mope and whine
Of how cruel men had come and hurt my pride
So certain I’d never be anyone’s bride
And yet, you kept preaching of e’erlasting bliss
Of a heart made for me I could never miss
As years trudged on, I was ready to fold
On the prospect of this true love I could hold

Then one a day when all things went wrong
It was finally proven, you were right all along
He did not come forth as a great, beaming knight
But an average Joe which was quite alright
And now I am certain, Dear Grandma I love
That you and the Good, Gracious Lord up above
Came together to heal this lost heart of mine
With an everlasting love so sweet and divine
And now that I’ve found it, I can understand
Your thought that once in a lifetime love is His plan
For I’ve never known a feeling like this
Thank you for granting me eternal bliss

The Writing Process.

Brew and pour (don’t forget the creamer.)
Sip.
Cough. (too hot)
Sip,
Slurp. (just right)
Cough.
Laugh, chuckle.
YOUTUBE. you boob.
Sip
Sip, spit.
Write,
Type,
….STARE….
Write, you boob.
Sip…(it’s cold)
Toss. scribble.
Pause. bathroom break.
Sit,
Wipe,
Wash.
back on the grind…
….
..nah.
break time. (bring out the pizza)

Surely it is not end of it

 

 

Meeting something that not something

Yet it mean something to a deeper end

An end to caste out that allays one

Surely it is not end of it

Meeting something that not something

Yet giving meaning anew

Wrestling much adverse

Surely it is not end of it

Meeting something that not something

Yet shouldering into its own existence

Dealing with it

Sure it is not end of it

 

 

3:07 am PST 14/08/2016

© ROY MARK AZANZA CORRALES