WORD VOMIT
How does one silence the mind anyway?
The thoughts pour out,
Steady stream,
Non-stop,
Like word vomit.
Coming so fast I barely have time to make connections,
Forgive me for the incoherent banter.
Burning Bush
The Burning Bush
But what good is God is He stays away, hidden
under words and signs, unperceived. Shouldn’t He be
right at our nose, holding our hand, walking beside?
Not a whisper in the willows, a light on a hill,
ice melting before our eyes. How can you capture
nothing? That’s when we fall. Unable to hear, we
go away. We wait for things to change, to know
before we leap. But we can only stop so long
until we must move. And we do, right or wrong. Feet
step down their path, hoping. We follow our voice.
How different life would be if He wasn’t fire in a tree.
24 Hour Poetry Marathon Hour 22: A Tribute to E. E. Cummings II “A Strange Little Town”
the street was adorned
with many wayward feet
bustling, in no particular direction
creating confusing circles in my reflection
patrons offering a certain type of encouragement
helping by suggesting a destination
like Mrs. Flanagan’s half-price sale
where you could also pick up your mail
I like to call it milling about
after all, it doesn’t have to be market day
to see how much Debbie McCabe’s stomach is growing
and yes, her face is glowing
procuring the most said phrase of all
Holly cumquats, look how much she’s grown
Millicent Miller is only fourteen
and has grown seven inches, and is still a string-bean
in a tradition of lore, cousins marry cousins,
there’s no law against it I guess
but it creates a simmer of distaste
for some who judge in their haste
openly telling of their dreams
and mentioning what Miss Winterbottom did,
“She always goes a bit crazy,” Sally Vickers said
when the colour of the leaves change to red
and the embellishment of the Boer War heroes
it’s better than telling of the jail sentence
for setting fire to Mr. Stone’s paper clip plant
because he didn’t like his political slant
The new mayor is well-trusted
he’s kissed every baby in town
and his best friend is the banker
whose son works at Madame’s in a gown
They know of the sun
the moon, the stars and the rain
as well as all four seasons
which are as predictable as Sammy Fontaine
He’ll get as drunk as a skunk today
and sleep in the stable tonight
Hour 22- Woe is the Lonely Pineapple
I don’t understand why people do not like pineapple on their pizza.
Why do they hate?
Why do they turn up their noses at it?
Why do they ignore its sheer deliciousness?
But most of all
Why should I worry what others like?
Why would I be expected to turn up my nose at it?
Why shouldn’t I order it over and over.
What I understand most is
Why I love pineapple on pizza.
Why I lift my nose to inhale its tangy fragrance.
Why I will stand up for and include pineapple…I do not discriminate!
Hour3
Do you want to be my lover?
Do you want to fly on the wings
of my poetry? Wanna feel joy?
Do you want to ride waves together?
twenty-two: Digital Rush Or…
Digital Rush or Lit Games Nocturne or Ode To The Poetry Marathoners
Stanza and verse
Under big waning moon
Accompanied by 4AM music box
of crickets vs interstate vs railroad vs neighborhood
Yawning from a tired hurting face
Having seen one more emergency room than he had ever hoped
Feeling better enough
To write a marathon
To pull art from self and shitty sinuses
Yes we signed and dreamed up for this
Played prompts close to the vest
Ignored their pleas for release until the appointed hour
And some even had the nerve
To get all “meta” about it
While swimming a sea of digital ink
And a scope in their ear
(Or was that just me)
In a month were superstars set records
around or under ten seconds on a stadium track
I plod mental streets with verses
Aimed at coliseum finish line
Now who’s finishing with me?
Code Talkers IV:
Code Talkers IV:
A small group of men
all huddled in a foxhole
making history.
Devising a code
to trick the enemies and
help save the day.
Old Man Cat (22)
My friend and his wife take care of this old cat
he showed up one day after all his kittens did
and it was pretty quickly deduced that he was dad
to litters upon litters of kitten bastards
and I love him
I love his un-neutered jowls
like puffy cloud cheeks
his loose morals
and his handle on life
they feed him good food
he conquers every lady cat who ever lived
destroys their weak men with fast swipes
and sleeps hard on the couch despite being warned
with little snot bubbles coming out of his nose
and the world growing heavy with his offspring
your pregnancy, your problem
old man cat says
to a legion of sad lady cats
spiritually he is already a dozen states away
with his cat name changed
physically he’s right there
slaying existence
unapologetic.
Prompt #22
Now, I’m no scholar but
I gotta say that based
on my experience,
cold pizza is the best
hangover cure ever.
Veggie, preferably,
because the grease
that coagulates on
pepperoni is gross.
Anchovies? I’m in
the school of Yes.
Little fishy bombs
of flavor… what is
not to love here?
Apparently a lot.
Recent scientific
studies show that
four out of five pizza
taste experts prefer
their pizza without
little fish.
Well that’s just
nonsense.