Bang Bang Bar Poetry Slam

There's no use 

Trying to write 

With a green gardening glove 

Fixed to my right hand 

Like skin 

So let's rock 

*snap* 

The crowd disperses  

Leaves the floor 

In front of the stage 

Empty 

For a dancer 

And the lights that surround her 

Our hearts surrounding her 

Our love for her  

A quarter of a century deep 

Had been locked up in a moment 

An explosion 

In the bank vault of our hearts 

Swallowed whole in our sleep 

But we're no longer holding our breath 

For that love to find a way out 

To snap out of this coma and 

Find us, find me 

I've only been a muffin for 25 years 

but I've always been Laura 

Find her. Find Laura. 

Take her from the trees 

Out of the gold casing of death 

We suffer everytime we say goodnight 

So instead of dying we heal 

We save this place and we save our hearts 

From the cold guild of gold 

From shovels and jumping men 

Save us from the trees  

And the prophecies of logs  

Held dearly by a lonely woman who listens well. 

Please, find her and save us, Hawk. 

So we can spin out and ask you 

To tell the truth under oath 

The judgment of the destroyer 

The experiment, your mother of abominations 

American made and fed equal parts 

Crude oil and hope. 

Drenched in lattes and blood  

Against the backdrop of a glass box 

That holds secrets like a diary holds memories 

Detailed and out of time. 

We ask over and over 

If you had so much sand 

Would you blow it up 

Light it up, drink it full 

To follow the path to 

Your childhood haunts 

To a tree in the woods 

Where owls are true to their word 

And good men gather  

Where their fathers used to take them 

To tell stories about kings 

In tiny palaces and dogs loose 

In municipal buildings 

Or would you keep it in your pocket 

Keep it to yourself 

Hidden in the echo of a drunk 

In the cell across the isle 

In a booth on the other side 

Of a bar you like to frequent 

Just so you can see the MC dance 

To invisible bands 

And watch young babes 

Turn into tough dames 

After an asshole in the booth beside them 

Lights up under the no smoking sign 

And sooty specters 

Leave a wide trail of blood and charcoal 

For the dying to follow 

We watch the path 

Wherever it takes us 

East, south, inside out 

Up two flights of stairs 

To a place that matters 

To a man that matters 

In the hearts of those 

Even though we cannot see him 

From those who pilgrimage in the footsteps 

Of men with blackened hearts 

And women with broken souls 

We watch the steps 

Of a stumbling fool 

Given rides and answers  

To his calls for help 

Given chocolate cake 

And the family he needed 

Son and brothers all 

Together, a family forms 

Around a table at a diner 

Music playing off the rooftops 

Of the nearby peaks 

The distant ramblings 

Of unrest on the wind 

To the pitch of a fork against  

An empty plate 

And a gunshot, a bullet  

Through the window  

The shattering of glass 

Full of vodka and tomato juice 

Unceremoniously poured 

And swallowed to keep inner demons 

At bay against the rising tide 

Of unnatural forces 

Sit where you were before. 

By the end will we know 

Who the tulpas are  

Or who created them?  

Will we trust our family 

And all the early endings 

Or turn back to accountants 

With questions of ownership? 

Do we trust the dancer 

As she sways through the lights 

Do we trust our ears yet? 

Is that music playing backwards 

Or are we finally falling? 

Falling. 

The golden glow is the mark of death 

And light created by a desire for more 

Against floral wallpaper in a little town 

In the Pacific Northwest 

with a population of about as many of us 

As are willing to stay 

In a little town called Twin Peaks. 

still at port

Passengers gathered around the edge of the ship to watch it depart. Prepared for eight days in the chilly, windy, grey. He found himself a high spot where he could overlook nearly the entire ship.

The weather didn't have him looking forward to this leg of the journey. A few other people gathered on his perch. The Captain's bridge was just below them. All the railings were white and cold to hold onto.

He kept thinking about the woman with the broken arm and black eye.

Around her neck she had a scarf made of green and yellow and white. It seemed to depict plant matter of some kind, like palms or olive branches. The thin layers of the scarf wrapped around her. It gave her a disheveled but cozy appearance. Her id badge barely peaked out from under all that fabric.

The dozen or so people on the perch watched in meditative silence as the gates to the ship were lifted and the engines started to hum. Slowly, the ship parted from the dock.

She had a cast on her right arm and the right side of her face was scratched and bruised. He tried not to stare.

As the boat picked up speed, it started to get cold. People slowly left the perch to find warmth inside.

He tried to imagine what happened to her, or what she might be called.

He suddenly felt homesick.

the rocks and water and moss

standing - arms stretched out and down
like wings about to embrace a gust of wind -

feet shoulder width apart for stability
on the flatten rocks of a jetty - wet from fog -

as the sun begins to rise above the trees -
lined up like soldiers ready to charge the sea -

waiting to feel something or hear something -
anything - that proves there is more

than rocks and water and moss, but knowing
that there does not need to be anything more -

the rocks and water and moss are amazing.

compliment

the best compliment
you can get
is a quiet one

something as soft
as a cat curling up
on your lap

or as temporary
as a half smile
meant only for you

a cabin in the living room

there are three cats
who occupy a house

with two humans
on a little street

with eighteen houses
near a cranberry bog

and one of these cats
has a little cardboard cabin

of which he is
the sole occupant

and this cabin sits
in the living room

of the house on the street
near the bog in the town

and inside the cabin
he plays with a toy

shaped like a carrot
filled with herbs

that make him happy
to be in his cabin alone

the gosnold scenario

the general sent us

there were reports of pineapples
and palm fronds growing in

and rumors of suspicious glistening
puddles after heavy rain

so we came here to take a look

asking around we discovered
the locals have been harvesting

the foreign produce and selling it
at import prices to local markets

the colors in the puddles
after heavy rain have yet

to been harnessed for wealth

when asked about the puddles
half will tell you they exist

while the other half will deny
the reality of such fantasies

as if reality itself were at stake

we got no where with our investigation
until the scientists got samples

of the unusual fruits and grasses
and we stayed for the rain ourselves

afterwhich half of us saw the
glistening colors, and half of us

denied it completely

first dibs

i'd give you first dibs
on the rare stuff, though

a clandestine transaction -
an exchange between foes -

not of each other, but one
mutual malevolence -

the overlord of emotions -
the suppressive force -

a culture of manipulation
with deep, dug out layers

of deals and arrangements
between people who have nothing

to lose or gain in the clutch
of a fast spinning reality -

sharing stuff for things
and dibs and props, though

dead land and no king

disgust stuck
to the roof of your mouth

the sickening churning
chum curdling in your guts

forming gross pain
starvation of the already

strained land we pluck
and pick dry until it bleeds

covered in patches and
quick fixes we give it nothing

to give back but
timid attempts at poison

eking out of surfaces
not designed to function

as weapons against
those who attempt

and fail to create then
to crate the creature

from the keeper without a
cage to escape the clutches

of jaws and claws
of a starving pride

about everything

1.
step ahead one small pace after another one pacing the tempers of those around pacing slowly in a line so long there's no end to be seen while waiting to be filed like prepackaged produce on a ship headed for promise that smells a lot like dirt and oxidation of metals mined by those who went before to dig holes in the ground for dreams to be poured over with concrete and plaster and wood and memories of the places left behind.

2.
regret.

3.
panic sets in when a message goes without reply to for too long and without excuses so what to say to make it okay when it's still okay with the original sender but the delayed replier doesn't want the wrong message unspoken to go understood so the reply is "I love you" even though it doesn't make sense to do so then and there but it happened and it's out now.

4.
anxiety.

5.
drink dirty water to ease the horror and tangles of threads of pain in the gut in the center of the dessert laden with purple flowers poison to many but beautiful to all at the lip of every cactus beckoning to be touched and tasted to leave a victim at its trunk so it can drink the blood like a spider through its needles to survive as a human animal tries to survive too with a nearly empty jug and no sense of direction.

6.
peace.

side by side project

take a deep deep breath and breathe with me in and out until our heartbeats match as we lie with cheeks touching staring up at the sky watching clouds whisper past and pretend to pay attention to the shapes when all either of us can think about is one another.

let's call him Doug

a damp day, downtow
a dumpy dodge truck pulls up

to the drive up window
of a dunkin donuts and

asks his dog what he wants:
two dozen donuts to share

with this guy and some dame
down the road.

flipped

it's not about how long it takes to make
twenty four perfect pancakes

you're worth it.

it's not about how uncertain i am
of the color brown

when it comes to butter.

it's not about how heavy or large
the finished thing is

and how it barely fits in the fridge.

it's about how quickly you can finish it
in comparison.

what do we do now?

1.
you try to inhale -
take in the lingering scent

and understand how -
inhale again, breath more

and absorb -
how could she do this

to you - to us -

2.
exhale and count to ten.
let go of the tension

and just forgive him.
or leave. just leave.

let him figure it out.
let him be by himself.

just leave, or forgive?

Flappy had the Missing Pieces

i suppose the most obscure fact i know
is who the muffin is and how many

huckleberries there are in each one.
or that one phrase in Norwegian, i know that too.

agent

we underwent an engagement 
an arrangement of intransigent consent 

bent against the garment of better 

judgment, adherent to the absent deterrent 

tormented by the antidote to enlightenment 
by the high percent of dissonant immunity 

misspent gentrification on burnt butter 
and inclement sugar addiction, the human trap  

factors in the intelligence of sentiment 

organized by pigment and taste 

according to incident alignment against 

populist movements and condemned  

counter-movements, perpetuated by 

the affluent and incumbent appointment

Dear Benjamin Franklin

you left the ocean for the sky --
and how do you think
the Navy felt about your exit?
or the vegetarians for that matter?

an ode to overkill

overkill

thick overkill

with chains on

you can hear him

approaching from down the street

he is coming over

to visit you

even though

you

told him

with emphatic finality

to leave you alone

for the rest of forever

because you didn't

want to

be

his superhero

boyfriend after all

that happened when he

met that spider fellow and

took off without you

from the party

at ironman's

mansion

no time for ideas and bones

as they approach the horizon, stumbling
they make their way like animals but less noisy

if you can imagine it, like silence you can hear
then there's no time to come up with a solution

except to lay horizontal, and we do it,
we stunted the soldiers' approach

flat like insects under deiseal engine wheels
but not a single bone to break in these bodies

National Poetry Month 2017

hi all,

i will be attempting to follow these 30 writing prompts for National Poetry Month (NaPoMo) 2017:

http://www.agodon.com/uploads/2/9/4/3/2943768/writing_prompts_by_kelli_russell_agodon.pdf

a normal poem about love

this is a normal poem about love,
about a two people who see each other

for the first time and from the first time
it's perfect for a moment

until one unknowingly profanes the perfect illusion
that the other has devised in great detail

without evidence or corroboration
from the actual person whose eyes they met.

and from the first time in that first moment
they successfully create an alternate reality

populated by a pod person for their own pleasure
dedicated to the way they prefer to be touched.

the language of love is never made of words
until someone writes a poem just like this one

and ruins it for everyone.

a whale for the almighty

has a whale ever been trapped
in the carcass of a volcano?

an atoll in the middle of the pacific?
or does it depend on the reef

and the dunes and the way the sun
shines off the surface of the solar panels

that speckle the beaches
and modest rooftop of the

Tokelau town hall? and would it
take all the people there to get the whale

back out to sea safely if it had
been trapped in the first place? and would

there be enough time for the whale
to survive, swimming past the sharks

hidden in the surrounding shallows
as they wait for fishermen to leave

and the remaining fish to settle back
into tight schools for better hunting?

or is all of this irrelevant
because a whale knows better

than to get stuck anywhere at all
unless it planns to make such a sacrifice

in order to keep mystery and science alive?

The Lincoln Macomber

it takes just one turnip
pulled up by a bored fella

under a clear sky
in south eastern Massachusetts

one turnip deformed
by a rock in the soil

looking an awful lot
like the 16th president

to set the imagination of a fella
ablaze with fantasies

about a Kentucky turnip
fighting for the freedom

of turnips everywhere,
and unifying the great

turnip nation.

Population

bustle. now there's a word.
bustle. in the square. in the leaves.

constant bustle. bustlement.

bus-t-le. busetele. bustling beetle.
beetlement. so it's easy to get lost.

lost in the bustle of the city.
the city state with a curious

lack of pigeons. and women.

weaving. winging. pecking.
protecting and bustling.

well manicured. but a weevil.
a little beetle. can get lost

in the bustle. the city bustle.
and dodge the eyes of bishops

caring for the olive trees.

an olive weevil. a bustling.
a leaf eating. a stealth agent.

in a city with a population
this small. but with this many

bustling visitors.

a weevil gets away with a lot.
a lot of leaves. bustle from tree to tree.

a weevil in vatican city.

new standard

does anyone else feel this tired? all the time.

does anyone else feel tired even when they are dreaming? deep in sleep, my persona is too tired to jump off the building, so she just falls.

does anyone else feel too tired to take care of themselves, because we're trying to take care of ourselves. our civil rights being pressed like apples into cheap cider.

does anyone else feel this tired? so far and deep that we feel it in our organs and bones, but the fever is not caused by a virus.

does anyone else feel this tired? and yet unstoppable?

does anyone else feel this new standard of living, this new drive, this new guilt for not having felt this way before?