There's an event called A Day at the Races where poets go to the horse races and they each pick a horse name at random from each of the seven races and then use that name as a prompt for a poem. At the end of the day, we read out the 'winning' poem from each race and then whatever other poems we think turned out pretty good. It's a fun day.

This is poem 06 from race 06 and my horse's name was Star Finality. It got me thinking about the terminology we use for fame and how the life cycle of a star might have a similarity to an artist's career.

-------------------

The big bang breakout role
The number one single after years of obscurity

The life of touring, of excess
This, the life cycle of a star,
is not a cycle
It’s a parabola
A trajectory with an impact at the end
like an artillery shell

The supernova of success
shedding so much light and fury,
sound and sweat

The thing about stars is that light moves too fast
Stars die a long time before we see them go out
Not counting the ones we wish on as they fall

A star’s finality
isn’t the same grave finish line for the rest of us

It’s a collapse into something that sucks in light
Hungry for those with ambition and potential
Waiting for them to blow up on the star charts

To flare their energy
into the cold
uncaring
void




tags

There's an event called A Day at the Races where poets go to the horse races and they each pick a horse name at random from each of the seven races and then use that name as a prompt for a poem. At the end of the day, we read out the 'winning' poem from each race and then whatever other poems we think turned out pretty good. It's a fun day.

This is poem 04 from race 04 and my horse's name was Apellant. My horse won! Apparently, the world 'apellant' means the person in court who is the defendant when making an appeal. However, I took it to mean the opposite of 'repellant' just for the sake of this poem.

-------------------

Apellent is the opposite of repellent
A black hole
pulling every pair of eyes,
every heart
past the event horizon.

Apellently, he walked through the party
A gravity well for lust,
for dreams,
for love,
for hope.

Igniting visions of marriage, children, suburban life in some
A cheap motel Olympic event in others

Shark apellent bring all the sharks at top speed

Apellents can slide under doors,
through paper cuts,
and in between praying hands

Apellents took my money
Apellents brought me joy
Apellents become mist when put in a cage
Apellents twist sideways and disappear
Apellents are always visiting and never staying

Oh, apellent
Take me with you
Give me a passport to travel to your dimension
Disguise me to smuggle me to your homeland
(Not permanently. Never permanently.)

Show my how you exist
because I can’t comprehend
with my awkward grease stains

Looking across the room at you,
I’m glad you never travel in packs.
Because if you did,
I would throw myself under your hooves
just to be part of the herd.

But you always glide alone
Like a sightseeing missile
Making us all yearn to dress as targets




tags

There's an event called A Day at the Races where poets go to the horse races and they each pick a horse name at random from each of the seven races and then use that name as a prompt for a poem. At the end of the day, we read out the 'winning' poem from each race and then whatever other poems we think turned out pretty good. It's a fun day.

This is poem 02 from race 02 and my horse's name was Champiosa.

-------------------

Furiosa’s older sister
Robot legs like a kangaroo
And a sledgehammer battering-ram arm

Furiosa came from a big family

Triumphioria
Conquestilia
Subjugatia
Superiosa
Supremia
Dominatia
Destrucilia
and The Golden Chance

Ten children
Gathered orphans
Turned half machine to protect the Tower Lord
Imperators to guard the new green place

Champiosa ticks at night as her limbs cool
Like an engine on an autumn night

The mechanic repairs the women
after the day’s defense
Successful and alive
The women army
Related not by blood,
but by purpose and apocalypse




tags

There's an event called A Day at the Races where poets go to the horse races and they each pick a horse name at random from each of the seven races and then use that name as a prompt for a poem. At the end of the day, we read out the 'winning' poem from each race and then whatever other poems we think turned out pretty good. It's a fun day.

This is poem 07 from race 07 and my horse's name was Timeless Shrug.

----------------

Timeless Shrug

Every adolescent
From the beginning of time
From before recorded history
And far into the future
(Until humans are changed into something else
or removed entirely)

Every one of them
Has a timeless shrug

A twitch of indifference

They join every other teen
In an eternal
Timeless shrug continuum

I envy the timeless shrug
The up and down of shoulder bones
That Atlas shrug of clavicles
A dismissal beyond the fifth dimension

As the shoulder hangs at the apex of its motion
Time pauses and stops
Accordioning across millenia
As every young shrugger
Joins in unison and power
An engine of not knowing and not caring
Piston shoulders rising and falling

With the same motion

That angels use to flap their wings




tags

There's an event called A Day at the Races where poets go to the horse races and they each pick a horse name at random from each of the seven races and then use that name as a prompt for a poem. At the end of the day, we read out the 'winning' poem from each race and then whatever other poems we think turned out pretty good. It's a fun day.

This is poem 05 from race 05 and my horse's name was Klondike Gentleman.

----------------

Klondike Gentleman

The Gold Rush brought all kinds to find
The sparkling wealth haunting their mind
The flashing pans, the earth’s hot veins,
The minerals bequeathing gains
Possession in the form of gold
An elemental wrestling hold
Led them there like compass points
Animating greedy joints
Marching them to mouths of mines
In thronging, locomotive lines
The hidden riches in the ground
Begging, pleading to be found

And each one does what each one can
Each hopeful Klondike gentleman



tags

There's an event called A Day at the Races where poets go to the horse races and they each pick a horse name at random from each of the seven races and then use that name as a prompt for a poem. At the end of the day, we read out the 'winning' poem from each race and then whatever other poems we think turned out pretty good. It's a fun day.

This is poem 03 from race 03 and my horse's name was Silver Arrow.

----------------

Silver Arrow

Cupid’s ordnance
Upgraded love silos
Passion SCUDs
Cruise missiles of lust
Machine-gun passing fancies
From the distended barrels
Welded to the arms
Or Borg-like babies
Hovering, cloaked and radar invisible
Right behind you

The collateral damage of love bombs
Making celebrities out of people
At the right time and place

But in special cases of true love
A special arrow is loaded
A silver arrow that can’t miss

Love is silver poisoning
That can end in bands of gold

Cupid aims for the eyes
Because love is blind

Silver on our eyelids
For the journey

True love kills the werewolf

And cupid takes aim at you





tags

There's an event called A Day at the Races where poets go to the horse races and they each pick a horse name at random from each of the seven races and then use that name as a prompt for a poem. At the end of the day, we read out the 'winning' poem from each race and then whatever other poems we think turned out pretty good. It's a fun day.

This is poem 01 from race 01 and my horse's name was Take Charge Gwen.

----------------

Take Charge Gwen

Live Laugh Love
Eat Prey Predator
Fuck Marry Kill
Location, Location, Location
PBR
IPA
Take Charge Gwen

The car is a rental
We’re speeding towards two sunsets
With a trunk full of bad decisions
On four flat tires
The cliff is getting close
Take Charge Gwen

Gwen take the wheel
My own personal Gwen
Gwen is the way
The truth and the light
The power and the glory
Take Charge Gwen

We’re airborne and laughing
Gravity hugging us hard
The ground rushing up to kiss us passionately
Parachutes are still on the shopping list
It’s a cash-only world
My credit’s on fire
The drumroll is deafening
The cymbal crash is coming
Take Charge Gwen




tags

A red horse and a pink turtle met in a field in the middle of winter. They were cold so they sought shelter in the nearby forest. Between the trees of the deep forest they found the Sun. It was dressed as an owl with red and yellow feathers shining like burnished brass that had been soaked in the sun. It radiated brazier heat, turning the trees and ground around them springtime. An albino raven perched on a branch just outside the aura of warmth, almost lost against the snow. Raven was the moon.

“Red horse. Pink turtle. You have found shelter with me but it comes at a price,” said Sun Owl.

“Price” croaked Moon Raven.

“You will have to join us. Become part of the pantheon,” invited Sun Owl.

“Join us” croaked Moon Raven.

“What shall we be?” asked Red Horse.

Turtle stared. He only spoke to add to the conversation. Horse had already asked the question he wanted to ask so he patiently waited for the answer.

“Red Horse, you shall be a new season of fire. You shall be my flare. You shall be my flint. You will walk among the brush and trees, igniting with your aura.” proclaimed Sun Owl.

Red Horse wasn’t so sure he liked this idea. He thought of all the death he could cause if he wasn’t careful. Not just humans but all the forest creatures. But if it meant he would live, he had a hard time refusing.

Sun Owl turned to Pink Turtle, “Turtle, you shall be a new season of winter without snow. A pink, naked season with branches withered, leaves and flowers dead, but no white blanket to tuck them in. A season of desolation without the muffling blizzard. If the clouds must burst, it will be rain. Mud will be plentiful. Erosion will change the face of mountains.”

Turtle, too, didn’t care for being the mascot or patron animal of this new season. But he preferred not to freeze to death as well.

Red Horse and Pink Turtle looked at each other.

“Decide” croaked the Raven.

Red Horse turned back to them and said yes. Turtle slowly nodded his head.

“Very well. You are chosen. Stay still. The raiments of your new office will coalesce around you.” said Sun Owl.

The air shimmered around Red Horse. His mane and tail burst into flame but it didn’t hurt. Fire skated over his torso, snaking and flickering but never going out. His eyes glowed red. The ground under his hooves started to smoke.

The air shimmered around Pink Turtle. He grew in size into an immense turtle as tall as Red Horse. His shell became encrusted with glittering frost that melted and dripped from the new icicle tips around it. He grew a beard of ice. His eyes fluoresced into the blue of sea algae at night.

They left the forest that night, saddened at their new duties but happy to be alive. They knew that they would rarely cross paths from this point forward. Being seasons, they had a lot of work to do. But luckily Sun Owl had said for they were chaotic beasts that could run and traverse the countries of the world with little rhyme or reason.

And roam they do. Valuing the times they meet. Spreading fire and mud everywhere else.



tags

The realization came to me on my own personal highway in the darkness like a wild mustang. The horse that drives my life is a living creature. It’s a symbiotic relationship. Am I driven by my horse or does it lead me? It has to be both. My hope is that my horse is allergic to cliffs, a fast runner, and has good night vision.

Two out of three ain’t bad.

With life lasting no longer than a sneeze, there are small moments of opportunity for rein-pulling direction changes.

I want my horse to buck more. I feel as if I’ve broken that horse properly over the years but that the most it does these days if flick an ear or swish a tail. I need adventure but that’s hard to do when so much experience has already bored your eyes to indifference. Nowadays, only loud noises causes reactions.

I want to lead this horse to water. I want to ride into rough towns and clean them up. I want the decades of my life to be westerns with happy endings.



tags

Dirty pictures sweep up the floor of a lonely one-room hardwood soul. If his glance is like a whip, then his stare is like a long hard silver hook. An invisible metal tractor-beam lasso pulling a person up and closer like one would pull a stump out of the ground with a winch and a Jeep.

Rodeo clowns watch other riders get thrown and then distract a massive force by being funny and terrified all at once. For an audience. To make the show run smoothly. To help.

And he is the rider.

He is almost too old for this profession. His skin is burnt and thick. He’s rough around the edges and he’s all edges. He is tendons wrapped around bones elastically bound together under emotionless mouthwash-blue squinting eyes. The only way to know his frame of mind is to smell him. Even old friends and ex-wives still have to guess.

There are no logos on his gear. He’s one of a handful left.

He throws the silver trailer door open. Pictures of women are stapled to the corkboard inside. They flutter in the desert wind, moving as he leaves, symbols of decades gone by. Feathered hair, blue mascara, and padded shoulders crowd in with trimmed bushes and fake boobs to flutter like flirting eyelashes at his back as he walks slowly towards the ring. He knows this will be the goodbye. This is the last ride.

Three steps down to the hardpack dusty ground that the wind has kept scoured clean since the dinosaurs. This is an ancient battleground.

Spurs mark the seconds and time slows for his walk into the enveloping noise of the crowd.

He climbs the fence beside the wild-eyed animal he’s going to beat. He gives the bull a Full Power Stare with no effect. This animal shrugs it off like no human being ever has with a snort. The rider swings a leg over, slowly sits in the saddle and wraps the reins twice around his right hand. He holds the left hand in the air and becomes a frowning determined statue to signal his readiness.

The announcer says the name of the next rider and the crowd falls silent. There is only the breathing of the bull echoing around the arena and a lean forward by everyone present.

A bell rings. Hinges scream. Fury pounds out of the gate.




tags