Sonnettics

Pretentious bitch, you whisper in my ear,
as “bitch-so-named” stands up to scattered claps.
She looks the whore. I’ll bet she fucks for beer,
you snort, as “two-bit-whore” adjusts her straps.
I heard she got her tits just for tonight–
and “plastic-jugs” ascends the podium.
She’s still the poster child for cellulite,
I’m told, to your invective’s steady hum.
Can you believe she’s getting this award?
It goes to show the judges have no taste.
Look, look–her boyfriend’s even getting bored.
It’s such a waste. It’s such a fucking waste!
I sit in silence, listen, nod my head,
and wish that you had won the prize instead.

I felt like god from eighteen stories high
above St. Paul the winter that I died.
I didn’t jump; to jump would be to fly.
But pieces of me fell each night I cried.
And on the nights when I was smooth as glass,
while framed in darkness, focused on one light,
I felt the time, the time that wouldn’t pass,
and watched the sinners from my godly height.
Below me in the park they bought and sold
their chemicals to ease their bodies pain.
Their cloudy breath proclaimed the living cold.
Some nights it snowed, some nights just freezing rain.
Epiphany was all the help I sought;
but death and god was all the help I got.

I still recall the roar of Hercules,
whose engines drowned the sound of sergeant’s voice.
I still recall the weakness of my knees,
to face the open door and make a choice.
But I had really made my choice before.
When sergeant yelled “stand up” I chose to stand,
unsteady on the aircraft’s pitching floor,
though ready for the rest of his commands.
As Sergeant Airborne took my static line,
and as I placed my hands outside the bird,
I knew the silver wings would soon be mine,
as soon as sergeant yelled one final word.
The light turned green; the drop zone was below,
and all I heard was sergeant holler: “Go!”

My legs are not my legs, they are my wings,
The power of my horizontal flights
Above the pavement clouds. Such graceful things
As birds look down from simple jealous heights.
My legs are not my legs, they are my wings,
They split the rushing chaos of the wind
And push it side to side. Such striding flings
The eddied air awash and far behind.
It’s true my feet are cadenced on the ground
Which rises like a challenge to the pace.
But quicker than they fall, my feet rebound,
And like a wingtip, barely leave a trace.
For gravity and I have drawn a truce,
And though it holds, I feel it breaking loose.

This sonnet is available in my book, “26.2 Sonnets for Runners.”

If how to write a sonnet is your aim,
Or what a sonnet is you wish to know,
Read on, this sonnet seeks to do the same
In just ten lines remaining down below.

A sonnet is a song of fourteen lines.
“Sonneto” is the word for “little song.”
Italians wrote them first, but different kinds
Of sonnets through the years have come along.

To write a sonnet just remember this:
Each line should sound just like these lines you’ve read.
Ten syllables whose rise and fall persists
Right through the end, which lies two lines ahead.

And if I had a little bit more time
I’d tell you how a sonnet’s lines should rhyme

The things I feel remain still unexpressed
As if expression never found a way
To guide me through the strangeness of that day
On which I found her searching, sharply dressed,
For where I kept the passports. I confessed
That I had locked them recently away
Because . . . I stopped, unsure of what to say,
And felt a sudden sinking in my chest.

Don’t frighten her, just play along. Now go
Put on your pinstriped suit. Now go and get
The passports from the safe. Be calm because
She’s standing at the edge. Don’t cry. You know
That sudden shifts of mind will just upset
Her slant reality. Don’t stop. Just pause . . .

We didn’t try to kill the president
We only sought to rough him up a bit
Like Moses, who we know by accident
Killed someone who was giving someone shit
We held him down, removed his kevlar vest
We stuffed the Constitution in his mouth
We tattooed five commandments on his chest
At number six the whole affair went south
Apparently his clothes were soaked in crude
When someone lit a match to smoke a cig
It’s odd how our intent was misconstrued
And how he smelled just like a roasting pig
In retrospect, we should have put him out
But then, that’s what elections are about

It sucks when you and I are out of synch
It’s like a comet slamming into earth
Our world explodes as fast as we can blink
And what remains? Debris of little worth
The chunks are ripped apart by gravity
And fall into an orbit in the space
Where once before our planet used to be
Which now is just a lifeless littered place
Then off we fly in hyperbolic arcs
Unsure of what just blew us both away
Toward our individual destined marks
The apogees where we refuse to stay
It should be plain for both of us to see
We’ll never reach escape velocity

Dig down below the dust that coats this road
Which stretches to a flat eternal point
Ignore the pilgrim passing with his load
Ignore the way his bleeding feet anoint
This dusty road which seems to have no end
Pay no attention to his solemn stare
And if he stops to help you, just pretend
You’re resting for a moment and that there
Is really not a need for him to wait
Encourage him to journey on ahead
His perfect circumspection is oblate
Because he only walks toward the dead
Dig down below the dust and you will find
A vein of gold which hasn’t yet been mined

The stars and stripes are raised to greet each dawn
And we salute with clean and righteous hands
The sounds of reveille have come and gone
For what we stand, Guantanamo still stands
The chain of strength links liberty to deeds
When times of terror make us weak with fear
But chain-linked strength is what our nation needs
And what it doesn’t need stays hidden here
At dusk the flag is lowered for the night
Its vigilance not needed in the dark
To justify the end beyond our sight
With means that may or may not miss the mark
The cry of tortured Liberty is clear
Regardless of the voices silenced here