stuck in an elevator with a fat man and one twinkie

“cause i don’t want to come back down from this cloud

it’s taken me all this time to find out what i need” – bush

 

i don’t feel like being an artist today

worry about words

and what i want them to say

to somehow validate me

 

i need a movie

with zombies

popcorn

 

and for no one else to know

that i am really, really high

 

while i enjoy

 

***

 

the terrible parable

some espied, some described and some gave out dictates

propaganda poetry is poetry i hate

 

i prefer anne sexton

writing about the torture

that always showed up for tea

the only thing a poem should be

is just a piece of me

 

meter and rhyme keeping time

or disconcerted, disjointed lines

the reader should feel emotion

gain a little insight into your plight

the plight of being you

 

got it all figured out?

rhyme and tout?

is not a poet or a poem

 

people should read you

and not like you

after all it is the real you

you have shared

 

you throw your poem at the world

vomit and hurl

“this is me!

deal with it!”

 

crawl under an open fence

never write recompense

make your words spell out your name

after all your only fame

may be a posthumous biography

about obscurity and poverty

oh yeah

and some sort of substance abuse

 

how obtuse

delineate us by a hero’s standard

poems do not pander

they express your guess

of why you think you’re a mess

 

cause deep down you know

everyone else is right

and you don’t know

if you love poetry

because you can do beautiful things with words

or is it because the beauty of your poems

is that they are always about you

 

let’s face it

i’m lazy

not as smart as i think i am

and very, very defensive

 

with pen i take the offensive

as i write a personal poem

followed by

no praise, no coin

 

my skillful willfulness

is so i can dismiss

you have a why

but so do i

“see?!

new free me

from the confines

of your considerations”

 

poetry slows the self-destruction

but in the end

anne sexton

took her own life

her audience – her bride, her wife

shake heads and wag tongues

but the poet understands

 

and knows

poetry doesn’t accomplish anything

it’s just words we write down

because no one will ever understand us

like the empty, desolate page

 

***

 

 

  

 

treasured time measured by worthless dimes

“let them have the stage so long as i need not be in the audience” – charles bukowski

 

chicken coups and alphabet soup

the dreams and flowers i recoup

rainbow showers on the lawn

the depth of dancing at the dawn

green apples growing in the sea

ripened and now falling free

from all contagions of the mind

the hummingbird has yet to find

the flower that will garner hope

and take away the stethoscope

that tethers me to pocket rhymes

and licking green off all the limes

 

always then and maybe now

i crawl inside the birthing cow

to seek the solace of surprise

and leave my dreams with each sunrise

till everything that isn’t me

is all that they want me to be

and yet i flourish with the fake

the baker and the birthday cake

i hide inside my inner being

and laugh till i am sight unseen

watch the world whirl and fret

fishermen and casting nets

 

everyone will sculpt and mold

freeze you hot and burn you cold

never having read my words

that truth is just a tiny turd

we squeeze out from our dirty minds

while claiming a eureka find

they think their thoughts can cauterize

the veil between the truth and lies

but i have scratched that off my list

the veil, i know, does not exist

i screech within the rocky bay

and watch my dinner get away

 

you say i should but never know

that in the language you bestow

i just nod the work of listen

transparent in the pools that glisten

there is no conflict in resolve

i skipped that part where we evolved

spider fat and eating flies

we wear our words as a disguise

you give me facts and cold hard truth

i leave the language and its proof

and know that everything i see

was never real only perceived

 

***