THERE IS A POEM HERE SOMEWHERE
Slimy slithering censors are more profane and dirty
than the “S-H-I-T!” they cut from works of Poetry!
They never run out of work;
they label more evil whenever they need income,
they “define” the standards that justify their labor,
they can, they will, they do contradict themselves at will or opportunity.
And who censors the censors?
Like Batman’s signal projected against Gothom’s cloudy sky,
censors paint crosses in the night!
They organize Witch hunts to catch the selected sin de jure...
tonight: wanton serving wenches!
tomorrow: topless entertainment!
next week all politics other than their own!
Where most of us find ordinary life
they find vast raging reservoirs of vintage sin...
they pray for obvious signs, but use tinted glasses for ratification.
they are blind to the boulder in their eye, but stumble over our gravel.
But we scribblers... those who mainline Poetry... we are junkies!
We like it! It’s the monkey on back side of our mind!
We write witch doctor prescriptions in exchange for a little free love,
We are Pimps getting laid in meter.
We Pantoum, and Haiku, and, Villanelle.
We flaunt our thread bare Caesura.
We drip Sonnets at the mention of Love.
We shout out in strange public places, main line in Coffee dives,
compose on napkins at parties, and sometimes. . .
we leave Limericks on pristine private walls. . . without permission!
There are even reports of onomatopoeia in the presence of children!
But, we pay our dues, there is always a fee for free verse!
If it sells there is a tax, and when we fail at market, we still pay the muse.
Shoot it up, drink it down, inhale, blow it out, suck it in, give it away!
Poets have secret knowledge and weapons of black type!
Thankfully, freedom is still addictive, and love is never dirty!
Remember! Critics and Censors get here the same way we did. . .
life’s first poem was sharp smack on our wet bare butts;
that first wail was an angry poem of protest, and. . .
when death comes, protest is still the proper response!
Know this: Poetry records, sorts, catalogs, and explains. . .
far better than History!
Poetry sings about plowing,
seldom sings about
That happens with out request
Poetry is remembering yesterday.
Poetry is dreaming tomorrow,
Poetry is complaining,
and poetry is about what should be done,
and why no one is…
never calls for poetry
is past when.
People know something is missing;
they wonder where love went;
They don’t understand:
Poetry is much like air.
You can’t breath out
without first breathing in.
Poetics of a Non-Poet
I love you
Between this page and the somewhere
part of whatever
excretes hauntings spiritual
a miscarriage arrives turning
cringing lines of ink
which exist apart
in their failure.
A poet is one
unable to repeat the chorus of
susceptable proportionate to their longing.
A poet is one
in egocentricity who would speak of things he cannot
by drawing pictures
and numerous by
products of existence un-
A poet is one
claiming poets should have: ability
to disembowel the neural system of feeling,
to explain by the melody of sound
which dictate over
Units ago as I reckon time
I ceased to bow spritually
determined that if I could not understand
i did not know him and
would not talk about what
I did not know, and
there is a rank of strength
only where you
But I am not a strong
I would speak
of things to me
(god only knows)
more obscure than he.
A poet is one
who would say all that I have said to say that
which is unspoken;
A poet is one saving
till the end,
then ends where he began.
I love you.
Poetry readings happen here, there, yesterday, to night, tomorrow,
in pubs, at palaces, on street corners, in churches, and in huts… all over the world.
Hundreds of styles and forms… Different in Africa. Different in India
Rhymed then, patterned now, unknown tomorrow, bubbling up in a 100 years.
It’s tight and loose… aggressive and shy... happy and sad…
It flows from people scratching their hearts into concrete time,
and varies from poet to poet and from poem to poem…
Guaranteed! If not, there is no poetry!
Have you ever wanted to read someone’s mind?
You can… that’s the point… it happens all the time,
You don’t have to work at it; these people, the ones we call poets,
they have this secret zipper, a couple of lines open a fly and
there you are looking at blood and guts and hurt and joy…
at laughter and love and pain… and sometimes…
The sweet frosting, or sour medicine, or beautiful song, or ugly growth…
of someone’s soul is squeezed out;
It’s echoes sink into your mind and leave ebb ripples in silent sand.
Or weakness, tender flesh and bile drips out
packed and delivered in a poultice of words.
Sometimes old wounds heal by touch.
Sometimes other wounds… some new and some used, …never ever heal.
Some poets are so good at this you want to listen forever,
or run… so far away you’ll never hear truth again.
Some times you twist in your seat and beg for breath,
you think you’ll drown…
the poet drops a line or the poem ends,
and you suddenly realize, you’re flying…
with wings you didn’t even know you had.
The miracle is that poetry comes as a gift; but the wings are yours…
they were there, needing to unfold…
they are always there!