What For?
I put the
scattered
thoughts
on paper
and save
them for
what, I
don't
know
until
a chance
at some
ass gets
me to show
them and then
I am a part
of this thing
writers, poets, critics, scholars, opinions, academics, spoken word artists, slam?artists, out of work actors, publishers, editors, political party crasher commentators, schizos, communal outcasts, bi-polemiscists, physical wordsmiths, sexual intellectuals, man-made women, women-made men, art charlatans, dancing singers, singing dancers, musicians who pawned their instruments, addicts who owe their dealers, dealers looking for more addicts, pious gurus, zen bastards, alconumeric wordafarians, peformance enhanced prose speakers of tongues that have yet to exist, asexual predators, existence arbiters, half-baked stand up authoritarians, large scale chapbook developers, small press rack purveyors...
it is still
shocking
years later
I liked her
ass, but I
had no idea
what I was
getting into
afterward
they want poems
to compare to
other poems
in case the one
they wrote might
be similar or
they need to feel
like I need to feel
and in the dark
when we feel
with our hands
we might touch
each other with
an image that
gets at that bit
of stuff in our
deep center
that nobody
really knows
the essence of
we just feel the
words that poke
at it when they
are arranged in
a certain way
our reaction to
the convergence
of life inside of
ourselves spelled
out in line breaks
and stanzas
they wanted good
poetry and all I had
were soft bullets
that wanted to ply
hardened flesh in
to two sides of an
argument we both
can win if you take
the time to read it
and feel it like
I do
