I started writing this poem at 8:28 P.M.
Hoo-hum, that’s enough writing for today.
I finished this poem at 8:29 P.M.
course, that ain’t the half of it is it?
poetry’s this cry/shout/mutter/stoic form of communication,
and more often than not we find ourselves catering to stolen cadences
diction dancing through cut and paste sequences of woe
with hyper-sensitive overblown expectations of our own artistic merit.
a poem isn’t an unlived life lingering on the lips of some lover,
it isn’t the bombast diction of artillery angst,
it’s not the technical tenacity of tried and true structure,
it isn’t untold lies and monosyllable myths,
sometimes we say bullshit,
sometimes we say things we should regret,
sometimes we steal our worst and best words,
sometimes, sometimes, sometimes,
sometimes you steal words from me,
sometimes you know.
a poem is a poem,
which means nothing more than words on a page,
phrases passed through lips.
you can learn everything from mediocrity,
but wonder lies only in origin,
for every frayed fly-trap-phrase
purchased at discount due to mass production,
there’s an agile, angular, tongue making gymnastics out of language,
cold-cutting tough ideas into deli sliced palatability,
reminding us of the importance of guilt, and love, and remembrance.
you are inspired by them,
you are moved,
but what can you offer but hull-hollowed words compared to that?
what’s the point of all that?
it’s just, it’s just, it’s just words.
slaved over, or loved, or stolen, or origin burning
maybe I am just love-locked with my own voice.
do looms and spindles fight over copyrights?
do all artist metaphors have to sound like overindulgent shit?
I finished this poem at 9:20 P.M.
And I’ll keep writing it for years.
