A Trip
Posted: July 31st, 2012, 1:05 pm
i don't want to be a poet
maybe i'm not
maybe i'm just a slinger of words
some body that tosses stones at birds
i don't want to write jibberish
bus trips to nowhere
and when or where you step off
the doors folded open
the light so bright its dark
she said
what you write is predictable
predictable
i would have gotten vulgar
but paper is part of paper mache'
and
the words run off
predictably
she would predict the puddles
mop them
up
and there you are
outside
predictably
a poet of the mundane
cliche'd
misspelled
heart-ake
for God's sake
breaking
into dropped china
or spilled coffee
or envy
deep green tea envy
and predictable as
bukowski
saying "shit"
and so you write
the same story
the words as transparent
as the deep in-turning eyes
skewering
poet
without an MFA
or fee for a festival seminar
or pal to get drunk with
to throw bottles at the wall with
yes, without slow suicidal cigarettes
without a cheap shiny silver slack
whore
to take to bed
dream with
no, forget with
you need the fantasy
you need the predictable words
that tumble off your keyboard
that sound so flat
like the wind
whipping into a storm
poet
bull
you just must confess
your fantasies
that have nothing
to do with
the bus schedule
maybe i'm not
maybe i'm just a slinger of words
some body that tosses stones at birds
i don't want to write jibberish
bus trips to nowhere
and when or where you step off
the doors folded open
the light so bright its dark
she said
what you write is predictable
predictable
i would have gotten vulgar
but paper is part of paper mache'
and
the words run off
predictably
she would predict the puddles
mop them
up
and there you are
outside
predictably
a poet of the mundane
cliche'd
misspelled
heart-ake
for God's sake
breaking
into dropped china
or spilled coffee
or envy
deep green tea envy
and predictable as
bukowski
saying "shit"
and so you write
the same story
the words as transparent
as the deep in-turning eyes
skewering
poet
without an MFA
or fee for a festival seminar
or pal to get drunk with
to throw bottles at the wall with
yes, without slow suicidal cigarettes
without a cheap shiny silver slack
whore
to take to bed
dream with
no, forget with
you need the fantasy
you need the predictable words
that tumble off your keyboard
that sound so flat
like the wind
whipping into a storm
poet
bull
you just must confess
your fantasies
that have nothing
to do with
the bus schedule
