the poets
by greg bliss
The poets are selfish, feverishly building their own dead society.
They drone between rooms licking their chops
over forgotten fragments of Ginsberg, Eliot, or Whitman. "The grass is always greener on the other side."
A poet wrote that.
"Life sucks then you die."
Another poet wrote that.
"My other car is a Cadillac."
Yet another poet wrote that.
"God grant me the serenity to
blah, blah, blah, blah, blah . . ."
A team of poets wrote that
then shared a bottle of rubber cement
and wrote footprints in the sand.
Poets are always needing to be
carried somewhere
or remembering something forgotten
or lost, or submerged, or purged.
"I'm a poet and I don't know it."
A poet wrote that.
"Red fish, blue fish . . ."
"Because I could not stop for . . ."
Or poets merely plunge into their daily journals,
arrange the words with a nice tri-level effect,
edit, rewrite and call it poetry.
Poets assume you care
or that you don't and you should
or that you can be resurrected from the dead
if only you swallow their magical words. Poets eventually give up and write lyrics
for garage bands or Disney movies--
"Can you feel the love . . ."
A former poet wrote that.
or bathroom stalls
"For a good time call . . ."
A former poet wrote that.
"Meat, it's what's for dinner"
A former poet wrote that.
"Just do it!"
A former poet wrote that
"Yo quiero Taco Bell"
A former poet wrote . . .
And they have all been paid well. If you are sitting next to a poet
he/she will do his/her best to remain anonymous.
If you knew you may ask he/she to recite a poem.
Poets prefer that you fall upon their poetry
in some dusty anthology and that it changes
your life or irreversibly alters your awareness
so that you too think that you could be a poet. If you have ever read an anthology of poetry
and said to yourself, "I could have written that . . ."
you might be a poet. If you have ever wandered
through a toy store section
where all the record and
playback dolls are retained
and had to fight back an overwhelmingly
powerful compulsion to
fill every voice box
with a low raspy recitation of Jaberwocky . . .
you might be a poet Until you discover whether or not you are a poet
or if the poet's life is the only life for you,
read a book or discuss a movie
with a friend sometime late at night.
Then walk out into the middle of your
suburban neighborhood stark naked and scream
the first thing that comes to your mind
over and over and over to the tune of
the Yellow Rose of Texas
until the cops come and take you away.
Spend the night in a crowded drunk tank with
Bubba, a large man who can't take his eyes off of you,
Raul, who wants you to meet his sister when you
both get out and promises a good time,
Rolanda, whom you first found strangely attractive
then of course you learned to keep your distance,
and Stuppie, who for one reason or another
isn't liked by any of your other cell mates
and is taken out on a periodic basis for a good beating
by those who protect and serve. Then you may have something to write about.
Until then, dream of Ginsberg, Eliot, and Whitman,
scrawl anything in your earnest journal of no importance,
sleep deeply in your verbal Avalon whispering of Camelot
or hang out in coffee shops and wear black a lot.
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