got poems with street cred?
send it here :
sometimes a man should stop
which may take
an awful lot of time
he should just act.
like getting his poetry out
or have the ball rolling by now
two way chap
that’s been cooking for months ;
is for poetry written twenty years ago.
now with few poems
wearing small press badges,
for some kind of affirmation
only to be told
by editors and publishers
that they’d enjoyed reading the poems,
don’t hesitate to submit again,
or they’d already selected the poems
to be featured
on their next issue,
can be for a chapbook
or the idea of a two way chapbook
where the other writer
just wants to get his poetry out
and i keep on
messing things up
by changing my mind
about the concept
about the layout
about the title of the chapbook
about the number of poems to be included
reflecting my clinging naivety;
the other writer said to me
there’s no bread to be made
in small press.
a sound advice
to be realized
as genius strikes
one more time
then comes another poem,
i go ask myself something stupid like :
“ should i send
this one to Rattle ? “
“ how about another
to Empty Mirror ? “
“ will a chapbook
be the next step?”
followed by the classic of all questions :
“ what the fuck
for ? “
you can be black, blatantly racist
and still managed to blow smoke rings
with white intellectuals.
there is something wrong
in this picture.
this was 1969.
we all eat our own shit sometimes.
nobody cares if some of your words
comes out of your ass.
it’s the same shithole where the best poetry
the world had ever known came out.
the aforementioned verse is for us to swallow,
no questions asked.
ad motherfucking infinitum.
pride fucks hard.
it seeks an audience
and alienates it;
feeds on the ego
and talks of glory
down the line
as if it was happening
at the moment .
a champion of his own self,
no one gets a chance
even the heavenly bodies
with dreams and running out of it
with love cold and misunderstood
with pockets empty as a wooden heart
with long stares on empty walls
with life fading like a dying star
with eyes owl wide open and awake
with death looming large
fixin’ to die is all I hear
all I want to do now is go home
and shut myself from the world
there is a dying music playing
for a failed marriage coming
there’s a ghost of a dog sighing
on the chambers of my sleep
and it numbs me but couldn’t shed a tear
for i’m waiting for someone to die
after that I will watch someone ruin his life
By then maybe I can cry
But not now
No, not now
from Silver Birch Press Mythic Poetry Series
The ferryman was adamant;
he knew I was confused about whether to stay or leave.
He downplayed the monkey bleeding me to death
as unimpressive and pretentious. With sarcasm, he pointed out
that the hurting brought about by
my romanticizing death was
of childish inclination.
So he told me of the obolos coin I would bring
when the due time comes
and if I ever chicken out, I can frequent the same empty streets
dreaming of narcotics. He said there I’ll find the same kind of haunting
in the upper world of Akheron
if I ever wander thru it
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I was into mythology at an early age, with Hercules as starting point, and I always had a picture in mind of reading poetry or stories based on myths matched by art with a touch of surrealism. Of course, the…
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