“ if you don’t live it, it won’t come out of your horn “
that was Bird.
that was a statement
not a fine piece of writing
from the very heart and soul of the flesh
who walked the line and never got back,
others withered away.
get a life.
write about it.
yeah, every poet is a thief
but nobody said
just stay there, don’t move
from your safefuckingdistance
and do some more
on those tits
will surely call
p – o – e – t – i – c
l – i – c – e – n – s – e
“ do not be overly influenced by any writer you may or may not admire.
including me, in fact especially me. this will lead to imitation, which is
to be avoided at all costs. “
“ now start writing something truly novel. “
in vino veritas, a dude say this
if he messed up big time and
realized what an asshole
he was the last night,
and between the busted lip
i’m still trying to figure out
how i got it
on a large fucking scale
that i happened to
is some poetic place
where the humor
found in self – deprecation
can be championed
and a universal belief
that no one
can deny the asshole
because after all,
everybody has one
or so they say ;
and i’m pretty sure
there’s poetry to milk
from this headache
just like the poetry on looking
at oneself in a mirror
and talking to yourself
and somehow managed
to interrupt your own
or maybe it ain’t poetry
at all but just me
talkin’ with my head
to my ass
as my wife repeat the word
to me again and again,
but you know what,
in any given time of the day,
i will never trade in the
goddamn drunk asshole with the
goddamn drunk asshole
that talks behind my back.
that being said, now let me
wallow on the surprise of
having a chirped tooth as well.
i am waiting for a flash of brilliance to pregnant my mind with metaphors.
I am waiting for imagery to cloud my mind.
i am waiting for genius to strike and make things happen.
i am waiting for an inspired envy to steal someone else’s idea and make it my own.
i am waiting for something to rant about and call it poetry.
i am waiting for this false bravado to get all worked up and be poetic.
i am waiting for this clinging naivety to speak of a dream – covered scream.
i am waiting for this throbbing desperation to manifest the poet in me.
i am waiting for this hope, masked and ready to defy rules in poetry writing if there are still such rules that apply.
i am waiting for visions left not maimed by stillness.
i am waiting for despair to make its presence felt.
i am waiting for boredom to possess some appeal and impress me.
i am waiting for a heartache that’s not quick and easy to understand and accept.
i am waiting for my thirty six year old emptiness to echo my teenage angst.
i am waiting for my aging private turmoil to channel my turbulent years way past down the line.
i am waiting for obscurity to reappear and show its ugly face once more.
i am waiting for ghosts to invoke the creative spirits.
i am waiting for a life reimagined.
spare me the cold embrace of age, the comfort of love,
i am not waiting for that.
i prefer to recall the troubles of my long, lost self and nail it down to paper.
and where are the muses when you needed them ?
all bled out and dry like some barren desert ;
know that my death scars’ healing has begun.
know that to milk desperation is no piece of cake.
know that first thought, best thought never made things easy.
know that channeling words is not just a walk in the park,
i tell you —–
you wait for it.