You Don’t Even Whisper

You don’t even whisper

While I go around screaming

You spend all your time worrying

I spend all my time dreaming

You don’t even think about me

I’m not on your radar

But I think about you all day

And write a contrast poem later

You don’t even know me

But I study you

You’re my favorite specimen

I enjoy your delusions

With my razor sharp skepticism

You don’t even get the humor

But I am laughing at it so hard

You have a tendency to not go anywhere

And I have a penchant for taking things way too far

You say I’m not original

But I create it all alone

You give lip service to criticism

While I write my bias in a poem

You Were Right To Sacrifice Me

You were right to dismiss me

And my atheistic truths

You were right to decline

It would only grow roots

You were right to deny me

The moment to speak

You were right to remain shallow

While I drown in the deep

You were right to repudiate me

On the grounds that I don’t believe

In something imaginary

Upon which you and others agree

You were right to discriminate

Against the thoughts and opinions that are mine

You were right to think I was deluded

And was only pretending to be kind

You were right to sentence me

To the death I believed so firmly

You were right that I am suicidal

And planned to check out early

You were right to kill me

To sacrifice me to the very gods

That I all along maintained

Were the biggest and most unchallenged frauds

I Like The Singular

I like the singular

I like the convex

I like the stupid

But I hate the complex

New beans

Their corners rounded off by God

And driven news

Pounding in heads like headaches

The TV and what’s on and what’s next

I hate the TV

And I hate the complex

Dark nights

And games of chess

The day bleeds

Into my rest

I like the sun and Sunday

And Sundays best

I love the real

But I hate the complex

What Did It Press Upon You?

What did it press upon you

For strengths tired arms

And dance putrid

Vomiting and convulsing to music

Of someone more genuine than you

 

What did it feel if anything

Your face and glassy eyes

The dead pan of the room

As though all of this was a surprise

Of someone more genuine than you

 

And the school put ideas in your head

Ideas you spread

And glued to the fascination kept

A steady devotion to words spoken

By someone more genuine than you

 

And fury

Like a madness of television

Invading the brain

The criticism remains

The desperate and true

Of someone more genuine than you

Why Do You Write Before Work?

“Why do you write before work?” Dave asked

“I don’t know” I said

“What is the point?”

“I don’t know”

“Don’t you think you should be doing exercises?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Going for a swim or jogging”

“No” I said “my job is physical I don’t want to get tired”

“Why not?  Do you think Arnold Swarznegger stops working out when he’s tired?”

I shot Dave a look

What the hell was he talking about?

“What is wrong with writing poems?” I asked him

“Nothing”

“Then why can’t I?”

Dave went over to the mirror and looked at himself

He adjusted his shirt

And without looking at me said “you can”

I turned to my computer

And wrote

Defective

I think you loosen my screws

I think you find me defective

I think I’m perfectly used

And your con is effective

I think you spit out the news

Like you are protected

And anything you defuse

Is in the first place defective

I don’t even choose

I give the choice to my brain

You can’t even lose

When you call me insane

You seem to soothe

All the harsh pain

And when death ensues

I’ll be grateful to change

I’ll Write How I Want

“Another draft?” Dave asked

“Yeah” I said

“Just put a crappy one out there”

“Why?”

“To get a star before work”

“I don’t need one”

“Yeah right”

“Okay I need one”

Dave walked over to the window

He looked at me funny for a second scrunching up his face

Then he went to my bookshelf

“Who’s you’re favorite poet?” he asked

“Poe” I said

“Not really a poet”

“Than what’s The Raven?  Only the greatest poem ever written”

Dave scoffed

“More of a short story writer.  Ever read Homer?”

“Yeah” I said

A siren went off outside

It grew louder and louder and then softer and softer

Dave threw a book on my desk

It was Pablo Neruda

“Write like him” he said

I threw the book on the floor

“Screw you” I said “I’ll write how I want”