if you were to ask me what is a poet I would have to say I don't know. For me, poets are just this side of fairies or leprechauns. Poets; they live surely for if they didn't how could we have poems.
But you see although I write stuff and some of it may be poetry, I am not a poet. I do all sorts of stuff, serious stuff and silly stuff, and the stuff that i do for wages and other stuff i never intended or planned to do, and then also there is the real stupid shit that i do on a regular basis.
In truth some of the stuff I do is really fucked up, so i have to ask myself; Am i a poet making fuck-ups or a fuck-up making poetry. To hell with philosophy.
Today it is raining and I should have been washing windows so that i can pay my rent at the end of the month and here i am instead polishing.
There is a woman that i know and she has something beautiful in her. I met her as she was making coffee and i was about to drink it. So you could say that she was a barista and i was just a guy buying coffee. Inside in that transaction she reminded me of someone else that i met years and years ago. And i thought, she reminds me of such n such but then I realized- no she didn't. She is nothing like such n such, but there you go in spite of that, she reminded of her anyway.
It turns out that this morning, I took out this piece that i've been working now about five years and broke it up and took about five words out of it and scattered the commas, things i don't hardly know what to do with, in different places and now it says things a little differently. And some other bits have changed as well but to talk about those would resurrect philosophy and i need to have my breakfast.
I don't know if this piece is getting closer to a poem or not but this is the stuff i sometimes do when it rains on my intentions.
That need
But you see although I write stuff and some of it may be poetry, I am not a poet. I do all sorts of stuff, serious stuff and silly stuff, and the stuff that i do for wages and other stuff i never intended or planned to do, and then also there is the real stupid shit that i do on a regular basis.
In truth some of the stuff I do is really fucked up, so i have to ask myself; Am i a poet making fuck-ups or a fuck-up making poetry. To hell with philosophy.
Today it is raining and I should have been washing windows so that i can pay my rent at the end of the month and here i am instead polishing.
There is a woman that i know and she has something beautiful in her. I met her as she was making coffee and i was about to drink it. So you could say that she was a barista and i was just a guy buying coffee. Inside in that transaction she reminded me of someone else that i met years and years ago. And i thought, she reminds me of such n such but then I realized- no she didn't. She is nothing like such n such, but there you go in spite of that, she reminded of her anyway.
It turns out that this morning, I took out this piece that i've been working now about five years and broke it up and took about five words out of it and scattered the commas, things i don't hardly know what to do with, in different places and now it says things a little differently. And some other bits have changed as well but to talk about those would resurrect philosophy and i need to have my breakfast.
I don't know if this piece is getting closer to a poem or not but this is the stuff i sometimes do when it rains on my intentions.
That need
to be part fox
no mystery to the initiated
is why I like you!
And why I want
to encounter
the fox
of an evening
of damp grass,
foam laden waters.
and wet stones,
here where pansies bloom,
beneath dark trees
and down browns
soft scent
a haven for a fox.
To while as
the gray sun temps
the last line of sky to sleep
and with
winters chill still living
her shawl could
warm flesh to comfort.
But she looks on an ocean
that never ate a tired sun.
And I
still see her carrying
rust in her hair above
bright eyes
watching
smiling
weeping
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