Faux Poesis

Poetry is not a luxury
nor is it a commodity
Poetry can only be
a deep inhalation that exhales
with unsustainable vigor
or dehydration –
Poetry is drugs, it is liquor,
it is a death-wish
when you’ve never been sicker

I must speak now, reach out
with a tornado – ish tongue;
A poet must bow down
with sacred song left unsung –
Do not be young, I say,
but be gaping
Be old and stay aging
like brother and sister of the sun
Be weak and depraved,
be a slave for Master’s taking

Poetry is not your twenty-dollar
night out;
poetry is a bloodstain
that can’t be cleaned
between the grout

Poetry is a full-fist punch,
it is a midnight pout
over grandmother’s lost ring
Poetry is an empty stomach at lunch,
a eunuch that can’t cum
It is winters tunic too-thin,
a shivering wet towel wrung and hung
on the line
Poetry is the cup of coffee right on time
but too hot to sip

Poetry is the shoe – step
sidewalk countdown
maimed by traffic interruption
or unwanted small talk
Poetry is the only disruption
when your ears are too loud

Poetry is standing naked for the crowd,
on stage, ashamed and shaking
and warm and proud
Poetry: the mysterious shroud
in an ancient cave
Poetry is the bare room, a head shaved,
the politician wading in blame

Poetry is my name
It is the divine save –
Poetry is the alien
come to Earth,
it is a millenium’s rebirth
Poetry is pre-history
with all its triumphs and failings:
famine, war, fire,
the wheel’s invention and
the first ship’s sailing,
divine intervention
that became mythology’s tale-ings

Do not write a poem
or proclaim yourself a poet
if you cannot feel each atom
struggling beneath your pen –
This is not just pen and paper,
it is a prayer to your Maker:
Get down on your knees
for any sanctified relief

If you are a faux poet
I urge you for atonement –
Do not write unless
you cannot resist
a poem
like breath,
unless you are shaking with fear and death
like each word were a first kiss

Poetry is a demented sonnet,
a withered bluebonnet
Poetry is the power of minutia
a screaming, cosmic event
If you are a poet,
shine like a fuscia supernova
Be each moment’s only reverence,
as the universe hangs secretly over

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