think I could write a poem,
that's what I do, or, should
say, that's what happens.
do they come from?
been many lately.
they come in bunches,
grapes...what a delight to see
fruit on the vine!
they come from another
lifetimes 'til the right trigger
always wrote, I never knew why,
I was always surprised to see,
when you're amazed a the
in the toilet; to think that that
just been inside you, that ones
workings are hidden from
function secretly, automatically,
if part of some cosmic plan.
got a question. Did we shop for
bodies, these particular lives?
some look for the new Escalade,
others wanted an old jalopy they
refurbish and soup up? Smooth
or a project? Hard to know.
yes, I can write, writing happens,
I wouldn't particularly call this a
is just words, my friends,
words I would say to anyone...part
a conversation I'll never have.
spoiled by words...I make them up,
combine them in new ways, like
like reading novels, stories...I
write them, whether because of
or, just because my dogma is if
can't express yourself in a page,
really have nothing to say.
wrote for over forty years before I
of myself as a "writer", even,
(love that word) a mediocre one.
a poet by default because I can't do
other things I used to any more. Like
writers, I guess, I enjoy that some
like to read me.
Herbert Huncke and Gregory
reminisce about their beat lives,
before they became known and
as significant, their cheerful
and twinkling knowing nods, they
to enjoy adoration of young people
realize they wrote important truths.
sang at the right time, when America
fruitful, not fruitless, when the intellect
had elbow room to navigate, when joy
like a possible outcome of a new
breaking on the shore.
I be remembered? Will they is more
Will the geniuses of literature
the pollution of Orwellian fabricated
survive past an era of moments of
if humanity goes the way of the Dodo,
long as intelligence is born somewhere,
on this world or another, the truth,
gleaming diamond of inevitable conclusion,
certain to arise.
Labels: American Poetry