every single poem that i've ever written begins with the working title "the most important poem ever writen". but in my wild ramblings about Vietnam and Woodstock in my mind, i am unceasingly dissatisfied by the title, having not met my own expectations. so i change it. this will be the first poem published under its working title, "pretentious arse".
the first only because all of the bugs in my mind seem to die off as lift the screen of my computer to write out peoples tears, and crime scene artist renditions of my very own dreams and fears.
see i've yet to write an important poem, the life expectancy of my bugs is just simply to fragile to risk that kind of disappointment.
everybody is born with a swarm of bugs buzzing uncontrollably in the right side and the left side and the front and the backs of our brain, so many bugs that your mouth becomes a drain for all the ideas that these bugs produce.
when we get older, the bugs begin to fade. age is irrelevant; age simply creates bigger rooms for the bugs.
they eat music, washed down with a glass of yellow paint, they buzz with happiness that must be expressed in the emotion to create.but every time a child must write a state report, or a math test, the bugs begin their suicide protest
and stop speaking.
mouths shut tight with rainbow duct tape, they are barraged by a sea of Cs and Ds on a report card, because the duct tape cant stop them buzzing.
but they'll stand still amidst the crashing brain waves of a child who is told to stop being wild, so the bugs die of boredom, leaving their host in silence to contemplate the violence in the middle east. or the chores that must be done.
it seems that the pressure to conform is both the the most powerful ad the most destructive form, as i feel the need to write something inspirational because someone else did, and because that child forgot about his dream to become a comic book artist because his bugs hid.
Van Gogh knew just what to do. he fed his bugs paint that was bright yellow, bright blue, until stars wove in and out of his honey bee hive mind, to the sound of a symphony that he created with strokes and lines. like the patterns that a bow makes in the hands of a musician with intention, his paint brush and his alcohol became vessels of invention not destruction.
every happy healthy bug is an hour, and ten thousand make ten thousand post it note birthday cards spelling the same entry in child like calligraphy "i love you."
i knew a woman who taught in the school district in the inner city of Lancaster. she told me that she had to sneak in play dough for the children, as they were not allowed play dough or crayons due to the budget being shifted towards nicer testing facilities. she told me that if her boss the principal of a percentage of the next generation of bee keepers, if he ever found out about her play dough she would be out of a job.
but that's our job, is to feed our bugs sugar water. help them grow big and strong as the dys gorw shorter and the nights grow long in the minds of children born with extra bugs. labeled and medicated, the bugs no longer buzz but buzz from ridilin that gives them an artificial jolt like an electric fly swatter.
i am an artists daughter, only because the extra bugs that side of family was given gave them more reason to paint for a livin, my grandmother had synesthesia. my father taught himself to draw in a shack built of borrowed money from a family who felt obligated to give back to their synesthete daughter for being damaged. for being handed a jar of more bugs than they could handle, and a life that burnt her like a 50s mentality towards sexual abuse scented candle.
i still have her oil paints.
i still have the jar of bugs that my heritage passed down to me, maybe not a heightened sense for reality exactly, be that something to medicate.im a junky, theres so many now that i can't eradicate them.
ill take a buzz where i can get one.
stop the war on bugs.
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More Ryhme des mots
PoetryThe reckless optimist creates sunbeams With Archimedes death rays That they do believe will result in lovely sunsets. (And most everybody burnt to a crisp is not in favor of this method.)