Be a poet,
They said,
And
Walk on
Tar
With two
Pale eyes
Set
On the
Far
Distance of
Failure's
Dream roll
Scripted in
Pointilist
Calligraphy's immortal
Bliss.
Picture the
Soul on fire
As it stirs another meal
Holding a book and a baby
Bottle for balance
Against an overwhelming
Tide of indifference,
Feigned and otherwise.
Poets are
Lazy people
By anyone's standards of modern
Success;
Why,
They could just stare all day
And watch the shadows change the colors
Of the leaves and figure it had been
A decent day's work.
So
Don't marry a poet,
Or get to be too friendly
With one,
Or try to talk to one,
Or worry much about what's
Going to happen to them
If things don't get better.
No one reads poetry
Anymore
Anyway.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
PoesíaTHIS POEM SITUATES CONTEMPORARY LIFE AS A GROWTH EXPERIENCE, NOT A CONTEMPLATION OF WHAT MIGHT BE. IT DENIES THE 20TH CENTURY NOTIONS OF BEING AND NOT BEING.
