I Quit

I must not be a poet.

I don't care how the words sound.

I only care what they say.

I don't care what I say...whatever

comes out is okay...I don't see 

enough future to hire an editor.

I've said it all already anyway.

I just keep writing words because

I don't know what else to do.

So many I's in this poem, you know

I must be doing something wrong.

I don't care, it's not my job, I don't

have to get it writ right.

I don't know enough to know when

it's over, time to quit, throw in the towel,

abdicate, give up, shut up, be still,

be quiet...you see something is wrong.

I'd like to stop but I don't know how.

I'd like to say something nice, people

would like, but I'd rather tackle them

tickle them, yell at them:

"Put down your god damned cell phones

and take a look at the world you're in!"

I should be banned from writing.

But words are free, speech is free, few

are paying attention. Talk in the world

is hot, steaming, bubbling blaze of sheer

heating up nonsense amok in an out of

control environment, civilization, species

that can't help itself and knows it deep 

down but doesn't know which way to turn

with seeming good ideas getting lost in

tsunami of out of control events planned

and spontaneous uncoordinated, anarchy

the home game too big to fail too big to

succeed nobody else has a clue either.

And yet, when I'm sitting in the morning

outside the coffee house, sipping and

smoking, nothing seems out of place.

Figure that one out.