Simulacrum

I pretend to be a poet.

Impressions come in,

words come out

like meat from a grinder

fresh and raw forever.

Not super attenuated

pre packaged

copy ready

for critics who only appreciate

what they expect to see.

Real poetry can't be pigeonholed

like Creeley

Merwin

Angelou

Velveetas of cheesy word smithing.

Show me a Rimbeaud

or leave me alone.

I didn't have to write...I make no

claim other than I'm out of control,

everyone should aspire to that, IMHO.

Talk talk talk about what they want to do.

but don't because of the BIG BUT.

So much possibility...lost in Picadilly,

(pick a city) no money, just some clothes

on the skin....

...jumping a ship as a cook and crossing

the ocean...

..waking in a jungle of gardenias...

...getting lost is the only way you'll find yourself.

Even where you are is nowhere...it's name

is mere superstition.

I'm a serendipitous simulacrum,

a latah mimicking a human being

only acting

as if all this was real

so I don't scare the straight people.