Saturday, April 23, 2016

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 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.


Post a Comment

Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]

<< Home