Faulkner’s first draft of “Dying As I Lay”

Tossing another token to John Prine who epitomized offering more with less. I liken this to a song rather than a poem but I’ll leave that definition to the reader.

Hey, dying ain’t all it’s cracked up to be

so don’t you go listening to that Fibber McGee

nobody’s thinking ‘I gotta hit the finish line strong’

’cause there ain’t any victors collecting the spoils


Living serves up messy helpings of joy and dire

on the level with the devil and singing with the choir

as my hourglass sands silently collect at the bottom

I’m wishing I’d taken the surprise behind Door #3


Did I master the rudiments of bountiful living?

or was my existence knowledge minus application?

how about throwing myself on the mercy of the court

Alex, why yes I’ll go ish kabibble on final jeopardy


At the end of our paths of becoming a human emeritus

we remain our own executioners serving out a life sentence

I’ve learned not much changes by putting the tea kettle on

IPA salvation at the brewery gives you much better odds


But what about if I decide I want to come back

unfinished business, get me my jacket of flak

you know if Google’s got an app for that?

We all wish for the one offering just rewards


So before I coldfoot it out of this Hotel Final

where it’s always checkout hour with no revival

I’ll offer one last howl before my final sunset

serving up these words as a last communion.

Poetic Questions, and Possibly Some Answers

“Poetry is in” chirped my neighbor

alluding to the latest nova burst iteration of wordists

“So were bell bottoms once” I responded

cattily striking my well practiced perpetually penniless pouty poet pose


For isn’t the common calling of the poet’s creed to be out?

while illuminating the invisible and its overlooked inverse

and yes, we know when the truth of our targets has been pricked

regardless of simultaneously superfluous and nutritious validation from others


Do not label the poetic process a struggle

blood is absent, sweat generally sparse, although tears may present (for seasoning)

when a creation becomes infinite or even close enough

the miraculous rush of the birth itself cannot be equaled


What crosses the line of mushing poetry into commodity?

as creativity is art, not to be rated or ranked

appreciated or not, certainly

reach for compelling to our kin of the minority species, those championing insightful word collections