Writing will be the life and death of you

Writing and I communicate in on-again, off-again partnership

head, heart, lexicon involved in the oddest of threesomes

intent: my truth,  however shrouded in hieroglyphics

eerily similar to the dissonance of betrothals at brothels


Be it orthodox, multi-interpretational or indecipherable

with art or anything else, when is less more and more less?

or enough enough, for fulfillment, mere satiation or slighter?

the muse impossible to satisfy, often barely romanceable


Daveed says everybody has one murder in themselves

I call myself a hunter, a mere stalker of words

search, then sight, followed by aim and fire

is it a flesh wound, a hollow miss or inspiring fulfillment?


Being a lazy poet with a sloth-like indolence

“a minimalist” as I often spout with elan

a subdued pilgrim of the single word poem

be it ever elusive, not even half a haiku


Of no known western habitat

neither of dictionary nor thesaurus

a free agent of precious short scribbling

yet capable of intimacy with seekers

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

The legacy of stringing words together

May the days of our writing lives be a true elocution of the mind artistic

while our insular and and sometimes unfurnished creations in time become wedded to discoveries cosmopolitan

concluded only to some degree by our passing

as our lifework remains to be further milled

and appreciated in smartypants cafes, sawdust-on-the-floor dives, illuminated by flashlight under a myriad of covers and in the minds of solace seekers

having stepped gently or tread heavy as truth requires

weeks, months, years, decades defined by syllable and metaphor but mostly naked words.

The choice of a superpower

Speaking or writing words at the most consequential of times is my choice of so-called superpower.
Because it isn’t necessarily beyond us despite such actions and their timing seemingly a Sisyphean act for all humanity.

It usually requires courage and a germane vocabulary yet inspiration can strike in the most necessary of moments.

Birds speak out.
Probably bees. You can do that research.
Dogs and cats are up to the task.
Even lumbering elephants. Plus chimps. Maybe sloths.
Yet very few humans.

This unique language can be an alert, something that creates action or inspires attitude.
A response.
Transportation of love, hate or indifference.
A sonnet.
An obscenity.
Incandescent and transformative or brow-beating.

Words can create and capture history through back-and-forth responses and reactions or a simple shutdown diss.

One wrong noun or misapplied adjective can dash human hopes.
One darling utterance or scribble can inspire the divine.
As can the failure to utter a sound or scribble some pertinent sentences.

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself” calmed millions. Would a guttural “fuck fear” have carried a similar cachet?

The Gettysburg address, all of 275 words, remains vivid to the day.

Joseph Welch’s “…have you no sense of decency?” sent Joseph McCarthy’s political career into a deserved spiral until his death three years hence.

Yet there is British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain’s 1938 mis- pronouncement “I have returned from Germany with peace for our time”

Aye, this is a superpower s-o-m-e-t-i-m-e-s within reach of us all.

— inspired by a poetry writing class prompt about the choice of human superpowers