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

You Know Who

He emanates an ugliness beauty parlors couldn’t fix

it’s not imaginary that victims hear his psyche cackle

his every breath spews a malevolent excretion

A most prized possession being a mirror bloodied and in shards

 

Grievance bleating his perpetual static state

warped by depraved and inconsolable neediness

his vessel always on the ready with decomposing bile

branded the mega alpha and omega but of the self-con

 

All life viewed through a prism transactional

a life long loser incapable of addressing reality

Solomon once wearily shrugged after saying,

“you can’t fix evil, it’s unrecognizable to itself”

Alphabet Soup

Picked up a couple of foreign words who were out hitchhiking

puzzled when they inquired how they could compensate me,

I finally said “two syllables apiece, yes, that would do just fine”

“We only know milky cows” they exclaimed, “no silly bulls”

 

They disagreed with me that phonetics was a Nokia etiquette app

and that syntax wasn’t the financial result of a Baptist/Catholic merger

Fortunately, our tête-à-tête was set aside for a musical interlude

as we sang a saucy rendition of “you say tomayto, I say tomahto”

 

One turned crimson when I brought up the basics of conjugation

replying “make nouns, not me, the subjects of your prepositions”

I responded angrily “your synonyms are my antonyms”

as we resolutely failed in developing any lingua franca

 

Arguing over adverbs being the driving force in commercials

I punctuated my vehemence with “pronouns aren’t for amateurs”

we eventually came to conclude it best to call the whole thing off

and, for a more copacetic journey, we switched to sign language

Qs minus the As

Do we ever really escape being down to earth?

Why isn’t it unlawful to poach eggs?

I’m Irish so shouldn’t I have become a Catho-holic?

For anyone serving in any religious hierarchy, what’s the moral choice:  perpetuation, subjugation, apostasy or emancipation?

Does hate have a known gestation period?

What’s the formula for becoming a pyromaniac of the heart?

One of my early crushes instructed me to make my arse sparse — did literal me do the right thing by joining Jenny Craig?

I was born minus wisdom teeth — am I a protected class?

Where exactly is it that poetic justice is the law of the land?

Are bad relatives ingrown ingrates?

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