nameless and without a clue

You're not a poet
if you have to defend your
paltry life, make excuses for yourself
as if you just noticed your underwear
is full of shit and no amount of
essential oils can mask the stench
of your body already rotting; you don't
even know you're a dead man walking
along
that long green mile and its Groundhog
Day every day,
offering you the chance of a lifetime,
to live even one perfect day filled
with kindness and love, when
the shadow of your most brilliant self
comes out of hiding

You're not a poet
if you haven't any words
of your own
so you attack others, who by
some miracle and grace, always have enough words
that give meaning a face, and so
face existence
even if their existential angst comes up again and
again, hidden in words waiting for someone to
whack off their tulip heads before they were done
blooming

You're not a poet
if you write a poem once a month
when you have time and the stars are shining
in alignment with the Pillars of Hercules
descant thoughts you crumple up
and you read someone else's words
up your sleeve, stealing their plow and
shooting their horse,

A poem is covered by the falling snow no matter
where you live, you on the furthest
branch where you're most likely to fall
when a gust of truth shakes you out of
your stupor and nails you to an ancient tree,
for that sudden wind
comes unbidden like unwelcome guests carrying stones
into your glass house
and you think this poem is meant for you.



~A