a.
i am one of dem
loud quiet poets
dank with the mold of obscurity,
left to compose quietly in cobwebbed corners,
an impatient flower looking to bloom
in a garden of righteous hydrangeas.
i am one of dem
unforgettable forgotten bards
the rusty bookend to establishment writers
who do not ever speak Truth to power,
the well-worn doormat of unpublished time.
i am one of dem poets
whose conscience is his pen
a pen mightier than all those blackwater swords.
i am one of dem versifiers
whose splendid sonnets are not spotlit,
whose hefty haikus are not held up,
whose awesome alliterations are not advanced,
whose perfect pentameters are not promoted
i am just one of dem poets
for whom the poet’s market
is a thousand and one rejection letters
that have not come yet,
maybe even a million
cuz how many people
who never even read poetry
want to start with the feelbad?
how many people, whose only reading
is a supermarket tabloid or empty thriller,
want to read about a global system
that is, in fact, a serial killer?
how many people
want to know about supermax prisons, wage slavery,
chemical pollution, and other corporate knavery?
how many people
want more details about genocide, ecocide,
shadow governments, plus one more
rebel who died?
i am one of dem poets
who could be so much louder,
because the world started with a big bang,
because the world can be so much more
than all the misery that the oligarchy brang
because true communal anarchism
is that most special thang.
but how many people
want to know about something else?
how many people
want to sing a song
that they have not sang?
how many poets
secretly desire
the approval stamp of the state
while purporting to write
peculiar verses of hate
against politicians, stock traders,
bankers, and every living consumer,
their true bait?
i am one of dem poets
who can barely afford printer ink
for whom the mere purchase of a pencil
might mean not eating for a day.
i am one of them poets
who scribbles on shards
of recycle bin looseleaf,
who must make do
with wallace stevens type improvs
on the bare backsides of envelopes.
i don’t sit in an office
and pretend to write poetry
that somebody would notice.
b.
if my poetry could become a sauna
to heat up cold hearted heartlessness,
if my poetry could become a north wind
that makes amends to blow south,
if my poetry could make non-matter
do so much more than matter,
to all those people who have been told
that they do not matter,
i would still try to expand, exponential,
and make my vision fatter.
if my poetry was meant to be heard
without a trace of discouraging word,
maybe if all the legions of people
could rise up as one, like a steeple,
then my words would make sense
put the shitstem on trial
as the ultimate evidence.
we fetishize success
as the most expensive dress
but in times of utter duress
real poets would help undo this mess.
real poets would seek to impress
only those who have been left behind,
excluded, oppressed, and deluded.
real poets would take a stand
against all those who profit
from the raping of our land
all those who make dividends
from promoting corporate brand.
if we are to survive this century
the words of real poets must be heeded,
their freedom verses repeated
because the only thing we ever needed
is what we started with:
in the beginning, the Word,
and now it lies in comatic fetal position,
scarcely even heard.
