i wish that was something i aimed for as a writer. it’s hoped for, we all secretly long to be understood / to have an audience / to be known as that person when specific creative aspects are discussed (in a positive manner!)
from the time we pick up a pen until we lay it down and all times in between. we have them / it’s okay for us to admit.
but when you know in your heart that you are meant to make heavy, laborious words float as lubraciously as possible / knowing full well that a kink for the densely populated poem is not a favored classroom subject / then you equally avow yourself to invisibility. to anonymity / full eclipse. you worship hermitage – so buck up, it comes with the territory.
yet still, you study the works of others who write of similar themes / a popular others / you see the accessibility in their approach, their skill. you see both the formula and the craft desired by peers (if not “the people”)… and yet…
maybe it’s because you come from a stubborn people / your penchant for a certain amount of hardheadedness / you blame it on Ali being the patron saint of your city… going against the grain with your dance / hoping, at last, for the grain to yield.
to float like a bee.
to sting like / a butterfly in flames.
and this is how i lose you.
well, shit. we all can’t fit in the parade. someone, afterwards, must always sweep the streets / keeping track of the precious remnants found in trash / be the apparition for an imperfect memory.
i was charged, once, to write of snow;
i wrote of winter / on the surface of the sun / of drinking rum from a glamorous woman’s boot (and replacing it to heel before she awoke) / (or was she clamorous?) / (( i can’t recall )) … whichever, i’m forever in my own head / forever dawn of the dead in dialogue
but these brains are sour. dear zombie.
okay, that’s weird… poet goes for introspection and a writing prompt shows up. what was i to expect, this deprived of sleep? that’s what brought me here…
but what is your excuse? well… we can wallow as one if you like, just please keep your hands to yourself. and don’t watch me. and don’t you dare utter a single solitary word. unless you hum.
blink to me in morse code a shared song.