Tuesday, May 22, 2012
To those who forget Poesy:
To those who forget Poesy, like she's the wallflower at the dance I'm sorry you've never known words to be like picnic ants infesting your insides and stealing them apart, but to say you refuse Poesy, is to say you reject my he(art). To not simply dismiss it's reading, but also it's speaking is to say you don't know heartbreak and you don't know bleeding. it's to say you can't comprehend the humor of life's mess. it's to say you will forever pile on clothes, never learning to undress. All writing requires remembering some, she requires entirety, you hardly remember anything, so your works might lack some variety. I'll remember for you, even though you were there, your lack of remembering just shows how very much you care. I have many friends like you, so please don't feel slighted, band together, have a conference, with like minds be united, but as long as this feigned blindness, like a wall does separate the real me inside a shadow, until an undetermined date. I will never understand the distaste for my harmless bites of thought because my humor is applauded, my wisdom it is sought, but when I combine them and add a rhyme or four I can hear the window panes shaking from the slam of every door. I've asked "why?" in the past, and received varied excuses, the creativity of each response, required their own set of muses, my favorite is the "jealousy", of the self-proclaimed inept. this from the same who live in fear,their vulnerability they protect. do we not hang great art, because we can't pick up a brush? we are not ourselves plumbers, but we do know how to flush! I know it isn't simply that, it just can't be, because I've been up, down and all around, your logic I just don't see. you've simply rejected it's form, like the fat girl at the dance, yes, I return to my first metaphor in the final hopes you give her a chance.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...