says a man struck with spontaneous interest,
interest he has surely attached intellectual power to.
“Define poetry,” he repeats with passive demand.
“Define the medium you so willingly cling to—
the style which so proudly sits atop your meaningless
and pretentious
pedestal of artistic beauty.
Define the form you bow to
solemn night after solemn night—
the hidden hopes of bound immortality which rise
from splotches of ink that stain your skin.
Define the carnal desire to write partial stories and images
disguised as art—
praised only by fellow poets,
read only by fellow poets
and understood only by fellow poets.
Go ahead and smear your abstract bullshit reasons
across every inch of my mental den—
I’ll eagerly await the inescapable moment
in which I dismantle your scripted,
vague attempt at the explanation I seek.”
“Poetry is whatever the hell I want it to be.
Tonight it is this;
the Devil’s advocate,
a reflection upon an idea I love and understand,
an idea I have chosen to dissect
but one I rarely choose to define.
Sure—my answer evades strong labels
and sought-after specifics.
Poetry isn’t simply fiction,
nor is it a simple blend of honest societal reflections
surrounded by flowery imagery.
I have my definition of poetry
and it fancies change
just as we humans fancy change.
And with the completion of each new poem
my approach
and my goal
and my love alters slightly,
riding the swift winds of transformation.
Poetry is mine to sculpt because I hold the clay
between my unrelenting fingers.
Others may feel the inability
or lack of desire
to toy with the “sacred” concept of Poetry.
I don’t consider them a threat
and never will.
I only check my rear-view for the ones
who no longer question dedication,
the ones who feed their hunger
because they must.
Those are the fingers I fear…
but have yet to meet.”
The man’s response is entirely up to you
because I see it as forever irrelevant.
Art is what you make of it,
so I recommend you cozy up to the idea
of being your biggest fan for a while.
Pay little mind to those who try to tear you down,
for there will be many.
Justifying it as jealousy is an arrogant remedy
but often effective and true.
Failing to turn a profit will never break my spirit,
no matter how baffling the business minds find it.
I use rejection letters as bookmarks
because in my mind
they mistakenly passed on good poetry.
You’re inside your apartment but it isn’t your apartment. You’re seated in the kitchen and begin to feel loopy. You feel an overbearingly weird sense of detachment from reality and cannot gain a grasp on up/down, left/right. Your dog is nearby, that much is certain, but it’s not clear where. You walk into the living room and take a nap on the couch…
When you awake your sense of detachment has increased considerably. The apartment is bare and everything appears to be a dirty shade of off-white. You look closer and notice strange, almost glowing spots of neon blue on the walls. Soon they’re everywhere and pulsate to the rhythm of your heart. You start to panic and presume there’s a gas leak. You call for your dog and he follows as you stumble down the hallway…
The blue spots are growing and you reach out to touch one but nothing comes off onto your fingers and you continue to stumble towards the door and everything is white and empty and fading and finally you burst through the front door with your dog and immediately call your father who picks up but is distracted and you try over and over to talk and tell him it’s an emergency but he’s arguing with another voice and you say there’s a gas leak there’s a gas leak but he can’t hear you and you’re barely able to formulate a cohesive sentence before you collapse to the cement and pass out…
I was eating at a sushi restaurant in Franklin Village by myself, switching off between beer and hot sake. Seated at the bar was a 20-something man who was nursing a large beer. Small sip here, small sip there. He began talking to the bartender about a nearby pub (where exactly it was located, the price and selection of beer), then about wine (how he liked red and white, as if he was being specific), then he asked about the history of the restaurant as if he genuinely cared when it was clear he was just trying to flirt. It was a pathetic display of hopeless Asian-infatuation, but it made for a great show to accompany dinner.
The man’s efforts left him stranded and as he sat brainstorming conversation topics, in walked a 40-something lesbian who plopped herself down two seats to his right. Without missing a beat she launched into an advice-heavy dialogue (dialogue being a generous description) about headshots and resumes with the same bartender who seemed taken aback by this involving and sudden exchange. I finished my miso soup, scooted forward and listened with an internal grin before asking for the check.
After adding the tip I took the customer receipt and wrote the following note, then strolled off into the night:
