|when we were poets
we grew out of it then
it was our field it was a place
where we spread our piss
our trunk of tree
our plot of grass
liberally for a bit we sprayed
words around to defend our bit
i'm left now with a land rubbed raw
elephants, lumber and rip
bison, pass and knaw rip
birds come and slip lip rip
all fruit from the world, all is bare
what is left for locusts?
what is left but dry ground
i fret to step with my bare feet
feet that are delicate
upon such scorched soil
scratchy pebbly wasted soil
though i like the desert underfoot
i crush a couple fish not into mud
grind them into sand again
12 Mar 12
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you are because you create. what you love is what you create. when you were a poet, you were looking for love -- you were creating love and poetry was just a transactional means to an end. it makes for chatty, schemey, poetry, even if it gets you laid sometimes. poetry is the only way words are used with truth and beauty... all other wording is just to get stuff and keep people away from you. how much stuff do you really need?
when we were poets, we ate birdseeds that flowered in cobbled jardinieres, where geraniums got along with dandelions and birds and butterflies had plenty to eat.
we were innocent then.
now. now, it is best not mention what we eat.
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nice poem. loved the last three lines especially.