But is it poetry?

That’s the question

sarcastic bitter

naïve uncertain

various adjectives and adverbs

brought to the surface

in token rhyme

or lack thereof

and some don’t acknowledge

the authenticity of the word

or the validity of the feeling

and it didn’t rhyme

so we couldn’t compare it

to Frost or Poe

and I didn’t take it up the ass

like Ginsberg or Whitman

don’t have a pussy like Dickenson

or getting much pussy like Brautigan

and my drug use is down

and I take naps before readings

the blood pressure went up

and I ain’t even shouting anymore

lethargic cough detracting

from the steady flow of words

don’t rap don’t sing

gotta get it down on paper

where it just might endure

but I ain’t saying the right lines

don’t wanna stay up past midnight

and the cursing falls by the wayside

saying no to tokes of hash

and feeling shame in listening

to Nancy’s advice 10 years after

and I’m starting to worry

about life and death

and the lines on my face

Oh, my mortality has

 reared its ugly head

but I determine to transcend

regardless of consequence

and there’s always someone better

someone smarter

some with a way with the babes

and using the verse to score

and I’m left alone again

and trying to get the words

to fit together like

pieces of a jigsaw puzzle

but I never figured out Rubik’s Cube

or my way around the language

so I’m left trying to work

with inadequate arthritic hands

and a disposition not suitable

to survive in this cage

but I bide my time

and dream of Henry Miller’s life

I suppose the movies

have spoiled and soiled my sentiment

and raised all expectations

beyond realistic actualities

and I know the cynic’s barb

and skeptical onlookers

but it seems this fat ass

doesn’t prevent

the hand from picking up the pen




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