The Non-Poem

I want to tell you what this poem is about

But I can't, I won't

I'm ashamed

I want to tell you all of the details of my life

The good, the bad

The unnamed

If I were brave, like Toni Morrison

Or I didn't give a fuck, like Sylvia Plath

or I could somehow conceal myself and still tell a compelling story, like

whoever wrote that "Go Ask Alice" book

Then this poem would be easier to write

And easier to say.

As it is, the light of day catches my face

And reflects me and my words back to a captive audience

Who may or may not listen and may or may not judge

And may or may not discard my message or carry it with them

Fuck. That's a lot of pressure.

And yet, I want to tell you. Really, really badly.

Call it human nature, or narcissism

But it's nice to tell people what you know and what you're thinking

and especially what you've done

So they can validate you or be confused by you

Or hate on you, or ridicule you

Until you feel very, very small...

Never mind, I can't do this poem at all.

I Do It for the Poetry

Money, power, fame, glory

Keep it all, give me one good story

Cuz I do it for the poetry

Poets making money got the dollars when they do it

Andrew Jackson touches palm, touches wallet

Touches palm at retail store

Where money poets go for more

Until they're broke and pens go back to paper

To the paper, from the paper, by the paper, for the paper

Going home to paper houses

Paper children, paper spouses

Papered over your coffin as you incinerate

But if you know paper, you know the rain disinegrates

Money poets -- your fate

Money, power, fame, glory

Keep it all, give me just one good story

Cuz I do it for the poetry

Other poets start out shy and profound

Power poets just start out loud

Act like more than themselves.

Audience reaction touches nerve, touches pen

Touches fire-breathing, tongue-lashing words

That riccochet back to reaction, feeds both fires

Power poets smoke hoots, hollers, cheers and boos to take them higher

And blow out toxins

Spew the garbage about strangers to their faces

Putting women and haters in their places

Yelling, cursing, fighting words

Without solutions to wit

Cuz really, power poets can't say shit

Money, power, fame, glory

Keep it all, give me just one good story

Cause I do it for the poetry

Some poets come to the mic looking and sounding tight

But these fame and glory poets tonight

Have no back story, just noise

These poets just like hearing the sound of their voice

And seeing their name in lights

Lights touching skin, touching clothes glittering

Glaring off paper, sending fears skittering into darkness

Dark hearts share nothing of substance

Pens glance and scribble to the smiles of the powerful

Who pat their backs and shoulders

Eyes shooting daggers, fame and glory poets never see boulders coming

And they get crushed.

Money, power, fame, glory

Keep it all. Give me one substantive, intricate, beautiful story

Cuz some of us still do it for the poetry....

The Freestyle

I'm a punk
Walking into a room
People acting like they wouldn't care if I left soon
I'm the one
Laughing way too loud
And you'll never have trouble picking me out of a crowd
I'm not rich
Talk is cheap, you see
But I've got all these birdies tryin to pigeonhole me
That won't fly
I'm just out to have fun
Who else u know calls a swimming pool a natatarium?
Play with words, synonyms
You're not fast, you're just slim
I'm the reaper, you're grim
You're a good antonym
Like a verbal violin
You're a screech, I'm a hymn
But nobody ever wins
When you're dust in the wind.
I'm a girl
Underneath the street lights
Hearing Mom yell at Dad until they quit for the night
Like a drug
That I take too much
I just try to leave the house when enough is enough
I'm a woman
Comfortable alone
Doesn't want to turn shelter into that kind of a home
So I go
The travel bug bit me
And I don't settle down like a hippie gypsy
Play with sentences and verbs
I'm the city, you're the burbs
I'm the bike, you're the curb
You don't move, I can swerve
If you ever get the nerve
Choice of straightaway or curve
Take the one that makes you curse
And put it in your next verse
Cuz it can't be much worse
Than what I pull out of my verbal purse