The Reason: for poets who have lost their way


All these poets, doing battle in their chairs,
Writing about cherry blossoms, and crows,
and gentle birds maybe flying, maybe singing,
maybe doing nothing at all
except looking pretty.

Writing about the sun, the moon, and each individual star
as if they all had names and meaning, and could talk back to us.

Writing about love, and more love, and even more love
until there is so much love we have to rent
an extra warehouse to store it all in.

Writing about beautiful melancholy, and glorious depression,
as if those things were some sort of beautiful smack
that made men keen and women swoon.

Writing about the curious, writing about the mundane,
Writing writing writing until the seats of their chairs
are stained with black spots of words.

Writing as if their lives depended on it (they don’t).
Writing as if the world needed to hear them (it doesn’t).

Writing on behalf of all humanity,
Writing on behalf of themselves,
Writing because the world is spinning
and they can’t figure out
where or when
to get off.

Writing about death,
Writing about almost dying,
Writing about death in the first, second, and third person,
from behind the fourth, fifth, and sixth wall…

And then…

a million words later, growing through the rubble,
this beautiful daisy smiles, and bows her head and says

“Thank you for thinking of me. I was sure you all had forgotten.”

and then she holds up her roots like a prom dress
and scurries off giggling, as if she were late
for a birthday party, leaving dirt
all over my desk.