Beta

I am only not

Who I am at a party

When I am telling people how original I am

At a party

All other times

I

If not, we

Are worried who we are

At a party

What do I say when asked what I do

Who I am

What my life’s work is meant for

Where do I work

My god I just die

I cannot answer that question

I do not know where I work

I know that I have not yet starved to death

I have learned that you must eat

And that eating will not make me feel better

So in essence I have learned nothing of food

I know what other people say

I know that they shout stories all night

Of dorms and ultimate Frisbee kegers

Of internships and entry level positions

Of finances and investments

I know I am supposed to say the same

I have hidden under a rock named artist for years

In a corner telling a cat

How much I don’t understand

Or hid waiting until people were drunk

And come out swinging with a bag of poems

But artists are capable of more

There is talk now of internships

And common grounds

They are talking of grad schools and grants

And my poetry bag feels so small

I wonder in moments alone

With my pen somewhere at night

If there is room for my kind of art

Anymore

And what is my place?

Am I ever going to feed myself

Whole grains and organic cheese

Or grow a Walt Whitman beard

And learn to wipe with a leaf?

I do not go to a lot of parties anymore.

Is Darwin somewhere keeping a note

Of the fight between poets, now?

Am I just a Beta, asking the Alphas

If there is a place at the table for me?

I grew up hearing stories

Sometimes reading them, too

Of the poet’s jacket

Filled with pages

Acting as a tent

On the road

I have never pictured

A poet in leisure

Born out of freedom from want

I have only ever seen

A poet in leisure

Letting go of all that he wants

Wealthy, full poets

Are like poor lawyers

I thought

They must be doing it wrong

And I was convinced

My entire life

It was the only thing

I was doing right

They’ve told me.

I’ve noticed.

That what I do is important.

But no one rides for free.

Am I just a poet

Who cannot be taught

Or a perfectly worded

Leech? 

How Dare The Poet

How dare the poet

Stand in front of us and say

That she has a right

To sustain herself?

It is the job of the poet

Not to remain

But to lament.

Who will speak for us?

Who will release what we feel

But cannot express

If the poet spends all of her time

Asking for tools

And food?

If the poet asks for food

We will give it to her.

And then we will walk

Emotionless

Away from her

With our backs turned

And our ears closed

And maybe then

She will know what real hunger is

She will moan on stage and paper

Of the burning hunger in her soul

While her stomach sits full.

And we can all come back

Have a seat

And remember those times

When we, too, were hungry 

Wound Up, Instead

I wrote my first poem when I was six years old
Truth be told
Somewhere I know
I didn’t have a choice
Life does not break you
It makes you an artist
I did not know
At six years old
If I should keep living
Giving
Myself up to sin
To live in my skin
Felt selfish
A little gay boy
Loves girl toys
And shares from his heart
And its torn apart
When he hears he’s part
Of what makes the world sick
And if you think that’s bad
The saddest
Part is that
He just doesn’t want to hurt his family that way
With a big gay
Bomb
I wrote my first poem when I was six years old
For my father
Who just died
Loving who I
Have become
Since then
I wrote it for him
Back then
Because he went blind
But I didn’t mind
If he couldn’t see
How fey I could be
And I swear it saved me

I was in my first play
In the eighth grade
It did the same thing
We had to change
Schools
Because the kids were so cruel
And I’ll be damned if things
Weren’t the same
At this place
My being queer
Was just as clear
And ‘noose, or gun?’
Again I wondered
The best way to do myself in
And again
Alice in Wonderland, this time
In the spotlight
As the Cheshire Cat
I got back
A will to survive
It is why
I’m alive
I am an artist because I
Had to choose
What to do
After
I have not been given
What ‘they’ have been given
But a body to live in
And a pen in
My hand
And a place on the stage
And I’ve lived with age
Through so many places
They only show on t.v.
As cautionary
After school specials
“A rose from the sidewalk’
As TuPac once said
While you’re safe in your bed
I ran through my head
And wound up, instead
Inside of a million worst case scenarios
Hellish tornados
And getting stuck
Where things just suck
And the only luck
I’ve had
Is art.
I am an artist because I have got to be
If I want to wake up
In a bed
Instead
Of a police station
Or a crack house
Or a park bench
Or a trash dump
Wondering
Why it is I
Can’t seem to survive
But only live
If I want to wake up
In a bed lazily
Then I need to not leech
Off society
Instead I must reach
With all of me
And hold onto the sword
With which I was born
Not doctor, not lawyer
But artist
I know thats the hardest
Life you can think
How silly of me
To try and live
But if that is
Then you don’t know shit
And good for you, too!
Don’t change a thing
But let me just say
You’re welcome
It has been my pleasure
If nothing else
To take on, myself
All of this Hell
And turn it into
Something that you
Enjoy watching