Saturday, July 21, 2012

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?