don’t waste your time with boring books, separating
the iambs from the trochees,
separating
the fire from the art.
there’s no time to analyze all of the pronouns
and conjunctions and the deeper
meaning behind an indifferent, indefinite
article or an oddly placed
enjambment. don’t be so damn disciplined.
don’t waste your life aligning the seconds
in rank
and file like indistinguishable
soldiers marching to their death,
in the
gym or at a desk or in traffic,
and most of all
don’t take
yourself so seriously. seriously,
nobody cares. your silly poems
won’t change the world.
nobody reads anymore anyways, but life
is poetry, the greatest poetry, and poetry is free
and fun
and evolving and feeling
and
fiery spontaneity, so stay awake all night
weeping about that awkward moment from the seventh grade;
dance barefoot in the kitchen while dinner bubbles over,
raging on the burners; lay in bed for weeks
in your crusty underwear; fill folder after folder with
rejection letters.
what does it matter? everyone is
too busy with their own
nonsense to judge you. be original for breakfast
and gorge on sweet clichés for dessert. life’s a garden;
dig it. sign up for races you
know you won’t finish;
go on adventures without plans to make it back;
maybe you’ll surprise yourself. you probably
won’t, though. this way, you will never overcome your-
self or life, and you will never become
the human equivalent of kale. enlightened.
tranquil. too cool for school or emotions or reactions
like boulder in the ass-crack
of some far off valley that’s only seen one view in a
billion years,
like a mass-produced Buddha statue
buried in the wreckage of an earthquake.
***
(Cuenca, Ecuador -- March, 2021)
I really, really wanted to like this poem. It's so close, but something just feels slightly off to me. Maybe it's too preachy or over the top. I was so close to including this on my list of poems that I plan on publishing in journals and/or a poetry collection some day.
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