I am tired of people asking why I write poems.
I write poems because it is the most harmless thing I can do
my poems are inconsequential.
my poems do no good for others.
many days I search for poetic vision
with a typewriter that does not respect me.
I try to capture images of a past I would like to forget
when I should clean my apartment.
my poems do not come out like a rocket
but they come out fast enough to keep me
holed up in my room
away from people.
that is my contribution to society.
I hear a cacophony of sounds outside my window.
children teasing a dog until it whimpers away
a man with a look of failure blaming his wife for existing
the rapid sounds of the street as a car speeds away.
hearing these sounds outside
does not make me hunker to go out
until I see a beautiful redhead with long legs supporting an ass
in perfect rhythm with the summer breeze.
I will be haunted forever unless I talk to her
usually I don’t like the look of redheads
as much as a completed poem
but I leave a poem
to strike up a conversation
after about an hour I convince her to go with me to a bar down the street.
the redhead wants to know what I was doing when I came out of my house.
“I was writing a poem.”
“You don’t look like a poet,” she says, “I don’t believe you.”
“Who the hell would admit they are a poet if they don’t have to, Red?”
“I don’t like being called Red,” she snaps
“And I do not like being called a poet
it is not a respectable profession like prostitution
made up as it is with men with manicures who teach at University:
who never had to sully their hands with manual labor
do not question the cesspool called society
and whose fame is only among pasty faced poets like themselves
in closed literary circle jerks.
their poetry does not come gushing out like the first shit in the morning
because their only inspirational laxative is to be tenured or respected
Red, my poetry good or bad is not dull and pretentious
so don’t ever call me a poet and I won’t call you Red.”
as we drink more wine later at my place.
Red laughs and dismisses my poems as dangerous
I tell her not to worry since
the people who read my poems are hurt by family and friends
but not a strangers words in print
Red tells me she is a fan of Maya Angelou’s
poetry and Stephen King’s novels.
and she finds my poetry dangerous?
sometimes I try to slip a fast one past the reader.
but have you ever heard of a poet who drops a bomb on Iraqi children
or shoves a sonnet up someone’s ass
like the billy club of a New York City policemen?
we strike a deal.
I won’t call her Red.
she will leave my poems alone.