It is Important that Our Nonsense Be Put to Good Use

I thought of another reason why I write poetry (aside from getting all the bitches).

Every emotion we've felt, all the things we've thought, and especially all the paragraphs we have ever written. . . has been done better some somebody else in the past. There have been too many good speechwriters, too many good movies, and too many good novelists.

That love note you wrote last week? Yeah, she probably would have preferred a different poem by some ancient poet, although neither of you know it. Those jokes you told? Some primeval comedian has already told them better, my friend.

So, sometimes poetry is an attempt to break down that wall. The wall that holds us doomed to echo what has already been said by smarter dudes in better ways. I'll never do it of course--I'm too damn stupid--but to continue the metaphor: Headbutting the wall is a more efficient way to break through it than taking a nap in front of it.

It is important that we all put our nonsense to good use.

Cheers

The loneliest man in the world
Penned these silly words one night.
He’s just one step to the left of center
And a quarter million miles to the right.

Yon tripfinger fox-hearted god
Hath mischief’d upon that which he didst create.
Some silly sod has installed the wrong driver—
This device cannot communicate.

And though he spoons with his IQ at night,
And his imagination sweetly speaks discourse,
All around best friends seem to happen,
Just not to him, of course.

Nor can true love truly
(Neither to nor from).
Your strange arms cannot reach him.
You’d easier reach the sun.

Thus are the complaints of some odd animal.

There’s a lesson in this, I think.
That since you cannot save him,
For fucking fuck’s sake, just buy him a drink.


This is why I hate happy movies. I will never love anyone like that, no one will ever love me like, and I will never win 20 million rupees on a game show. I'm serious about the last line, though. Secret Training #2, 2009.

The Instruments They Played

on the sinking ship were plunged into the water
and only the brave tuba was not afraid

reflections of stars pricked the brass
the clarinets clung to each other
even as a girl in a white dress clung to the cello
and nearly broke a string in her carelessness

the violin struck up a dirge
in a minor key
but the others did not join
some oceans are too cold for leadership

the trumpet played a famous reveille
(only a little bit ruined by all the splashing men)
that had cheered many young sons
into tidy graves on soft hills

the brave tuba played alongside
and its notes swelled with emotion
thinking of the gentle trumpet
they would always have paris

a pod of dolphins joined in then
(although most of them were off key)
and they nosed the girl in white
after she stiffened upon the cello and slid off

and then the brass was gone
gone to glitter on some secret reef
to grow old and green with corrosion
and be filled with families of fat eels

the woodwinds were whistling
the high D they played when they were deathly afraid
even as their reeds swelled with water
and thickened in their wet mouths

the loyal cello watched the woodwinds sink
it had thus far tried to accommodate everyone
having first played a bass line for the brass
it now attempted to join the violin

but the violin fell silent at this
and tried to splash water into the cello
the violin was not very good at this
and almost wept with frustration

when the laws of buoyancy
offered a resting place
the violin was quick to take it
and sank in a huff

the cello was alone then
any shouting had long since stopped
the only sounds were the small splashes
against its lacquered sides

it tried playing a few bars
but it had always been an accompanying piece
and didn't know any songs written
for a cello alone at sea

so it rolled over
and let the cold water fill it



So I went to an open mic night and I learned that I am a shitty poet. Not to be discouraged, I began my secret training. 2009.