Untitled

December 8, 2003

I let the words take shape.
I let them filter through me
and form on paper or screen.
When my hands move
to make my thoughts material
I feel they are real.
The way the pen glides
and the way fingers push
keys and mouse and paper
really does bring out a light
that I can't touch
the rest of my time.
But words are a mercurial force
that do not breach
the world in productive means.
They change from one thought
to another term in a blink or two.
So changing is my world.
I do not get tomatoes,
nor do they yield dollars,
nor does the force offer
a paradigm in reason,
but still my pen moves
and still I write my life.
What reward do I get?
60 years, more or less,
so say those that figure,
to brood mercilessly on life
hunting for beauty in truth
out of a pile of filth in lies.
Certainly, I'll never spy
myself as immortal or wealthy
from these endless formations.
Certainly, my name will be missed
because of the joke it is
to foolishly compose words.
Years go by, and no music
and no film accompany
all the thoughts here,
in this notebook of mine.
And so I lie to myself
and say "A poet, am I."
My peers' values placed too high
on the material and the consumed,
but are no better to me
than the desires and impulses
I've let dry on the page
in semantic rage at my values.