The Sad, Sad Life of a Poet -or- Why I Will Never Be Successful.

Poets should not be
cannot be
could not be
happy people.
As Leo said
Happiness is something,
one thing,
while sadness many,
many more.
A happy poet
sings one song
and it begins
with the color of roses.
While a poet who feels
more emotions than this
can sit
and write verses
for years.

A Novel Thought.

[Most of you probably know I wrote a novel in the month of November 2010; that's why I wrote no poetry. I can't explain the plot of my novel, but I love it. This is one of the random-short-story-ish-inner-chapters that I wrote and it's my favorite. So I am sharing it. This is all you get, for now.]

I cannot see out of these eyes any more I cannot look and I cannot see and I feel like the world is disappearing without my gaze. The world is gone and I’m helpless to look , helpless to stop, helpless to see. (Schrödinger's world locked in with our own toxic poison—locked in with our death, with our fate. An incredulous thought experiment revealing the absurdity of our life our thoughts our futures.)

Do we ever stop to think about our vision? Do we look and our hands and wonder what life would be like, cleared of the ability to feel? Do we run our touch over the curves of our ears and wonder how to function if they stopped accepting sound? If the words people threw in our direction were never received? What if everyone kept talking and talking and trying to be heard and no one could hear and no one was stopping to think: maybe I’m not the only one? Do we have no other way to communicate? To stop and write and look and see? Do we have no other way to reach each other?

What if the smells, the grass the bread the man that you love were gone? And I’ve heard my whole life that smell is the key to taste, so what if that was gone too? All that filled our mouths were piles of sand in shapes like carrots and chicken and peas. But no one would know. No one would say. We want to be perfect complete the same. No one would stop and call out the ridiculousness of eating and eating piles of sand flavored food. No one wants to have the problem. No one wants to be the problem.

I am losing my vision. I am losing my senses. My world is crumbling into memories and dreams and the present is present no longer. I am lost and I cannot tell if the rest of the people I can hear with my unquestioned ear can see because no one is speaking, speaking at all.

Maybe one day I will walk into a street as a small electric car that makes no emissions guilt or noise speeds down the BPA free plastic streets with recycled tires made out of African huts. Then, maybe the brushed aluminum frame will bend into my body, grind under the bones and skin that keeps me together (keep together stay together be together) and then the vision won’t matter so much anymore and I won’t have to worry about hearing and smelling and sand in my mouth and whether or not I can hear your voice screaming profanity obscenity in my ear it will not matter to the puddle of a senseless tasteless visionless body on the floor.

Deep Navy Blue.

At night when the whole world deepens
to black and to violet and to deep navy blue
and the only lights
are the brights
speeding fast
(on the roads)
through the threads
sewn tight
to the boarders of our being.
The edges of our fabric.
Fabricated colors are only remembered.
Reminders of a time
more bright and more thin.
But these lights,
these brights,
speed into the depths
of the violet (the rich black world)
remember
remember the colors.
The thinness of day.
With no brights
and no beaming
stretched deep
to the shallows
of the light.