Confessions of a Mad Poet

He writes so eloquently,
with all the proper provenance,
all the MFA’s and PhD’s,
yet reading his work
is like running on a treadmill,
no matter how much effort you put into it;

you always end up
right where you began.

I suppose at one time it was different,
prior to the formal training and academic nonsense,
with all its self-proclaimed knowledge
and airs of superiority,
I’m sure the words flowed naturally and free,
taking the reader on a journey
into never before seen,
 far-away lands;

but then the education got in the way.

I have tried all the natural highs,
all the mind-expanding techniques
and self-promoting exercises,
all the little tricks of the trade;

alcohol works the best.

Sometimes I almost forget,
but then a song comes
on the radio,
an old video clip is played,
something is said,
and like tiny bubbles
in a bubble machine
memories rise,
it is then that I remember,
when it
all comes back;

the loneliness,
the isolation,
the sadness,
the darkness,
all night diners,
coffee and eggs
at 3 in the morning,
oncoming headlights,
the empty road,
the feeling of being unlike
everything and everyone,
the searching,
the attraction to
dark and mysterious things,
endless shots of whiskey,
never satisfied,
never enough,
always wanting more,
more, more,
standing at the edge of nothing,
peering into it’s oblivious perfection,
breathing deep
the intoxicating scent,
understanding the futility,
seeing through the myth,
fighting back the inevitable.

Sometimes the strangeness
became overwhelming,
all the differences,
the inner silence,
the unspoken words,
it’s a miracle
I never became a serial killer,
a deranged lunatic
hiding out in public places,
waiting for a single nod,
a lone wink,
singular acknowledgement;

silent peace.

Yes, sometimes I almost forget,
almost, but not quite,
it has been such a long time,
but it was never about fortune
or fame,
not about store bought
hypocrisy or
witty, tongue twisting words,
riding on the coattails
of expensive, inconsequential degrees,
complete with lifetime supplies
of picture-perfect, post-card image,
Vermont farms
and summers on the Cape;

it was so much more.

All I ever wanted
was to know that
somebody was listening,
someone saw through
the technical difficulties,
past the political correctness,
beyond incorrect commas
or questionable capitalization,
seeing something more than
paper and ink,
seeing the life
beating within the pages
of endless, mind-numbing sentences,
someone who could grasp the treasure
buried beneath the trash,
all I ever wanted is the same thing
every mad, raving, delusional, twisted,
scum-sucking, self-pitying poet wants:

to be heard!

I gave them passion
but they only wanted bullshit,
I gave them agony and defeat
but they only wanted bullshit,
I tried love,
I tried hate,
I tried darkness,
I tried light;

but they only wanted bullshit;

bullshit,
bullshit,
bullshit,

words to soothe
their bullshit minds,
pictures to fill
their bullshit lives,
paper with which to wipe
their bullshit asses;

self-made bullshit titles,
hiding behind unknown
bullshit presses
ending in ‘ville’
or ‘stanley’,
new paradigms,
publishing for the masses;

bullshit,
bullshit,
bullshit.

We are hanging on,
everyone of us,
waiting for just the
right moment,
ready to leap
whenever the chance
presents itself;

we are all hanging on.

They say death is cruel,
but usually it brings
hidden blessings,
when life no longer nourishes,
when words are not enough,
even non-educated fools
can understand the basics,
it does not require
above average intelligence,
it is not a learned affair;

it is something so much
more.
.
.