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,

all 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,

like tiny bubbles

in a bubble machine

the memories begin to rise,

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;

sometimes I almost forget,

almost, but not quite,

it has never been 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 images,

Vermont farms,

summers on the Cape;

it was always so much more;

all I ever wanted was to know

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 grasped the treasure

buried beneath the trash,

all I ever wanted is the same thing

every mad, raving, delusional, twisted

self-pitying poet wants;

to be heard;

I gave them passion,

but they only wanted bullshit,

I gave them agony,

but they only wanted bullshit,

I gave them love,

I gave them hate,

I gave them darkness,

I gave them 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;

death is cruel,

but it brings

unexpected 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.

.

.