Bite More / Taste Less -------> (Ramblings)

Ramblings of a alleged realist, supposed poet, and apparently ambitious something-or-other.

Snorting Poetry


 

In the beginning

my friends said that poetry

goes well with a salad

or dry rubbed on a steak

or by even itself with a nice, dark beer.

“It just, mellows you out, ya know?” 

 

Why is it then

that I am sitting in the gapping mouth

of my empty apartment living room

on the dry tongue of my couch

staring stir-crazy into a series of

little white rows of diced letters and metaphors.

 

What am I doing?

I’m snorting poetry.

Line after line

I’ve cut out the middle man of the stomach

and I’m taking it straight to the head.

I need an angry fix of Ginsberg.

I need to cut up Dickinson and T.S. Eliot

into little rows and drag them

through my nasal cavity.


I just did a line of Edgar Allen Poe

and black ravens flew into the open windows of

my eyes and filled my head

casting shadows on my trembling hands and knees.


But that was after I did a line of Dickinson

and because I could not stop for death

I snorted it through a dollar bill

and thought about it for a while

and decided not to go gentle

into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the

light bulb in the ceiling fan.

It keeps flickering and I can’t see

the next line of Whitman.

 

There’s no T.V.

I had to sell my T.V. to get a hold of the Whitman and the Poe.

I had to sell my roommate’s T.V. to get a hold of the T.S. Eliot and the Ginsberg.

 

You see, I’ve got this crazy poetry lady that I meet

at the corner of Bragg and Saunders

her name’s Dorianne

you may have heard of her,

or seen her in the long fingers of your daydreams

but she’s sold me this new stuff that’s supposed

to be the next big thing -

Lux, the Dickman brothers, Lee-Young Li.

 

 

I am sorry

I don’t think there’s any hope

of detox or rehab for me.

All I see

all I taste

all I feel

is poetry.

So all that’s left to do

is snort more poetry

misquote the raven

“Evermore.”