Well meaning humans
friends and family members
tell me to write a novel
something I can get paid for
They ask if I write
if I write at all
if I do, why don’t I show it
to them
they say with ups at the ends of the words
I mumble about the poem
about the line
about when I sit down and write
a poem I do what
I can and hope
their war will be lost
on my ability to write a
decent poem
Of course I have a lot of
horse shit that I don’t
finger until it becomes apart
of my identity but the
process of writing a poem
I’ve put everything in
I’ve excepted
that I will never get drinks or licks
in exchange for my poems
But if I don’t write these bloody
stumps, if I don’t fuck on the mother
tongue and smear her ideologies
in my gruesome fantasies
her neat and organized world
may beat out the orgasmic
and thirsty
and truthfully I’d rather be dead
than content enough to give up
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