Saturday, May 15, 2010

clawing for more


I've been trying to poet off and on
now for awhile - but it's hard for a guy
like me, born and raised in small towns.
I've never really learned to swear,
not like a poet anyway. Not like Bukowski.
I mean, what kind of poet would
the world expect me to be? Except that
I'll admit I can drink with the best.
A Huffstickler I'm not, or a Bukowski,
or Etter, or Kerouac - guys who knew the
big towns, the sluts, the dives, the rehabs,
the back alleys, park benches, soup kitchens,
flop houses, drug pushers — Humm, come to
think of it, we got all those here. But not
the all-important big town poet attitude.

I'm just this hick, delusional perhaps,
trying to fill a blossoming hole inside
of me that grumbles and claws for more,
and there's gotta be more to life than this crap.
I used to try and rhyme, like as
in "poor" and "whore", but there's
no rhyme to life, just grab it and clench.
Just life, death, burial and maybe a little
something for the dog afterwards.
The preacher says there's more,
the devil tells me to forget it,
(I'll listen to him occasionally).
So, for me, I'll probe a little deeper and
scrutinize a little harder, perhaps drink a
little heavier, and maybe find a plug
out there that'll fill the hole inside me.
Maybe even put it in words.
Become a poet.


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