What I have isn't poetry,
but then I never really consider it poetry
until it leaks out on the page -
chinese waterbrushes pulling lillies
and mountains laced with fog from the
quiet text that ripples outward with each stroke
of my finger on the silver keyboard.
What I have isn't very tidy, and I guess I have
people like Allen Ginsberg to thank for that,
and all the others that have howled their
projective verse into the paintings
that hang on the walls of my inner child.
What I do have are words,
words that I like to arrange into cute
or profound little sentences, depending on my mood.
Words to which, like the magnetic poetry
on the side of my fridge, I'll most likely come back
again and again to reform into more
and more intricate and delicate arrangements -
so many flowers on so many graves of so many poets
to whom I'd pay tribute if these flowers made me
I have words, sometimes musical, sometimes lovely,
but always passionate and attempting purpose.
Words that are here, now there, first within me,
and now stuck to you, playing in your ears,
and lingering fully-formed
on the tip of your tongue.
Try as you might,
once you've read these words, you won't
be able to forget this poetry exists.