Poet's lament
from 
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JoeUser Forums
brando says in kurtz’s voice “you have a right to kill me, but not
to judge me.” that’s the poet’s lament, this shit we write trying
to tempt others with a twist of words that might unlock a fevered
thought or dangerous condition,
just a monosyllable to crack the brain stem and dance stripper-like
one more time,
it’s the poison that drives us to write when there’s nothing but madness
and stories of near-misses with god and the devil, rantings of paranoia followed by
gently suggested stays in “quiet care.” but it makes itself bleed; a cutter’s heart
pouring like spilled inkwells in splatters for forensic study, making signs in the
smoke of hand-rolled cigarettes,
the poet writes in spite of ability—a poet bleeds publicly whether seen or
unseen, it is the character of the art—even if the “fit” is unseemly, poets are
obliged to use a palette of pastel vomit to paint a moment of utter insanity or, if
necessary, to commemorate a flower show, but
words run rampant and in time, demand the space of paper and the chance
of life longer than a thought--immortality; if only on a storage disk. you have the
right to hate what I write, but not to judge,
it’s poetry—how can it be wrong?
J. Masuda © 2005
