Who was it that said they couldn’t stop for death? It was some crazy dame who lived in a small room. She kept her poems tucked away in a desk drawer like love letters to phantom lovers of life and death's misfortune. What can ghosts say? They can’t speak about anything. Trying to keep up with the living is enough of a chore. But books speak louder than flimsy words and last longer. Like any art outlasting itself, holding no dominion over any mere mention of poetry. Gnashing at dangling participles. Butchering the language of eternity. Poetry, the solitary virtue.
We, the outspoken outsiders, have never met a poet who didn’t love to warble before the crowd. There’s a poet in some midwestern town who measures success by the amount of books he can churn out. Like a poetry collector of your books that no bookshop wants, nor a single person who will buy them. No poetry for old men. It was near a small village along the river Styx. That’s where the oarsman went. And old Bull Lee. Floating down the river to find a haven they could corrupt themselves to sleep peacefully in.
Raging against the war ravaged upon our kindred spirits, the lowest of the breed, the last beats of a tribe marked for extinction. Those forgotten souls are sitting on dusty shelves. Still waiting for a reprieve. The battlefields are littered with young dead bodies, and the war drums were heard in the distant rubble. The triumph of the spoken word. The revolution is forever falling through the hands of the people. The power of poetic promises diminished. Wishing someone would throw them a bone, a life vest, a crumb from your table, or a bottle of beer.
These bards of casual conversation will drink anything. The wine of the gods distilled into a perfect derangement of the senses. It’s all in your head. Who said it first? So it was written for all to see. But few bother to crack the spine and take a gander. Peek inside. The words fall out of pages from the books. Alphabet soup, spelling out names and words. A cryptic code only works when you have no clue. Words in and of themselves are harmless without intent. Gibberish for those forlorn lovers of romantic comedy.
There’s a poet for every season. Any reason, occasion or social gathering. Someone once said a dog walking down the street has more style than any human. To do anything with style is the best art. Babbling idiots say so much more than what you can fathom. Speaking from experience, burning ancient love of hearts and souls. The contemplative mind is a terrible thing to waste on someone who doesn’t listen to the sound of their own voice. Those who talk first and think later.
The poet is a dealer of illicit thoughts. Like a cartel of seedy sages and prolific philosophers stacking books like currency. Dangerous mindsets like this are what keep the ball rolling. Bouncing off the walls of the brittle skull. Follow your own kind of music. A place that needs literacy to justify their lunacy to mindless endeavors.
It’s a thankless place where reckless poets pretend to bump other empty-headed troubadours in this idiotic dance. Bound to lose their brains for a smattering of polite applause. Dusty books on shelves of regret. The gawkers are hanging from the rafters, throwing rotten eggs and slimy vegetables in your general direction. It’s time to lower the curtain. The stage is empty. The exit lights eerily glow in the dark theater of lost poetic souls. The masks come off. The costumes are hanging in the wardrobe room. The poet reads from the yellow pages telephone directory. A litany of letters in alphabetical order. High above sitting in the balcony a solitary old woman weeps. The end has come and gone.