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Poem

it’s rather apparent
to those whose eyes aren’t sewn shut together
yet
to those whose knees ain’t trembling yet
because they are afraid of 
absolutely
positively
everything
to those that want to 
live
life
instead of criticizing those who do---
that in this life of 
creativity
(of which some of us traverse avec our
comrades in the march for more
freedom
with our pens gripped firmly in our hands),
there are those that
do
&
those that
do 
not
produce
original
work.

there are those that keep the peddle to the metal no matter what
there are those that keep spitting in the face of those that want you to stop
there are those that never tire in the ring, they just keep punching
there are those that never take a rest on the sideline they just keep on 
running

&
then
you 
have
those 
that 
think
that
they
have
something
valid
to
say
about
the 
work 
of 
these
creative
machines.

we call them “critics”
but clearly 
they can be best described as
untalented people with too much time on their hands
or
perhaps
people who are so lazy that they cannot produce an ounce of their own work
& instead pretend that in having produced nothing of their own---
that this somehow gives them credence to
criticize 
the
prolific
of
the
world.

we all know them &
we all hate them &
if it was possible for us to have enough phlegm between us to be able to hack and throw up
the amount of dark yellow & green lugees 
which these folks 
deserve---
all spread on their face like the foulest load of bodily secretions one could possibly
muster---
well, i guess then we ourselves would be spending too much time on trying to create these
massive mega-lugees,
rather than plugging away at our own
work.

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