I Try Not To Read
I try not to read
other people's stuff,
too much.
Cause when I do,
I'm left with
this disquieting feeling
that it's all been said,
and much better.
That's why I hate
that damned Bukowski
so much.
For days after
I am derivative
and imitative.
I can't live with him.
I can't live without him,
and I drive him out the door,
and his overdue books are taken
back to the library and paid for
with a vengence.
But if I can just keep tromping
across this poetic veldt,
recklessly mixing metaphors
and crushing sentences underhoof
like some adolescent rhino,
I might, in my innocence
of what is proper,
find a clearing by a gentle pool,
where no one's been before,
and I will sink to my knees
in the mud,
drink deeply of waters
that have never been described,
breathe deeply the scent of flowers,
that no one knows,
and I will tell you about it,
and you will come
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