Rant
considering the inanity of writing a poem
without any idea of a subject
to write about has not deterred me
from blindly filling the first sentence with words of little or no value.
Now that the fingers (two)
flicker over the key board as if they know
where the letters are, I become relaxed
and so confident that eventually I'll reach coherency
enough to delete all this conflict
of four muses dancing through my head at once.
The music is madcap enough for me to recognize
the bag pumping arm of Harry the Hairy, which reminds me I neglected
to clean my gun today after emptying it twice yesterday on the target range.
Fruitlessly
I bet if I'd hit it I'd have cleaned that gun by now.
It was all a ruse to keep me away from the house
while guests were arriving for my belated surprise birthday party.
On roars this epistle of fruitless furious endeavor
to construct something worthy of my fantastic literary expertise.
I have totally given up on trying to upload the three or four poems
I've recorded in spoken voice on the Garage Band section of this Mac
and switched over to the i tunes section after hours of unsuccessful attempts to do so.
Only to discover that Evoca wants some other form of technical language to upload them in.
Learning to sail, drive, operate several large pieces of heavy machinery,
raise children or watch them grow up into almost perfect
examples of American womanhood, is of absolutely no value in recognizing
which button to press next.
There must be an almost teen wandering by
who can do what I need in seconds
but as soon as he realizes how inept I am
he'll tell the world and my reputation
of competency will be shattered for all time,
and we do have to live here.
I shall probably come up with some semblance of treachery
to combat this newly developed inability.
Maybe something like
I prefer to stay in the traditional misty romanticism of pure poetry
rather than lowering myself to sputtering into a machine or microphone like some
despicable rhyming miming puff daddy
rapper tapper clapper where's the money stand up clown.
Then again if I should suffer a break through
and actually be able to add spoken word to my repertoire,
Ill be at another extreme disadvantage in this war of faces.
Who the hell do I know
who can help me overcome this temporary setback
in my illustrious poetic career?
I think I'll go back to boat design
or stonemasonry.
Maybe even write a novel.
Copyright © Donald Meikle | Year Posted 2007
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