What are you?

african wildlife.

Hayden is playing.

As soon as my fingers hit the keys, my mind stops playing its evil games.

when i’m trying to sleep, there’s stories abound. poetry.

Now, there’s nothing.

not even enough to get angry about. 

Its better to sleep a lot, if the poetry lies on the edges.

it just makes me tired.

i should write love sonnets for her.

the fantasies are pedantic: a product of my traumatized identity.

the tears come hard and fast,
flash floods in the high desert.
so many years awash,
the arroyos make for trails in the dry seasons.
[ FUCKING STUPID! ]

I should never have been anything!
identity is a trap … forcing me not to change,
not to color outside of my lines of identity.
did you not know that poets can not be engineers?
Even the great DaVinci knew better than to try
his hand at the pen.
And those poets, with their uniforms and bad haircuts:
they all march in step to a dirge for their loves.
Imagine, the poets at the parties
droning on and on about the craft,
about the agony of writing that must be,
about cramps of mind and hand -
how the poet can say one thing from the mouth
and all it means is fear from the heart.

“And what do you do?”
I’m a Poet.
“I mean, what do you do for money?”
I’m still a fucking poet, god damn you!
and when the uniform is lost,
after the war has been lost
[even after all those battles were won],
the hair has been lost, innocence, youth …
I’m still a fucking poet, god damn you!
even if it doesn’t pay the rent
and never will …
          ( which is probably better
          because fuck that landlord
          who would take the proceeds of my soul for rent!)
am I what I Do? are we what we Do?
I am an eater and a shitter, and fucker and whiner,
I am a dreamer and visionary, the loser and the timer.
I am the dread of meaninglessness,
I am the fear of truth, the believer in illusion,
I am the construct of uncountable collisions.

What are you?

“But what do you do?”
I think, I contemplate, I model the Universe
in reverse. What is Gravity?
It is space-time inconvenienced by matter.
“Are you a scientist?”
Is that a requirement for contemplating Gravity?
“A philosopher, then?”
it is of little consequence, being understood;
what really matters are the misunderstandings.