My Beat Period came and went last month, and now I'm in the throes of an identity crisis. What poet am I? What is my purpose in poetrydom? I need to answer these and other questions similar to these. Meanwhile I can say this much:
I am Assorted Snacks or
Opus 17, Assorted Snacks, I am, I am.
Am I a raven? No ! I'm three. One won't do.
I'm not THAT coyote but this. See the eyes? Blue.
This stream won't be me `til it gets over there-
THERE where it tumbles down that mossy rock
in the shade of THAT log,
THAT one, shaped like my readiest cock.
But wait! No! That can't be me!
There are no STORES around! I must be assorted snacks!
(or at least I must BE where they are able to be found.)
Yes, I think we can all safely agree, I am a composite of edible food stuffs. But this begs the original question: What poet am I? As I discuss the matter this dark morning with my good friend Cindy, she says, "well, let's see. You're a guy. And you've been homeless. What don't you do homeless-guy-poetry? That's what I would do. I mean, you know, if I were a guy. And all that."
So I scope out some Robert Bly and assimilate a bit. I persuade myself, medicinally, that I CAN drum the Archetypal Beat in Sync with the Primordial Guy. And then, and only then, do I let the one-eyed bear between my legs speak:
My Rosy Man, Willy
or Opus 18, Willy, My Rosy Man
I sat by the dumpster, reading,
yesterday's Times in my lap, upon my wildness
She walked past-whom I could have loved
for ten years-walked by, and was gone.
The stray dog paws through the plastic bag
twirling the french fry in his mouth.
How fresh the fries are, the boon of the Burger King.
A light breeze dispels the stench.
I know the woman had fur.
As a horse swings his head,
how easily do my thoughts follow.
This alley covered with stones shelters bones.
That was it, damnit! When I returned
to the Porta-Potty, I was not alone.
My rosy man (or:Willy)
reached on his own and touched my hand.
My, that was moving, wasn't it? Thank you Mr. Bly for that inspiration, and thank you as always Cindy, my Muse, you of the thin straight lips and matching mind. And thanks to my Readers who, reading next month, may learn more about writing "collagesque"!
