What’s It Mean?

“What’s it mean to be a poet, y’know, to somebody like you?”

“Er, I don’t really, um, I don’t really know”.

One day I met somebody and I knew.
They threaded the moonlight into my eyes.
Scored my heart’s vessels with the Sun.
You said I was a poet,
And words are my language.
These are the verses that take me by my throat and throw me into the river to drown.
And when I live beyond the reaches of the sand,
I stare at the Atlantic on the beach,
All the way to South America.
And I know now.

You said I was a poet,
And I let the trees take each other’s virginities,
Their branches curl and their lips intertwine.
The world goes quiet for a while.
I live in the breast of a seagull.
I am bloodshot.
You said what does it mean,
And it means simplicity
As coherent as whales diving into space
And God vomiting the stars into place.

I don’t know what this business is,
What creation I or any other human feels and writes,
That some take the time to understand,
And others barely blink at,
It does not matter to me.
Value comes from my fingertips,
It does not die with me, I rain these words onto your vulnerable body.
What Adam gave you from his rib,
And Eve then used as an oar to swim with
Through this existence choking between us,

I do not know what it means to be a poet,
To be in a career,
To vouchsafe the feelings of others,
Your sentiments are as good as my own.
I believe in them, too.
One day I met somebody,
And I had all love in my eyes.
I glowed with that newfound woman,
And I took the pen and wrote about her,
How she grew inside of me.
How she had planted many a seed,
And ripened in my lungs.
I exchanged the air between myself
And those fellow daisies.

What’s it mean,
I don’t really know.
I don’t really know what any of what I talk of means,
I speak,
And I’d like to think with every word I breathed a new universe boomed into oblivion and birth.


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