Friday, June 01, 2007

Little Honest Bits

I'm not sure if any poetry
is actually good.
I like some of it,
a very little bit.

The best seems to be honest,
voicing every day topics
I may not be voicing to myself,
but should.
They can lock all the romantic poetry
away in a vault to be preserved
but never read
and I would feel fine.
Its all shit,
and it makes real life feel pale,
and incomplete.
Religious writing often
leaves the same after taste.

Lock them both in a vault and leave
me with Bukowski and the philosphers.
Leave me with the honest seekers
and safe guard the next generation from
the lying, misleading, overpromising crap
that oozes from the finders.
I want the seekers:
Fuck the finders.

Anything I find, becomes another step
to peer over the next unknown.
My focus must always be on
seeking, searching and creating.
That is the vibrant
reason to live.
I've strayed before:
I was a finder more than once.
Every time; mistake.
Reuction of self,
until something inside goes
It gives up on my dumb deluded ass
and sleeps,
until I wake up and remember
that seeking and searching
are the only ways
to create something new,
something fresh and honest.

Thats when I feel good for the first time
in too long.
Those times, the periods when
I'm an honest creator, seeker, searching;
ponderer of obscurities for fun
and general stimulation.

That is what makes it
possible to put up with
all the tedium, and stale air
we have to breathe and muck about in
to fund the seeking.
The jobs, the employers, the empty
false panic of the business crisis.
Without the spark of personal,
small, wonderful creation
everything would be covered in
a dim grey fog of subsistance.

I would rather not end this poem
on that note,
but it probably sets the most

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