Idiots out number poets, this is a fact, though I do wonder why. It cannot be an easy lot spending your days in slow witted discharge; I would think they might at least try putting pen to paper. I think I would rather live in a world filled with bad poets rather than drifting on this ship of fools, but the troubadours rise with imbeciles as their cover and poems fall from favor. I wonder how I could make verse a contagion, how could I make it spread? You may laugh at me, but think what some guy did with a broken peach basket and a rubber ball.
Check your gait for swing
Serious language, deep language, real language
Helps me by grounding me.
I don’t have to be nice for company
When I can just tell the truth.
I needn’t have guests with virgin ears
Or unrealistic expectations,
I no longer pander to such foolishness.
I know the layered meaning of my words.
I value the intensity of a large vocabulary.
I am not intimidated by prudish co-conspirators
Who stare down pointed noses
At powerful utterances.
Weak words make poor boundaries
And breed victims.
I will not be trapped by niceties
I will speak clearly out of necessity.
You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault