With pros the words are transparent and reading a defined meaning in the lines is paramount. With poetry it is felt as images in the mind, with meanings that expand and open into perception. I can do both, but why does it feel like the prose are worth more monetarily, while the poems are worth more in my heart?
Maybe I’m somewhere in between a student poet, and a prose teacher. Sure wish it felt like I was a pro teacher and a graduated poet. Thank goodness that will never be the case. I will ever aspire to wire a line into a piece of bait so great, that eating it will bring a wet naughty soiled feeling in drawers. Setting the hook with a yank of the finery, and reeling it in to the point of the tale. If it’s written with a prism keyboard, the letters rainbows on the cleaned slate, words become what I hope for and the dreams are set free.
I have every intention of manipulating the ever-living daylights out of my readers, and teaching them a lesson they won’t feel the need to unlearn. Standing in the alley way with a guy named “Davy Jones”, who’d just returned in a run and thanked me being who I am on the street at night, I felt that it was okay to be myself.
He said there are listeners, talkers, and controllers in a reference to our previous conversation about a book. We both loved the book, and writing this I’m realizing that maybe I should have been intimidated by him. He’s a controller too as I see what he did. He outweighed me by a hundred pounds of street muscle, and was taller by ten inches. Huh, that’s verbal Aikido for you.
Manipulation is a word our culture uses like a curse. As if! It’s the person behind it, the actions they take, and the spoils they make or unmake in the hearts and minds of others. I guess my nature is different. I’m odd. I’m magnanimous as a goal from childhood…..to a point, and then some people out of fear will assume the worst by trusting in their fears, projecting onto me a taint. This is a breakdown of something that keeps happening to me. I’m weary of intimidating people with my words. It’s not my goal. Maybe I say too much. Maybe poetry is the only refuge I have.
Should I talk in riddles? Ask only questions? I don’t know how to fix this. I’d better give poetry a try:
The man walked into the room full of wary stares, saw the gangsters and veered to the back corner to keep watch. Sitting there with his jacket and pen, the sight of the ceiling brought comfort as the chair next to him was filled with nervous shifting. He just wanted a meal and had behaved more politely than maybe was necessary. The waitress wasn’t smiling. She could see the dark circles, the need for water and sustenance painted across his everything.
With shaky hands he sipped, the ice against his teeth reminding him to look for the back door. In the mirror the sign was easy to see, and shifting his gaze, he caught the eyes of the bigger biker who had noticed where his went.
Fuck! That was not poetry. I’ll try again:
After the accusation, with fury and in his hand a crumpled ID. Where are you from is asked as if it was socially acceptable. What part of welcome to the wild west did they miss in their education, all of it? Wipe the frigging horses nose out with a damp cloth in the desert, or die.
No! Shit! Again:
A steak burnt on both sides and wary of the white-toothed grin, a yawn of irrelevance released as a gift. Under the surface of a mean veneer making the light shine in the dark, is kindness. An antidote for the dis ease of fear resides in a pocket, and it’s ready. Loaded with batteries it shines from a coat of silver love. Beside it nuzzled tight, the black notebooks full of things cared to dare of details, numbers to call, places, a thing to write, designs to repair a world, in a dream of letters running.
As the predawn trouble approaches shifting wicked in the shadowed street, footsteps become stomps and not afraid in the actions they see. Like a moment lost forever, they hope to forget the site while bending away, as a team. It’s plain as the taste in mouth of disgust, and the loneliness that wouldn’t go away.
With the rising of the dawn, miles of dark wisdom and targets to poke, the rocks are tossed aside. Sitting against the slowly warming foundation of the bridge, a sigh released for the underbelly of mankind is going to sleep. With the perfect brightness for photographs spent on tips of ink and paper, lamenting the bird taking off, and the water droplets crystals missed in the sky.
Brushing the face of the dew wet print against cloth, a hope resides in the dial of a number. A shit shower and shave, this is how gentlemen behave.