Not to be Seen in a ‘Zine

You
would not call me
Poet.

Perhaps I am not
angry
enough, or
perhaps I am too
busy
hacking through the
husk
of angry to reach the
core of pain.

Perhaps I love
words
too much, or know
too many or long
always
to know more.

Perhaps I
spell
too well, preferring
to pay homage to the
Ancestors
who left us
Silent Ps and Bs and Hs,
Diphthongs,
Gerunds,
Counterintuitive Pronunciations
and
three words to two, too.

Perhaps I cannot
match you
fuck for fuck, or
believe too much in
subtlety.

(there’s that pesky silent b)

Perhaps my
Mind has not yet
made trite the
Beauty
of a rose, nor my
Ego
turned insipid the
Joy
of a child.

Perhaps the smell of
Death
has not yet
overcome the smell of
Puppy Breath.

Perhaps I
sometimes
rhyme.

For whatever reason
or for none,

You
would not call me
Poet.

And that suits me
just fine.

 

©sdrogers 14 january 2013