There’s a trip coming up in my life.
But it’s no vacation.
More of a safari
To hunt the most elusive entity
Ever to leave tracks on this dirt:
I can’t write.
I don’t know what poetry is,
Because I don’t know who I am.
Fuck all that noise about an age limit on writers,
Life doesn’t work that way.
You don’t put in 30 years to get a promotion of wise proportions.
We just get old and settle down,
Wherever we last walked to.
Ended up here,
The view isn’t bad”.
But I can’t sit down, silent.
There’s a voice out there,
Emancipating itself daily from it’s surroundings because it belongs to me.
I have no idea where it is,
Or how to call it by name.
But I know it’s out there,
Waiting to say my words for me,
Since I can’t decide on the language.
Life doesn’t wait forever, though.
It has places to be,
And a life of it’s own.
So here’s my passport.
My visa, even.
I’m flying the coop, so to speak,
With just a few shiny trinkets from my nest.
Something is missing. There used to be something so reverntial. And it was right here, I swear. Right here. But now, it’s…hollow. Just empty earth that stands there looking back into you. Hell, it might even be a mirror. Hah. I know what you’re thinking. I’m not subtle. What can I say? A man has to speak his mind, doesn’t he? Who respects the Dickens of the world? Who wants to listen to Faulkner preach in 14 voices? Why would I adopt the style of the people that came before me? That’s unnatural. Art isn’t in opposition to the scientific mindset, which is to say, rationality. And fighting time with escapism with respect to the past is unhealthy. There used to be a place for reverence in my heart. Just a small little corner for me to look up in awe at the father figures and motherly matrons that graced my mind. But as I grew up, what happened? I don’t know; there wasn’t room. I wanted to fill my corners with a fiber that felt like me, and that was the last corner to hang my self-portrait. So Shakespeare had to evict the premsies. Oh well. At least I can say I chose my own path. Well, as much as a man can. And don’t worry. I’m not a badgery old hermit. I’ve gotten rather good at hiding people in here, disguised in my old clothes. Why, Dostoyevsky himself lounges in my sun room. Sartre just sleeps all day, and Mojgani stomps around the attic at night. Consider it an exclusive tea party. But without the tea, because that’s disgusting. I do believe I’m getting to the point of listening to myself talk now. Or maybe I’m chatting over brunch with the guest of my mental retreat. The two are one and the same really. But if you’ll excuse me, I have a grave to dig.
Here Lies The Canon
Erupted from Elitism and Died with Derrida.
May he sleep forever beneath our heels.