I Think

therefore, I have made

myself a poet by insisting I am

a poet after years of insisting

I wasn’t a poet even though I did

know it back then when

I kept insisting I was just a guy

who wrote the shit that came to mind,

those thoughts and observations

we all have, but most don’t

take the time to write down.

 

So I became a poet by virtue

of putting words on paper

and publishing them in books,

reading them aloud and

acknowledging the proclamations

of others calling me a poet.

I guess a poet is someone who

is determined to be a poet,

wants it enough to read and study

those deemed or claiming to be

 

poets—a mysteriously undefinable

club begging absolute freedom

for contradiction—that uneasy comfort

of nonconformity—constantly seeking

the safety of distance to confess

ignorance, fear, ecstasy, and suspicion.

 

Poetry—the delirious diary of existence—

those fragmented lingo-bits gathered

and strewn—a display intoning

straight-on-honest spews or veering

into-through the elliptical, surreal,

ba-jibbity voodoo of language

voiced and heard—our scribbled

account of dreams whispered.

 

I have made myself a poet

because I claim I am. Therefore,

just ask me, and I will tell you

I am a poet (I think).

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