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).