Narcissism has been forcing itself

Into my awareness again: the title

Of a new collection of witty poems;

An old biker who sits in his recliner

And rattles on till he runs out of gas;

The ex-public-man who’s turned

His proclivity for pontification

On his cat and soon-to-be ex-wife.


Narcissism is not to be confused

With narcolepsy, what one

Wouldn’t mind being afflicted with

In the presence of a tried and true-

Blue narcissist who can’t shut it down.


And here you are at the altar,

The trough, the stanza—what better

Career for an “N-man” than poet?


The poet needs no one else

To carry on a conversation,

Confident their tongue ala pen can

Handle the weight of all worthwhile

And burdensome questions,

Garnished with an endless supply

Of worthless answers and analyses.


At least they are quiet about it—

Their know-it-all riffs in print—

Unless you buy them a drink

Or three, turn up the volume,

Sit back and listen. Oh yes,

The drunken poet can silence

Even the soberest Narcissus.


Booze—that egalitarian solution—

Makes narcissists of us all. But

To his or her credit, shit-faced

Or stoned, the poet must zip-it,

Zone-out long enough to steal

Your life, your story, your tics

And dreams . . . to write down what

He fears could be his last poem.


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One Response to NARCISSISM

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