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.