So I have a backlog of killer poems that I have written, but who gives a shit. So I am putting them on my blog. Here is one of them.
It is too early in the morning for poetry
and such disdain I had for your saying that.
I wanted to defend it.
I wanted to grab the blankets
with both hands and roll myself up inside them.
Creating the perfect hermitic shell
to shrug off your attacks.
But I just lie here, dreaming of globed fruits
cradled infinite upon the finite sea.
You got up and spelled your name
as you always do in the yellowed egg yokes sizzling in a pan.
I hunkered down in my trenches,
ready to deny you the pleasure of my consumption.
And so what if it is too early for poetry?
It is quite possible, I will admit,
that we have not yet the lucidity
to grapple with that benevolent sonneteer,
to undo his linguistic leg locks
and sonorous sidelong stares.
But surely the sleep in your eyes will fade and the grog of dreams will lift.
So when is it not too early?
Or maybe you yourself were writing a little poem,
reciting it to me.
It is too early for poetry, you say.
It is too early for poetry if we are still willing to push a flag into the dirt for it.
It is too early for poetry if horses die bearing its emblem.
It is too early for poetry if a long night’s deluge
of the subconscious leaves you yearning
for more of the abstract
and more of the hypothetical.
But when is it too late?
And I am sure you will say something to the effect of it was always too late.