I Want To Be A Poet

I want to be a poet because
I need to know
Who I Am,
HOW- –I am.
WHY I AM
like breathing or SEX.
Like Starbucks coffee
to choose from an endless list
of black and strong
with cream and
sugar.

I want to be a poet because
it doesn’t mean a thing
if you ain’t got that zing
to people in the bayou
with alligators for neighbors
and mosquitoes as big as flying
saucers that want to drink your blood
and leave welts the size of basketballs.
BIG— ORANGE— HARD– BALLS
The BALLS that it takes
to stand up and SHOUT
about
SENIORITY and AUTHORITY
and about
the Assonance and Consequence of
our ACTIONS.

I want to be a poet
because of the reason and the rhyme
marking time
dripping off my tongue– aged like fine wine.
Lyrical and magical—ALICE
chasing a rabbit into a hole
filled with soul, out of control
hanging on a cliff
with a NOTE
high on hope
instead of dope.
Set adrift
on a boogie ship
with a Fever
unrehearsed
and cursed —-to just be.

I want to be a poet
because of sibilant s’s
and because I want to weigh the wind
on an impossible scale
next to a fish tail that never pales
or smells stale—or fishy.

I want to be
shackled
to a form and not mourn.
To show the flaming red dawn
like a phoenix riSING from the ashes
to give birth to the
MUsic of my faith
over, and over again.
Forever drunk on strong words
ringing in my ears –high above the herd
until my LAST
MEASURED DAY— On Earth.