|photo by leland francisco|
I find two cents on the storm drain
which beg permission to hear someone's opinion.
There is no irony
lost, in it being the same toll charged by Charon
for a trip across the river.
These small deaths
to self, add up to homicides & chalk
lines on the sidewalk,
the corner shopkeeper washes off
easily with leftover mop water,
steaming in the early morning air,
no longer a stain
on the concrete.
these moments, to remind us that listening
has a cost / measured in lives,
bags of blood,
donated by those willing to lay down
on their backs.
Even if some look away,
when the needle
slips the skin.
sometimes it's best
if you just shut your mouth.
How in love we are with ourselves. With our voice. With our verse. In a rush to publish, because that makes us - what? A poet. An artist. A writer. Something tangible to justify our sense of self. Which came first, opinion or truth? We've gone from Nirvana's "Entertain us" to thinking we are the Entertainment. If you "Like" us, leave a tip. Leave a comment. If you are really good, you can do it in one word. Brilliant, is over used. Four words is stretching it. Eighty can be just as shallow. But that assumes, you're listening to anything but your own voice. Who gives a fuck? Only a few. I will tell you, that much. We become martyrs to our art - so alone and un-understood. Imprisoned by self. Eventually, when we have to produce more to keep the feeling of being - it all tastes the same - because it's mass-produced. Spit out like a half formed child & expected to live. Everyone is a poet. Everyone is a poet. Pass the crayons, I am going to start calling myself Picasso.
~ Citizen 0(zero)