Every Poet is a Dog From Hell

Every poet is a god,
Every poem is a dog from hell,
Every kind of poet will imagine
tremendous things of themselves,
A mind assassin on Tuesdays,
A wordsmith in summer,
A gift to nuns in winter,
A Buk hater,
A Hemingway worshiper,
A John Fante satirist.

But you know you are better off sensing the warmth
Of their white fire when they sneeze in a big loud crowd,
Or when they finally leave the room to take a leak,
Or when you watch a quaking pigeon die from impact on a window sill,
Or go for longs days on end without penning a single miracle.
I have seen wooden bar stools with better spirit.

These poets have become a retribution,
They will take your wives,
Take your food,
Take your dogs,
Take your clothes from the line.

You see those crassly damp confusing lyrics,
And haikus and epic epistles,
Fishes in the sun slowly cooking up a wicked stench,
And you question the sunrise,
You frown at fat babies,
You demand a refund at a reading,
And start a fight with another woman’s lover,
On the road back from church.

Nobody tells you to prepare yourself for such an apocalypse,
For a broken sewer on the next street,
For the beautiful nonsense that they will peddle,
They sign a book cover,
And read into a tiny mic,
They drink some sparkling water,
And clear their throats,
And read some more.
And then ask if you were blessed by this,
As they drink more water,
Rise up and walk,
They will say,
Go and sin no more,
They will say.

But nobody will tell them,
To dive into a handmade noose,
Or to never return to that city,
Or to do as their brothers have done:
Go to night school in the cold,
And get a laminate diploma in Insurance.
Because telling a man he lacks that flair
Will assume a private gift of one’s own holding,
An able mastery or a very good fabrication.

History will show,
These feats have never been done without spilled blood and
broken bones,
Except by some rare errant idols,
Who had to first die a public death,
And because a man’s demise will make something special of his
alive struggles,
We tell him it smells wonderful,
It will heal the deaf,
Perhaps it will better with age,
Perhaps it will better with death.

Maybe we need these clowns,
For how then will we know the extent of our own dying,
If dead men do not wash-up ashore on occasion?
The million plagues happened in the 80’s, and 90’s
These here, are the end of days,
Red fire skies of burning sulfur,
White veiled men on horse back,
Burning crucifixes,
Absentee gods,
Sons sleeping with mothers,
Explosions breaking the earth,
Dogs eating dogs.

Every poet is a god,
Every poem is a dog from hell,
We are just here to die in your sleep.
Let us pray.