From Whence it Came

From Whence It Came
(a wv country boy attempts a slam poem)

If I read another poem about poetry, I will puke.
And not a polite “that did not agree with me” puke,
but an on my knees, sweating, gut-wrenching,
stomach-empting, crying for death, too may shots of Cuervo puking.

How did poetry get jacked by academia?
The voice of resistance, the word of truth,
the lovers lie, the story-tellers craft
being held captive in an Ivory tower.

We are on the attack, led by Nuyorican poets
and other honest voices of streets and mountains
Following a path blazed by Bukowski,
returning art to its birth.

We will not be ignored
as you slam on slam
But we are returning poetry
to ourselves.

Common folk, common poets
with our story to share, searching,
struggling, failing, hurting, dying,
and dreaming of expressing it all.

Practical Poetry

I sat down in my big chair
To read a little Billy Collins today
I did not get very far
Because of the voices of ghosts.

I could hear my fathers sigh,
As he mumbles under his breath,
“That will not get you far,
why waste the day.”

I could hear my mother scold
(She has never said anything under her breath.)
“Read something real
a practical book is what you need.”

As I shook those old voices from my head
Something moved in the corner.
I jerked my head,
Only to see a Roach.

I jumped from chair barefoot
(because shoes hurt my ankles)
and rushed to the scene.
I took a swing and missed.

Then he moved again.
I brought my copy of “Picnic Lighting”
Down fast and sharp
And smashed it on the floor

Parents are not always right,
Old voices are a joke
My practical poetry took me far
And the roach is dead on the floor.