English Club Chatter

There is little time to understand that
what fortune brings it brings in trade
borne on winds that carry like tidal movements
dust and seeds enough to cover the earth
and watchfull I prismatically skew my view
to see with senses dulled to tickle my mind
disrespecting perspective in fully meaningless ways
until the garish Eden springs to death
betrayed by its own invention so hauntingly so
that snakes are heard tittering grassy eyed
that we are no thing but Nature's mishaps
misshapen freaks with weighty brains
a cursed race of odious foes to all things
unreasonable
their perfect lives fluxed by our dust and seeds
borne on our wind
across a fruitless righteous plane
void of workable soil tilled by the soulless
nourished with shit watered with blood
and reaped by the traders of little time
this hoary harvest
this man thing

I have been told, point blank, that I will never be a poet.
The point, thus posed, holds a certain merit,
so I have pondered it
and poised the point against my still thickening skin,
watching the blue lines present themselves.
And I know that if I could pierce just one
and allow the air its redness,
that I could, in fact,
display a mental life,
the truth of which;
the blue: perspicacious, genial, witty, foolish (well it is as you see),
but the red: acrobatic, prismatic, sycophantic, runic, ultrachromatic, dichotomous, deviant, convoluted, distracted, diverted, adverse, perverse, petulant, recalcitrant, prone to rant, and on,
you would cry is worthy of the nomenclature poet.
It is there that I get stuck on the point:
the willful omission of can,
the canny observance of will.
And therein the point impresses;
to continue the cant
or to open the will.
This political point, blue and red stated,
at present remains a closed environment
of circularity.

oh, nice word play, stink...one thing, being a poet is hardly like being the pope--no one need delegate and form a commity...you just are...right?

Maybe.