the last few moments before the world rushes in
the last few minutes of solitude
you take a few last sips of sanity and do what you'd normally do
before they rush in from all sides straight at you
and steal back from you what you so painstakingly tried to save from them
word for word, minute for minute, stem by uprooted stem
the silence never lasts, the loneliness is sometimes good, but it's always doomed
the good loneliness is never long for this world, not long for you
it's the bad loneliness that grabs hold so completely, so perniciously, and never let's go
loneliness never has room for two
it's always the last thing you know
the thing you never thought would cling to you
sever the pen, rip the paper, act like the ink is blood from your thrust saber
(you worthless little pig, rotting in your own stew)
there's a beauty to drifting, apart in the air
to finding light solace in that artistic snare
but it comes crowding in day by day, year by year, stair by weary stair
the up and the down to sit and look at that screen
and hope for magic to fill that pungent lonely lair
up and down, day by weary day
art is nothing but the pulling of hair
and you don your best clothes as if to fool them with a ruse
you ride out into the night, into a world of carefully choreographed social cues
(rounded out by hors d'oeuvres and designer shoes)
and tell of bold adventures in mind and rhythm
left on paper, scribbled with ink
zeros and ones made lucid on electric screens
sipping cocktails and sharing anecdotes about other poets that have been
acting like you're in company that spans the ages
like your name fits in with great names of your heroic poet sages
names dropped from your thirsty mouth
your Plaths and Eliots and Pounds
you clutch at them with your hands as they all fall down
and then trample them awkwardly
when time comes to leave with haste
back to the lonely lair
to stalk wall to lonely wall
and let time make another haunting round
of foolhardy efforts all gone to waste
alone it returns, the savage, relentless chase
for something more,
something that will prove you, that will reap applause
from those with refined taste
but eyes look away as soon as they see
and ears turn to poets younger and better than you and me
promises resound, cruel and cool, but they don't include you
your days are few, besides you never were so good
you know, you tell yourself, day after day
there are those who are much better than you
the future is now theirs
your days are few
the cocktail's over, the guests are gone, the kind words fade
replaced once again by all those haunting fears
you stand there and see your reflection pass in the mirror
fuck it... besides
a poet shouldn't wear a suit
a poet must be naked
and wear nothing but boxing gloves
and write with shears
