Then Olga smiled and said:
“Poetry’s easy to write, just find a vein and cut it…”
In the cold bathroom light,
like a martyr,
and laughed out loud, cold-blooded.
People walked by, grinning and mocking:
“Look at the freak!
lifting his pen like a razor!”
while my eyes reflected
seeing something amazing!
you English majors,
buried in your books like in funeral caskets,
with a line of my verse, I can open your cages,
just ask me!
With a swoop of my pen, I can set your souls free,
I can fill them with wisdom and honor…
there’s more life, there’s more hope, there’s more truth in me
than you’ll find in your best marijuana.
You, devout followers of corrupted religions,
reading your bibles, perplexed and puzzled,
open your ears as I recite my visions,
the Thirteenth Apostle.
And you! astronomers,
writing you last dissertations,
why don’t you gaze instead into the depths of my eyes?!
there you'll find more constellations
than you see in your clouded skies....
All of you,
Listen to me!
I’m your poet!
turn away from the turmoil of daily strife!
With rhyme and reason,
In a single moment,
I can explain to you the meaning of life!
Don’t you see how I’m stumbling,
coughing and wheezing,
Olga, -- I know that writing poetry’s easy!
but what is a poet without a reader?