I realized this morning that I could never have met Mandela after he had been released from jail
Because I was not famous
Just another brown face trying to carve out my legacy amidst rejection letters, poorly written poems, and richly dreamt dreams that try to reconcile all of the sins
of irresponsible men in waiting rooms
and the eulogies for all tomorrow’s children
who, further removed from the gray heaven of blood and electric typewriters,
have come to accept a world where folk heroes are not born
by a media conglomerate
who had no interest in freedom or humanity in the first place
I accept tonight that I will never meet the Dalai Lama,
I am not powerful enough
In fact, I am quite weak –
And, as some bird in the twilight corner of the sky knows,
The way my sore teeth concede:
A raw nerve never gets a break
It only gets
Poets toil, poets sweat, poets even steal to pay the rent.
Even a bad poet has an original thought or two–one worth thinking about…if only he could get from under his boss’ foot.
Sounds suspicious to me.
But if they done it to Christ they can do it to you. He was a poet wasn’t he?
A carpenter with ideas that were later hammered home-his own lyrics nailed him to the cross.
It’s 11:03 and I’m still here. I’ve lost my voice. I still fear the emptiness. I’m packing boxes, sanding latches, logging on and smiling so I can sing my songs at night.
What Happened to me?
Somewhere along the line
There was a dash I slipped between
Crossing chasms and ugly paper
Nasty train knees and looks of corporate dough;
Somewhere along the way
They locked my soul and took my place
I donned a mask and hid my face
But I sat at the table so I could eat
Beneath the crumbling sky made of paper Mache’
And tiny bleeding nails.
I may die a nobody, I may work as a slave
But I know in my heart there was somebody