poem of the day 03.02.10

on another morning

i started reading henry miller again

miller is all right

most of the time i enjoy him
but when he tries
to get philosophical
i tend to get turned off

but no matter what, i’m always in awe
of how it poured out of him

the words

the way they streamed

they said that he could sit at his typer
and hold a conversation with someone
while pounding out words

i get angry at the cats if they come in the room
and meow
while i’m trying to be a “genius”

miller did it all right

so did proust, locked away in his cork-lined room

he was sick most of the time
but still able to fill pages and pages
of the most literary madness

i can’t do it like them

most writers can’t do it like them

we stare at the snow and hope the power goes out

we go online and read the sports or look at porn

we don’t pour out our souls
the way that miller and proust did

we give it away in emails
or on social networking sites

like them or not, the prowess of henry miller
and marcel proust is something to behold

they had the majesty of the word
and the gods smiled down on them

me? i’m just waiting on eight o’clock this morning
so i can shut this operation down

be done with playing writer today

go outside in the driving wind and snow

accept my fate with humanity and the job

on another morning, i’d probably feel different

i’d feel like zeus

but on this one
i just don’t feel like i have it anymore

bench me or force me to retire
because i don’t have it to give

tapped

bankrupt

devoid of meaning

and i just can’t stop this poem

so this’ll be the last line