a poem for the poets

encourage yourself, don't
let other people be the
only ones you give that
power to. Your words -
either mean something
or they don't, right?
They're yours. No one
can take away your voice
if you don't give it
voice. If you don't give
it words. If you don't
give it to the world. But
if you do, then they can
take it away

with them. wherever they
go. Poets have a place
that nobody else really
can occupy, because that place
is just crawling with other poets.

Force your way in. Your words
are your V.I.P. clearance, your
password, your stinkeen badge, your name
is on the list. Welcome, poet

Do not be a poet
who doesn't even know it.

Poetry has wings, and scales
and puppy dog's tails and veils
between it and its own meaning, but you
can clip, tip, wag and pierce them all
as needed. What do you say, poet?

Where do you fit, within the world?
Don't tell us. Don't tell the world, tell
yourself! The word doesn't care
what you tell it - not
if you can't tell yourself
how the shoe really fits. So walk
a mile in it, and bring band aids.
Sit by the road a bit, take off
shoe, sock, and put
a band-aid or two where it
does the most good - to cover where it chafes.
Suit your foot back up and walk on. No blisters!

Or,

are you the poet of blisters? Maybe you
need to keep walking, then.

Poets should have sex with each other.
Poets should make love with other poets, so
that when the words intertwine and get all
tangled as they do, and each poet goes off gasping after,
writing them down, gasping after a separate and unique
truth,
as if an experience can be un-shared, as if a fact
can be made after-the-fact. Let us let not sweat it.
It's ok to try: let us let
artifice
take its own course
until the course takes over, until nature
takes its own nature and us in hand
and we will each lift a voice - the other's
in song, but not song, but song, until hoarse
and then we will smile, and know what the words don't
mean.

Poets should have sex with each other. And if
the secret message slips in ("psst!
I am half, are you half too?"), to touch off
the result, the cooker, the exponential popcorn of cells,
the consequent head, toes, feet, inches and lbs., and the
god-damn-this-bullshit-is-excruciating, BREATHE! DRUGS!, - of a new
bursting forth into this world, of:

an impartial witness.

Who will be asked: "You. You come from nowhere, you
came from us. You have no axe to grind, please - tell
us:

is mommy's or DADDY'S poetry

the best?