(I am friends with a certain writer on Facebook. He keeps writing – some really good stuff and some not so good – and I keep wallowing in my misery. It is hard for me to get meaningful feedback on my work, but if I don’t work I will get nothing. So he has woken me – and I am not fair to him – and everybody we see is a reflection of ourselves, anyway.)
And So I Wake
I am a persnickety old fart,
a torchbearer of the long dead,
a whithered homosexual like Whitman,
rehashing hackneyed platitudes
like “death on the snow, clinging…”
Poetry is what is
not death but
hands against whithered hairy flesh.
“My God, what trash” Bukowski might spit
and Ginsberg would make you stay after class.
So live while you think and write
and do not remember the dead,
because we will not see the end even if it comes.
My God Man, I say to myself,
you have woken me up, at least.
By Paul Bourgeois to a poet
August 14, 2016