The poets they're drunk.
They're talking to dogs.
They're how leaves speak.
They swim in thunderstorms.
"Strike me with lightning! I'm here to be filled!"
They're avenging angels,
More valuable than $1.37.
They name vowels' colors!
They wish only to sleep.
They're talking to themselves.
No one loves them. No one listens!
They're alien in America.
They're crushed by clockwork grooves.
They seek diamonds to hone.
They're stumbling home.
More vain than birds, mad for just fame,
They abandon gossip, back-stabbing, double-dealing
And any manipulation on commerce's arts-ladder
For peace in their minds' theater,
Still, they'll recite for wine or pretty ones.
Still, they wind up passed-out on somebody's couch.
Still, they wind up awake with scented flesh and silken skin
In the most marvelous and surprising of beds,
Alert and sensitive as rutting deer, tender as a pig's ear.
Their art is neurotic. Their art is salvation.
They may not be useful. They may be most vital.
They keep shrines to gentle prophets.
They arch their throats at the Tower.
They dance and sit zam-zun by a cast-iron Ben Franklin.
Their music is dangerous when they reach so high.
Bless them. Bless them for their
Crooked walks, bugged and faraway eyes,
Their wounds and gifts that try to reach Joe, Joan and gods.
Don Paul (Amherst, Nova Scotia, Canadá, 1950). Poeta, músico y activista en favor de la paz.