Deny your muse. There’s no practicality in poetry. Write, but write for work
first. Secure yourself and try to craft in moments spared.
Spare tires build around your waist while you waste time
you wish you’d spent writing. Yearn for that metaphorical core of language, but ignore it
when the inspiration hits. Instead,
write sales pitches; ditch your dreams to craft a tale to market the Next Big Thing.
Write sycophantic sentences and call yourself a “Creative.” Let your servo-
mind guide the words you spew to sell. Make-
believe you’re making it and one day, when you “make time for it,”
try to find the words you want to write.
Deny your heart. There’s no practicality in passion. Love’s cries are lies
your mind can’t reason away, though they cut deep like
a knife no logic can heal. Hearts beat. Hearts keep
beating you senseless. Don’t dream
closed eyes will open to the insane world. Better to
deny compassion, since there’s no practicality in pretending
there could be a better world. Don’t dream
of that world you see when you close your eyes, where everybody
there is taken care of, fed, and working. It’s just another lie
and you’ve already got a job. To idealize is to
deny your potential to abase yourself for a footnote in the book of Paul,
Bill, Jeff or Howard. Root for their teams and pray they keep them here
this time. Lose your mind to eyes more concerned with gossip and gadgets
than the all-seeing soporific vampire state, but smile and offer yourself.
Do your job, pay rent, delay bills, pray you don’t get sick. Slave for wages
paid by dependents writing checks you depend on. Erode your dreams for scraps
from the tables of Titans. Study business, law, tech or medicine – something practical.
Don’t dream or you’ll starve. Buy a house and plant a family in it.
Deep roots keep you in place and put you on the path
to proper prosperity.
Deny your dreams. There’s no practicality in possibility. Dreamers become druggies
become drudges when they can’t afford the drugs they need to feed their dreams.
Don’t dream. Why even sleep? Even sleep is selfish
in a world of global profits and 24-hour news cycles. Deny your muse.
There’s no practicality in poetry. Who needs poetry?
You might. While their eyes are tied to screens while the world wakes
outside a Metro window, someone should be seeing.
Watch the grey-haired woman struggle five miles-per-hour up a shallow hill
on a bicycle with empty tires. Listen to a man rant beside the gum wall
to a mother dead for decades. Feel the wind in your hair; smell salt in the air;
be willing to admire the emerald isles that surround your ferry ride.
Savor the bitter of the first coffee brewed at sunrise
to the last beer shared with a girl before the bar kicks you out.
Take note of a red house
boat drifting wide behind a tug
in the rain under Highway 99 at 8 a.m.
So much depends upon it.