Tickling A Poet...

Tickling A Poet (To Death Or Embarrassment)

I'm the poet that your mother
warned you about, or really, I'm not
but I sure woulda wanna be,
the poet that stood up for words
once in a while, who stored them in
his titanium susp of invincibility.

And shot them from the hip
or the tip of a twelve inch proverbial
you-know-what straight up the
you-know-where of you-know-who.

Or, if you don't know, I'm talking
about you, yes, you.

I'm the poet that bogged down
and logged out dreams of Olympic
achievements in semantic fertilization,
to pump hardcore, in elite tempo,
every morpheme into being,
from an empty void.

To create and copulate,
not recycle and vegetate
on prospects of penmanship.

I'm the poet that tries to write himself
to a glorious, gluttonous death,
but ends up lost for letters, drained
for days, a bozo on booze and sympathy,
waiting for the lightning bolt,
or the tar and feathers.

Because it's my time to own up,
isn't it?