Like an hunter, I chase poetry
I set traps, whet my arrowheads
And lie in wait
Hoping that a stray idea will be my dinner
But like Peter, I wait all night
For a creature that never shows.
Such mockery! I am a sapien
An outwitted sapien;
An hunter whose game
Knows how to play the game.
It is a family tradition
To write a poem once in three days-
I have failed my fathers; I have failed
Poetry has eluded me.
Devastated, emaciated,
Fell I into a deep sleep
And a dream I had
Of melting mountains and burning seas
Of gnomes, of ghosts and ogres that weep
Then it came, the voice, it came;
"When the Son of Man is lifted up
I will draw all men unto myself"
Then saw I two large testicles
Fall from the sky into the sea
And much froth there was
That covered the face of the sea.
From much froth rose a dame unclad
Like two full moons her breasts they shone-
What has poetry to do with this?
Of what business have I with dreams?
Awoke I did only to find
Poetry unclad stroking my hair-
I am not the hunter, she is
I am a prey hunting myself (for her)
We are not the writers, she is
She is the one writing our names
In the sands of time.
I am not a poet because
I write poetry
I am a poet because
Poetry uses me
Because
Poetry uses me
to express herself.
