for all the Lilliputians
I was plagued by an uneasy feeling; of jealousy, and vindictiveness, of petty-minded
blood-letting that seemed to only ease when I let go of things, as I’d been counseled throughout the years.
I released myself from any enmity and decided to have a talk with my antagonist.
He lay there, all brown and jealous; insouciantly lazing against the bowl, resembling that cigar he liked to chomp between his teeth as if to imply toughness and a hard-scrabble life lived beyond parameters anyone else could understand.
Still, the stink remained; but it being part of him, he could not truly fathom the depths I would ensure he’d experience before too long.
Turdboy, I said, why do you even bother? Poetry should mean, and be.
I can’t help it, he replied. I need attention. I’m so desperate and jealous at my own inferiority that I need to converse on an equal basis with such as yourself.
Thus I make pretenses at achieving this or that. I write what these days is accepted as poetry by a few who don’t know better, who don’t have a sense of history beyond our vaunted narcissism.
You know, who accept my position in the conjugation of vowels much the same way someone who reads the paper believes they can also think viably and with a possibility towards advancement.
As if they had an actual opinion amidst the fumes.
Unaware of his fate, or actual position in the universe, he lay there; wanting to believe he was at least someone’s nemesis.
You’re the king in an esthetic lack of proportion, I said. You are as much the symptom as the disease.
Look at all those scribblers, whiners, hallucinating poetry and the avoidance of that deep freeze.
So you, and they, sacrifice self-awareness, and stick to the rim of life. Rather to be a stain than an honest anonymous character who is real and true.
Thus you write, you’re mean, you arsewipe your verses onto what’s clean and has a history. You spread your stink as you backstab and gossip, cling to what’s good as if you could accomplish anything.
More jealous than most, more vain and useless than your own ghost.
And so you remain forever; no hope of changing, growing, or ever causing anything decent or memorable: merely of showing the precious smell and decay you champion in your shiterature.
Ahhhh, I’m published I can hear them shouttttttt….
I flushed the fraud away in a vortex and frenzy of belligerent, unintelligible demands for equality.
©Dean Baker
from Tormenting The Monkey $3.99 ebook “The monkey knows, but understands nothing
No sacred cows in this long-awaited and in demand collection of satiric meditations on everything and everyone from politics, family, social issues, cultural and individual misconceptions…
being that the ‘monkey’ loves to torment itself with things it already knows and enjoys the disconnect between what it knows and refuses to learn, repeatedly.”
©All Rights Reserved
deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com
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