Is matter a transvestite, one asks.
—Etel Adnan
I, too, know all to well
the choke-inducing
sugary-nauseous feeling
of tripping inchoately or
incorrectly or just plain
corruptibly over every—
single—word— so that
each one tumbles out such a much
messier mess than the one previous
had; each & all previouses of which
would’ve remained a virgin, innocent,
no bad report, no scrutiny down from which
to—to—to—scrutinize & from which spits
a whispery but bilious splatter; would’ve
remained as it were in the shadows, but
just as sprightly clean as a whistle, had—I—
not—opened—my—bigmouth—to—begin—with.
However,
might I simply add,
perhaps not exactly in—my—defense,
but it being now, and now being surely
and most likely and certainly the best—
the most appropriate time—if ever there is
or was—to do so, that I do—very—much—love—being,
that I have been in varying degrees, and most—assuredly—am—now
—a poet.
And, as humble or not, I grow more comfortably
into this freaky role every—single—living—day.
In—deed, indeed, and in—clear—matter—of—fact.
With that preceding, I know in my heart—of—hearts
that if afforded a nubbin of pencil & an out-fashioned
book of note, or even a cellblock and a just lick of shale,
that I could, for—Pete’s—sake(—or—for—
naught—but—my—spindrift—own!), write a few lines
that would explain everything so—much—better
than that which I most—awkwardly—and—spontaneously
and ever—so—over-vocally am exhaling at you right now!
