Just sitting here, star clusters forming on my fingers
Trying to figure out how to make poetry cool
Maybe I could grow Jim Morrison’s beard, in a pot
Would I water it with whiskey?

Reciting my poem in darkness, but I forgot
The words
And I was getting frisky
With a truck stop waitress
I kept asking her what was more real
The sounds of words metamorphosing into living creatures
Or a flawless skin that blankets disgusting features

How did poetry become so boring
We had to dress it up with beats and music and tight jeans
I just want to stand naked in a crowded amphitheater and scream
And have the crowd roar approval
Scream naked words that waver radiantly
That can drown a nation in an ocean of emotion
A poem that can make armies fall into dust
That can shake loose Earth’s delicate crust
Pleasure the galaxy with a powerful thrust

Even in my pixelated awareness
Stumbling through the crosswalk
With humanity roaring around me
I want to stand up
And lift above me laughing children
With intense innocence
And recite with idiomatic inference
Go tumbling through vast empty spaces
Effacing distasteful traces

Trying to shake these star clusters off my fingers
Formed over thousands of years
As I let my body linger
Stagnated in indecision, reflection mirrored

How do I make poetry cool?
Maybe I’ll just grow Jim Morrison’s beard



2 thoughts on “JIM MORRISON’S BEARD

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