writing keeps me alive:
critics can focus on the
obsessive-compulsive attributes
of the process (freud, plato)

critics can destroy the constructions
with slights
and sledgehammers

& i know that these vestiges
do not feed my family,
or the world

& i know that few will ever
want to read the inner dialogue
of others, like mine -

why would they! poetry
asks too much to lure
persons into one's personal dreamscape
(it's too lurid to beg for readership)

but here is what poetry
does: it is intense
journalism, where you
consolidate your intelligence
& emotion into personal truth

yes, at first poems are solipsistic
and personal, but as we
all share the same destiny
under the stars,
some of these intense, personal narratives
ring true for others

then we can write in a
more universal language,
away from the personal myth,
into the myth of humankind

journey of the meta-poet:
the poet who integrates what she reads &
experiences, soberly, & with utter
exactitude, into forms

II.
language is like freshwater -
if we don't drink, we die
our emotional lives
(our survival lives)
utter out these semiotic life-rafts
called words

we re-view our speech,
make constructions,
make meaning, then
index life lessons as aphorisms
and cliches

we become these indexers
of emotions at a rapid rate;
we even add musicality
to the constructions

we build societies and cities,
cafes and academies from mere sentences;
we send men and women
to the moon

because all of this is our
wish fulfillment, via word constructions:
we deign to be our universal selves

we fill the void
with survival utterances, and
wordpaint the world with dreams
(begging dreams)

even the most arcane lingo -
that of the accountant, the lawyer -
purports not to have sentiment,
but all is steeped in philosophy,
all have roots in values

and the tones that come forth
are musical, sing-song,
comforting, and expressive

can't we see? that all of us
are deigning to survive with
rapid speech? that we cluster
to each other in associations, guilds
& secret societies because we
are scared shitless to go it alone?

III.
i wonder:
where did we diverge
from our tribe language
and into individual language?
these wars for real-estate
and architecture
and pissing rights -
they all seem so ludicrous

we are humans raging in speech
& song,
we wear costumes,
and transact trades

do we really need to hoard
the surpluses and deny
our tribehood?

no wonder we yearn
for escape in novels and films:
we need to be told that
our tribehood did, and will, exist

there is sentiment
in our life!
there is, rooted in language,
words (ideas) for
love, peace, human evolution

that's why the poets try
so hard

the answers are there
for the picking

IV.
i raise my glass -
to stanzas of peace!

and beg of you
to write your own journals

to see where this
trivial writing can lead you.