John-Michael Gariepy

Drivel, in B Minor

If there is one thing more

important to a poet than

pretentiousness,
then it must be love.  You
can’t fool me!  I’ve read the
other poet’s poems and being
self-centered is important, but
when they aren’t talking about
themselves, they’re talking about
their amores.

Love, lust, adoration, immitation, love lost, love lived and love never found.  I’ve read about sleeping wives and beautiful lives and love denied with kitchen knives.  Car’s on hills, she takes the pill, and I love her so much she gives me heat rashes.

Sometimes it gets so bad, I’d
prefer the artist get back to
how miserable and dreary his life is.

“Is this all going somewhere?”
you ask.  Why yes, you see,
I, too, am a pretentious
son-of-a-bitch and wish to
tell you about my amore
as well

, which cannot be done.  I don’t
have one, which confounds the shit
out of me.  I mean, how can I be a poet and not have some female constantly dashing my affections?  How can I call myself an artist if I can’t agonize over the decisions / lack of decisions of my betrothed / stalking material.  I’m a sham.  I don’t want anyone, and I figure few people want me and I want to keep it that way.

Yet, despite this, or more because
of this (?) I am driven to write (…)
My brain will not relax
until it has given birth
to some stillborn idea –
kept the abortion like a real child
and presented it on a high chair
with toys, bib and fed it
food it can never chew.

Sometimes it gets so bad, I’d
prefer the artist get back to
how miserable and dreary his life is.

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