Why Write Anything?
I construct poems
like I construct collages.
I take little snippets
That I find
from here and there
I like bits and pieces
removed from context
That could be about anywhere,
or anyone,
or any time,
or any place.
Usually unburdened by pronouns
Usually two or three
or maybe six words.
Maybe with punctuation,
but maybe not.
Then I spend all of my time
hunting,
gathering,
collecting,
arranging,
editing,
moving this to here
or that to there.
Casting things aside
that don’t fit
collecting more.
Why write anything? I wonder.
There are already
too many words bussing everywhere
floating around,
trapped on paper,
chattering in minds,
carved in stone,
Painted, printed, posted
written with pens and pencils
slipped into policies and propaganda.
Why disturb the quiet
of my own mind
dredging the depths
in the places without words
to capture the delicate
and degrade it
with a clumsy translation
that means nothing?
Still, I enjoy listening
and being surprised by
the happenstance
and the blitherblather
of the politicians
and the murmers
and sweet nothings
of the poets.
Most of no interest to me
but those little gems
found among the river rock,
ones you want to pick up,
put in your pocket,
and later, on the table
or fireplace mantel
To look at and hold
a second or third time.
I am a collagist
I collect these kinds of things
then see what I can do with them,
How I can arrange them.
What attracts me?
And under it,
I am everyone just as you are.
I wrote everything ever wondered,
written or whispered,
spoken, shouted or screamed.
All voices are my voice.