It’s all about confidence,
they said. You have to have
as much chutzpah as all those dudes who
self-publish poem after poem about
road kill and baseball, girls, their
fathers, chess, sailing, yeats’ gyre and
bukowski’s pocked face. I was bold to write
aloud before three teachers
said they liked my poems. I got excited
when someone told me all islands
are sand eventually, so I visited the coast;
I learned what “craggy” means to me.
I’ve started living in the past:
I returned a man; I chose to
come home, to stay always
home. They asked me to publish and publish
and publish my mistakes.
Excellent. Very clever use of the image of “pocked” and “craggy” things to perhaps imply that poetry is made more appealing for its preoccupations with the less-than-beautiful.
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