It’s morning now
pre-noon: something,
I haven’t bothered
to check
I’ve been up
all night
streaming Netflix, to keep
from dreaming
stranger things
than this:
the other day, for instance,
an article on
my Facebook feed
caught my eye
I won’t bother you
with the details, as
I only read
the headline, which was
something to the effect of
A runny nose may actually be
brain fluid
leaking out, I thought
the Enquirer journalists
are up to their usual tricks,
either that, or,
the world is lousy with
paranoid hypochondriacs.”
There is so much nonsense
floating around to
filter out, it’s strange,
and stranger still to be a poet in
the Information Age
reading Byron, and all his
stuffy gloom. He bores me
but I love
the smell of old books
All the worlds a stage
as Shakespeare said, yet
in those days
a poet was either
a scoundrel, or a beggar.
Which reminds me of
the original meaning for
In pre-Freudian times it meant
a kind of moon sickness
where the afflicted
was thought to be
possessed of madness, &
his ranting fits
were a danger to the
civilized, thereupon
as treatment he was
to be tied to a tree,
a post, or any immovable
object of the like, and
there remain until
he calmed, or they eased
the poor man’s pain
by death, of course.
Though we now know
what a fugue state
really is, thank you Freud.
I, myself, am not a Christian
but I would like to thank
their God for Atheists,
however only in that I
appreciate any group
that refuses to subscribe to
Holy dogma, though
atheism in itself is
a backwards practice, for
when one claims not to believe
in God, One must first
acknowledge God,
how else then, by this
assertion, can One claim
not to believe?
I prefer instead
to believe in myself.
Scrolling down my
WordPress reader, I’d like
to remind the lot of you
that poetry does not
a rich man make.
Or perhaps you’ve met
more fat, starving artists
than I? Remember
age, and maturity are not

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.


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