Screw You Walt Whitman!

Screw You Walt Whitman

Obscurity and irrelevance
are scarier than death,
so I write to leave my mark,
but I am writing in chalk
on the sidewalk of 7th Avenue
and 42nd Street. Tomorrow
my words will be washed away
by fashion footwear
and afternoon thunderstorms.

My fears breed behind decorated walls
and seem to be immune to bug spray,
but I can still chase them
out of the living room
when I turn on the lights.
I have no philosophy
that explains the nature of man,
and my lexicon is the product
of a public school education.
All I have to work with is Silly String,
Paint by Numbers pictures
and an old Poetry Writers Guide
picked up at a yard sale in Queens.

I have Body Electric nightmares,
and Walt Whitman keeps hitting
on Jim Morrison while he plays
the piano at Rick’s Café Américain.
Despite my best efforts the hairy bastard
won’t even look in my direction.

*(Re-Print from Notes & Grace Notes September, 2008)