This poem is about inspiration and not about the little or big fishes in the ocean.
This poem is about excavating creativity and not about skeletons in the closet or repressed memories.
This poem is about figuring shit out and not about shaking and baking yourself to the point that you’re pulling dead dogs out from behind the couch because you’re a psychopath and have been ever since you were a towhead child spending too much time alone in your room.
The ocean calls you up in the middle of the dark night. You are wearing ripped, pee stained underwear and drinking spilled milk from a faceless container.
I know you’re not Picasso, fuck you’re not even Warhol, but that hardly means anything as long as you believe in something more than rosary beads or having sex with crash test strangers.
I knew a guy who could play the guitar like the second coming. He was also pretty damn funny and never shirked away from the responsibility of being irresponsibly adept at crucifying the truth while up on stage.
This poem is about inspiring others to do their best work and not about beating someone over the head with their prosthetic leg and leaving them in the ditch with the tenured professors and forensic death merchants.
This poem is about seizing the day by fucking another dead language in the gluteus maximus and not once looking back because what happened to Lot’s wife could happen to anyone of us here and now in these metastasized modern times.
This poem is about getting angry and staying angry until your chosen work is done and not about making excuses or pretending you do not possess the greatness you most assuredly do possess.
We do not have to be disenfranchised or dispossessed.
We do not have to stay on the sidelines keeping our opinions and ideas strictly to ourselves.
We do not have to wade so cautiously into the ocean especially when the waves are breaking all around us and begging for us to dive in.