He invokes Kerouac and it hits me like a falling rock.
His poem is all heavy handed metaphors and dulled cliches
And it leaves blunt force trauma in its wake.
If my poems are lipstick stains
Smeared, imperfect and gone after a good drink
Than his poems are a hickey
Bruised, painful, and not much fun after the initial rush.
Hickeys are an archaic mark of ownership:
This neck is mine
I have held this jugular tenderly in my powerful jaws
And through my mercy I have spared it.
His mercy is a frozen rain in March.
He tells me it will bring flowers but on the days I need the sunlight most
There is only cold wet ground and dead grass.
He tells me I speak too much in absolutes
But moderation is easy for him.
He has never been cornered against a wall, spitting and clawing for breath.
He is holding the torch,
Not cowering away from the flame, hiding in the bushes.
When survival is the single objective
Everything is in absolutes.
He likes my wildfire but in bite sized pieces.
Pieces he can season with his heavy handed chauvinism
And fit neatly into his poetry.
I am an experience to him.
Look, in this poem I am wowed by the beauty of a dear
Watch closely in this next poem as I tame the wild woman
And in this poem I examine the splendor of the grand canyon.
Does he remember that little fires spread?
If I am wildfire than I will spread up the curtains, and lick the walls
If I am wildfire than I will touch the open sky.
If I’m wildfire then I’m going to die as soon as I run out of things to burn
Might as well take him down with me.
He’ll probably dismiss this as another absolute
But
If he writes another god-damn poem about Kerouac
I’m going the burn this whole place to the ground.
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