More Ryhme des mots

The Important Poem

every single poem that  i've ever written begins with the working title "the most important poem  ever writen". but in my wild ramblings about Vietnam and Woodstock in  my mind, i am unceasingly dissatisfied by the title, having not met my  own expectations. so i change it. this will be the first poem published  under its working title, "pretentious arse".

     the first only  because all of the bugs in my mind seem to die off as lift the screen of  my computer to write out peoples tears, and crime scene artist  renditions of my very own dreams and fears.

see i've yet to write an  important poem, the life expectancy of my bugs is just simply to  fragile to risk that kind of disappointment.

    everybody is born  with a swarm of bugs buzzing uncontrollably in the right side and the  left side and the front and the backs of our brain, so many bugs that  your mouth becomes a drain for all the ideas that these bugs produce.

when we get older, the bugs begin to fade. age is irrelevant; age simply creates bigger rooms for the bugs.
they  eat music, washed down with a glass of yellow paint, they buzz with  happiness that must be expressed in the emotion to create.

but every time a child must write a state report, or a math test, the bugs begin their suicide protest

and stop speaking.

mouths shut tight with  rainbow duct tape, they are barraged by a sea of Cs and Ds on a report  card, because the duct tape cant stop them buzzing.

but they'll stand still  amidst the crashing brain waves of a child who is told to stop being  wild, so the bugs die of boredom, leaving their host in silence to  contemplate the violence in the middle east. or the chores that must be  done.

it seems that the  pressure to conform is both the the most powerful ad the most  destructive form, as i feel the need to write something inspirational  because someone else did, and because that child forgot about his dream  to become a comic book artist because his bugs hid.

Van Gogh knew just what  to do. he fed his bugs paint that was bright yellow, bright blue, until  stars wove in and out of his honey bee hive mind, to the sound of a  symphony that he created with strokes and lines. like the patterns that a  bow makes in the hands of a musician with intention, his paint brush  and his alcohol became vessels of invention not destruction.

every happy healthy bug  is an hour, and ten thousand make ten thousand post it note birthday  cards spelling the same entry in child like calligraphy "i love you."

i knew a woman who  taught in the school district in the inner city of Lancaster. she told  me that she had to sneak in play dough for the children, as they were  not allowed play dough or crayons due to the budget being shifted  towards nicer testing facilities. she told me that if her boss the  principal of a percentage of the next generation of bee keepers, if he  ever found out about her play dough she would be out of a job.

but that's our job, is  to feed our bugs sugar water. help them grow big and strong as the dys  gorw shorter and the nights grow long in the minds of children born with  extra bugs. labeled and medicated, the bugs no longer buzz but buzz  from ridilin that gives them an artificial jolt like an electric fly  swatter.

i am an artists  daughter, only because the extra bugs that side of family was given gave  them more reason to paint for a livin, my grandmother had synesthesia.  my father taught himself to draw in a shack built of borrowed money from  a family who felt obligated to give back to their synesthete daughter  for being damaged. for being handed a jar of more bugs than they could  handle, and a life that burnt her like a 50s mentality towards sexual  abuse scented candle.

i still have her oil paints.
i  still have the jar of bugs that my heritage passed down to me, maybe  not a heightened sense for reality exactly, be that something to  medicate.

im a junky, theres so many now that i can't eradicate them.

ill take a buzz where i can get one.

stop the war on bugs.