Benchmark

I have heard from a certain poet that the "long" poem is kind of a right of passage for young poets. The first time you write one of those 8 page behemoths, you have accomplished something huge.

Is it just me or is 8 pages just too damn many for a poem?

Because I really think it is. No matter how good your poem is, I will lose interest by page 3. And if you are in the habit of writing poems that long maybe you should look into fiction. Or lyrical essays. Because 8 pages is not a poem. It's a treatise.

Here is something to think on: most of the fish you can name are threatened or substantially overfished. At some point in the near future, they may disappear entirely. You may very well lose your ability to list fish in short order. Though mass can never be destroyed, populations, schools, whole generations can be. It is convient for me, both morally and appetite-wise, that I have never developed a taste for fish. I could never stomach something that still tastes like its origins.

Over the last few weeks, I have asked myself a series of useful and not so useful question, most oriented around what the hell I should do with myself for the rest of my life. I wish someone would've told me at birth that I would be stuck with myself for the duration of this lifetime. The choices I made may have been different. But not likely. I have considered putting myself in a home for the socially subversive or possibly retiring to a reservation for the intellectually challenging. Ultimately, I suppose I must do something that actually exists. I cannot fabricate a world to retire into. This is what I find most upsetting about the current state of things.

Calling the lettered

I'm looking for new readers. Not to say my old ones are bad. It's just that I'm related to most of them and the other one is predisposed to like me because we're dating. Not to say that they are not helpful. I just need fresh eyes and perspective. Does every writer/poet/artist have to do this? I feel like there should be a thrift store for readers where you can go to drop off your old ones and pick up new ones. Or a swap meet:

POSTING- 3 readers for exchange. First: offers no negative criticism ever and is very good for confidence but will ask you regularly 'what does it mean.' Second: mostly stares at you, nodding head ponderously, only to tell you 'your writing creeps me out sometimes;' excellent copy editor. Third: highly intelligent, incredibly well-read and up to date with the latest trends in literature; will refrain from offering harsh criticism if you are dating each other.

Poetic Angst

Friends don't let friends
write angsty poetry.
Just say no. It's a gateway
drug to ska bands and
unkempt hair, plum nail
polish and leather shoes
made by a fat Italian
who thinks your jeans are
a genetic disorder that caused
your legs to atrophy
into black matchsticks.

The man who sits with his face to the sun

I asked if he had a home, a family.
He replied with a cresent of white
teeth and a proverb
about the heart and its analogy
to home; "They're like fire and smoke."
(Smile) "Today it's lodged
on the 500 block of State."
He only blinked
when asked if he had been
perched on this caving concrete long.
(Smile) Silence slunk between us, froze
like a dead thing gaping up
with glassy eyes. I didn't notice
it had begun to rain. I didn't notice
the way his lank hair hung like a curtain,
slowly closing under the weight
of the rain, or my words. His gothic face
coursed with rivets of water,
drained into the still shining
panel of teeth. He shrugged deeper
into the fold of his wings.
"I would have asked
for something brighter and harder
than your blue eyes."
As I turned towards home, I was still
unsure how I could mistake
him for me.