I c
ame upon a poet.I slowed my already lethargic steps and tilted my head @ this curiousity. this kid had parked up his bike in front of the blue nile, set up his tv dinner tray, lugged out his typewriter, and was selling stanzas by the line. he had two comrades with him, a languished looking man of about 35, clearly disinterested in his typewriter because of his obvious inebriation, and a young lady who seemed to have a severe case of writer's ... dead. her fingers were still, her hair was still, her everything was so unmoving. but this guy, he was deliberate in all of his strokes. it didn't look like he was putting any forethought or afterthought into any of his strikes on the keys, he was only thinking just then, in that fraction of a second as he thought of the most glorious word to come next.
poetry is an empty outlet of literature, in my most humble, having-poetry-of-my-own-published opinion. I would prefer to have things said simply, and unless it's about my fucking surprise party, I don't want to have mysteries to be analyzed. I don't have the will. trying to figure out the human species as a whole is easy. statistics, population, control groups. figuring out a person - an individual, a single cell - it's a macro fucking nightmare. you can say beautiful things without needing to say them in veiled, metaphorical terms. what's the point in speaking if no ones going to understand you?
but this guy seemed good.
I was broke. I had nothing but coin money in my wallet. I approached his table, opened my wallet upside down, and let all the metal I had fall from it, giving him not only my change but a king-cake baby and a safety pin.
"can I get a haiku for this?"
'quarter'
waning
quartermoon:
small change
- allen andre
nola
6/19/10
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