Let­ter to poets from stranger places

This one goes out to those
crazy rad­i­cals, and those lazy in bed
days off you decid­ed to bring your A game
after a night of Net­flix and that inex­pen­sive bot­tle of red

the way you write, the ink that bleeds
life on paper, the bet­ter parts and the
fleet­ing nanosec­onds we have in
detail­ing our way­ward thoughts

You have an oblig­a­tion
to take focus off of your­self
because your self pity par­ty­ing
is only beau­ti­ful to you, and you alone

we need to chan­nel the ennui
in a spin of light and weavers of those
pre­cious times we
lived for moments how we ought to

you are…
the rain droplets out­side my win­dow
on a day when win­ter secret­ly shift­ed
to a spring of much love­mak­ing

I watch as oth­er poets
are dis­cov­er­ing the rea­sons and the raisin d’etre
of their craft
poet­ry as prayers

or are our prayers our poet­ry ?
do they instill light and sanc­ti­fy the thought life ?
are they heav­i­ly guard­ed works of art that inspires
hid­den depths in us, and our secret long­ings ?

Yes and yes and yes, you sit­ting in the cathe­dral pews
frol­ick­ing in shad­ows and bask­ing in aure­ate ethe­re­al­ness
I see your con­found­ing word­play offer­ings
that places twist­ed grins on many faces

then there’s the name­less café drifter poet
who rap a tap tap’s on his/​her Mac­Book pro
over five dol­lar lattes and mak­ing the barista
stay an extra 10 min­utes past clos­ing hour

who was I then, but all and none of these ?
a poet who drank exces­sive­ly of decent wines
and wrote like a Kore­an dra­ma action star
from some­place very close, yet so far
so good

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