Yesterday

I had someone tell me-

You cannot make a living off of poetry.

And I considered that

For a moment.

For a moment so fleeting

That I didn’t have time to feel my heart beating-

I thought.

And I decided

Because of this fool from my father’s side

That I

Was going to be something.

I was going to be something outside of crunching numbers,

Tending gardens

Drifting through life without pausing to talk to you.

I decided

That I was going to weave words like Whitman

Be as melodic as Beethoven

While making impacts like Lincoln

And if I can move you with this movement

I hope that there is something, somewhere

That shifts.

I hope that you will be flooded with stanzas

And images

Of things

That you may never see

But that are tragic all the same.

And if we must witness raging riots,

School shootings

Starving mothers crying

Then so be it.

I will talk about these things

Get up here and spit about these things

Because they should not be happening.

I hope that your throat tightens

And your eyes widen

And your senses heighten

And that you will get goosebumps on your skin.

Because I need to find others who feel like this

But are too shy to snap at their favourite verses.

I need people like

You and

Me and

Us

Who are enraptured because we want change,

So we might as well start at a closer range

With words that lavish veins

And though we may never speak them on a stage

We are saying them anyway.

And we’ll just burn the midnight oil

And character foils that spoil who they should be

And consequently,

Who we should be.

Attention:

I’d just like to mention

That we are quiet

But we are here

And we are going to be

Something.

So you should listen to the silent ones

Who throw back glasses

Of things not felt by the masses,

you remember those guys from back in 9th grade

Who laughed at that girl

Because every day

Before lunch she prayed?

I think that they were all afraid

Because the words swag and

F*g

Will not get them respect

And that girl

Is going to be something.

Do you remember

That September

Of webcams

And piercing names

Sending young men off to die out of shame?

I swear that I am going to make something

out of the tragic remains of their stories.

I swear to be the population’s pumping blood

I swear to God that I’ll make up

For everyone who was brought up

To believe

That they couldn’t live for poetry,

Letting rhyme and swelling organs

Be the source of

Their love.

And when death comes

The dirt-smeared faces

Of every contrived afternoon

They picked up and pickled in jars

Will slice themselves open in front of them

Let their lifeblood pour out and coat them

And if I am not mistaken

That is living for something.

I swear I’ll save the ones who were told

They couldn’t feed hungry children

Their own flesh

Until the gauges of their ribcages

Dissipated

Feeding them spoonfuls of hope and

Lathering their bodies; emaciated

In hyacinth soap

That is living for something.

I want to be

The sinking in a mother’s stomach

When she gets that phone call at 4 AM

I want to be

The stinging on her cheek

As he slams the door and leaves

I just want to be

Something,

Living for something

Poetic,

Hopefully.

And call me naïve

But I can feel

The stirring beneath

The gaze from the man in the car next to me

Or the rhythm hardening the bones

Of the boy with the pumping earphones

Loping along the side of the road.

I swear I will be

The unity of every tragedy

The unease of peace beneath

The interstate bridge

And all of you who want to be-

You should all join me.

And we’ll tear open and probe inside every heart

Sway with every building when it falls apart

Tremble with every bomb when the wars all start

We will be something besides statistics on a flow chart

And we will snap at all of our favourite parts.