When the Axis of Your Planet Shifts

When the axis of your planet shifts,
When a catastrophe levels your life;
Will the cerebral soft porn of poetry
And the intellectual self-gratification
That it provides cease to be relevant?

When you have to roll up your sleeves,
When you have to fight to survive,
When chapbooks are burned to keep warm,
When power is measured by guns and ammo,
When the written word is disparaged
As weak, or worse yet, as "evil,"
Will love be jettisoned as well?
Will life become nasty, brutish and short
As you battle to simply endure it?

Or will poetry remain your link to humanity?
The oral tradition that binds a tribe together,
The totem of your aspirations,
The glimmering light of revelation
That will lead you again toward
The better angel of your being.
When the axis of your planet shifts,
Will poetry become a superfluous luxury
Or the path to your salvation?

Performing "Slam" Poetry

Three minutes, huh?  That won't give me much time.
It's not enough time to weave a complex analogy,
It's not enough time to weave an interesting narrative.
It's time for metaphors without direction;
No delving for deeper truths, no paths to knowledge,
But then I'm performing for an audience
With a short attention span, an audience
That's there to hear word-craft being dumbed down.
This is poetry compressed into a few sound bytes,
Into quick, slam-dunk Sports Centre imagery,
Into snide campaign commercial innuendo.
Here style earns more points than substance,
So like "Fed-Ex," you'd better learn to deliver.
Here an "in-your-face" attitude always plays well
With an audience weaned on trash-talking athletes.

I'm a poet, not some goddamned trained seal,
But if you're waiting for me to perform,
Then just toss me the beach ball
And I'll show you what I can do with it.
Maybe I'll perform some crude "put down" sketch
Like this one about a pretentious poet.
Yeah, this one ought to grab this group's attention.

At some of the poetry readings
That I occasionally participate in,
A fortyish woman, with dyed-blonde hair
Introduces herself,
Then adds in a syrupy voice
Dripping with New Age banality,

"My spirit name is "Moon Dancer."

When my turn to read follows hers,
Only my wife's cautionary
"Please don't embarrass me again" look
Prevents me for displaying my contempt
For such saccharine phoniness
By introducing myself,
Then growling in a voice
Drenched in packing house cynicism,

"My spirit name is "Fart Blossom."

George Keats

Left England
Seeking opportunity
In America

He settled in Kentucky
Built a flour mill
Built a lumber mill
Amassed a fortune
And built one of the first
Stone dwellings in Louisville

His brother John
Turned his back on
A promising career
As an apothecary
To devote his life
To writing poetry

That didn't sell

He died young

George always considered
John to be
Somewhat of a disappointment