a.d. winans | poem for the poet waiting on fame


Don’t get up in the morning
Pissed-off bent out of shape
Defeated and fatigued
Don’t kick your dog
A can is okay
Don’t look for trouble
A fist in the face
Won’t change history

Don’t spit into the wind
It might come back at you
Never place your hand
Over your heart
The marksman might think
You’re marking his target

Don’t fight the poem
Let it live or die
On its own merits
Accept the inevitable
And maybe it won’t come
Until next week next month
Next year maybe never

Remember there isn’t anything
Wrong with being a mechanic
A cab driver a pimp a whore
Be glad you have two hands
Two feet two eyes two ears
One of the latter is okay
If your name is Van Gogh

Go easy go slow
Or life will pass you by
Like an aging conductor
Without a train
Leaving you feeling
Like a comic without applause

Know this above all else
Eight out of ten poets are bores
And one of the other two
A literary whore
Support that odd one
He needs you
And you need him
More than either of you
Will ever know

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