Suddenly I feel, uncreative. For five years now poetry has raced through my veins in endless circles like a NASCAR race. I listened intently to everyone reading his or her (changed) poetry in class and they blossom with creation while I rack my brain to keep the running pace. You were all brilliant. My problem remains as it has for so long; a lack of confidence rules ruthlessly over me like a Russian czar. The rain pounds the ground outside, or maybe it’s just tapping the ground. Yes, it is a gentle rain. Lily Allen is up next in my stereo; she reminds me I am not pounded by masculinity, it just taps me often, like the rain, just to remind me that it’s there. I wonder why many men, even at our age, still cast a scathing look and scoff when they find out a fellow man listens to music like Paramore, Tegan and Sara, or Lily Allen. Or because I write loads of poetry; or because I like American Idol; or because I’ve read the Twilight series. As if I’m the estrogen in the testosterone group. As if I’m the rainbow in the thunderstorm. As if I’m the herbivore in the steakhouse. You, true men, are the insecure. Outwardly passionate, inwardly frightened. You are the cancer. You are the conservatives stuck in the last century. You are the raining forks and knives. Subconsciously anti-feminist.
Rusted midwinter. Blind apparatus. Underwater television. Fooled time.
The rain now pulverizes the grass and concrete, what did it ever do to you? Such anger; the godly figure upstairs is angry tonight. What did he do? Maybe he should smoke a cigarette to relieve his stress? Perhaps he lost a game of poker with the devil? Is his mind haunted by thoughts of possible financial instability? Is the laundry finished? Or maybe he’s having relationship problems, or Perhaps the economy’s affecting him as well, or maybe he didn’t get on the game show he wanted, or maybe his favorite contestant from The Bachelor got voted off, or maybe he can’t find that gospel CD he searches for, or maybe the number of Atheists is getting too high for his liking, or maybe he saw his ex-girlfriend as jovial as ever and he’s secretly furious, or maybe his internet connection is down, or maybe he didn’t get the movie part he wanted, or maybe his heavenly curtains don’t match his heavenly couch, or maybe the concert he was planning on attending was cancelled, or maybe a good friend has fallen ill, or maybe his favorite soccer team lost the Champions League final, or maybe he’s upset that vinyl is making a comeback, or maybe he’s got acne and can’t get in to see the dermatologist, or maybe he’s forgotten the purpose of creating millions of galaxies, or maybe he’s homophobic, or maybe he lost his pet rabbit, or maybe he cut himself shaving, or maybe he got a bad haircut, or maybe he realizes that he’s just getting old. Maybe he just needs a few beers, it’s not like he’s driving anywhere. Did anyone ever prove that god is a “he”?
Toad stool. Mock watch. Tenacious seashell. Stargazing cell phone. Cellophane dream.
Banana skin races
When the cold of the summer arrives
The spoons will rehearse, rejoice
In the mountains where basket fires rule
Provides a true shine
Over the tinted windows
Of the lucid liar.
A day later, still the rain pounds the ground. The birds are out, chirping, or singing, beautifully and searching for the worms of the earth. Always out, no matter how god is feeling. Maybe they are endlessly happy, or endlessly alert and protective. God is still angry. A wave of his hand and lightning cuts the sky teamed with a lion’s roar of thunder. Why does he sit up there and allow bad things to happen to his creations? Global warming, slavery, racism, war, politics, child molestation, greed, tornadoes, hurricanes, cyclones, drugs, cigarettes, guns; what has mankind done? Suddenly I feel, creative.