Poets Who Smile

I distrust

poets who smile,

writers for whom

the Muse and her

unruly children

face the world

like pop culture

versions of

art house hip

lifted from an

Ivory Soap

box.

 

Angst is

overrated,

it’s the drink

of the untutored

and inexperienced,

those of us grabbing

pablum gravitas in

an earnest quest

for artistic

vindication.

 

But poets

who smile,

their writings

full of well earned

art house history,

and circles of

other smiling poets,

collected during

years of doing art,

make me undeniably

uncomfortable;

they seem

too readily

to embrace

the appearance

of things,

instead of

dismantling

the illusion.

 

Appearances

are deceiving,

I tell myself

on a Sunday afternoon,

after looking

at pictures of

poets who smile,

wordsmiths seemingly

at ease

and skilled

in a world

I rarely

inhabit.

 

Meanwhile,

pages of metaphors,

strings of narrative,

drafts of rough memory,

and too many questions

shade the

spring sun

calling me

beyond.

 

 

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