Two Groups of Friends Converging

Sion was incredulous

He said

“When I said you were an artist

They laughed at you

And poked fun of the fact that

You couldn’t sell books.

Those are your friends?”

I explained that in a long history

Of many and varied associates

He was the first to ever give me

Any degree of respect for

What it is I do

They hear me say

Shit fuck poopie

In my regular conversation

And assume I can’t say anything

Anything at all of worth

And maybe that’s true

But at any rate, I still call it

My artistry, the struggle is to get

Anyone to respect that

I continued to explain

Nor do I care if they ever do

I will still have to write

No choices there.

It’s because no one you know

Can be Herakles

No one whom you have heard fart

Can be a genius

And this is the tragedy, the ultimate failure

Of the Zen Masters

By being passive and wise

They did not convey to the populace

The people who wade in shit

Best understand nirvana

At least as I see it

Or maybe I’ve just hoodwinked one of my friends

Regardless, I explained

It’s my family too

They can’t name my characters

They never gave me a chance

I’m just

That Boy Who Never Got His College Degree

Then Stopped Talking to Us

Because He Rejected Mom’s Law

Which is one hell of a title to hold

But not so minimalist or simplistic as

Poet