as the air slithers thru my barely-opened window,
and the lisdexamphetamine begins its pulsing thru
my veins, I think of my abrogation of poetry for
manic intellectual pursuit at the highest academic
degree. The pace of an angry, deletrious, passionate
mad gift of insanity that will always leave me with
un-relieved pressure in the mind, migrated to the
solar plexus, where it builds and builds and builds
until the steam must exit lest I explode in the trapped
heat and experience a heat-death perhaps not unlike
that predicted for our universe, billions of years from now.
And I asked myself a question I recognize someone has
already asked and answered for me.
"What is a poet?"
Hello?
I asked, "What is a poet?"
Soren Kierkegaard glances up from his study in the office
I've established for him in my mind. He repeats the question
for clarification, and declares:
*“What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music.... And people flock around the poet and say: 'Sing again soon' - that is, 'May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful.”