Always feels strange.
Out the medicine cabinet
A new one come in, then
A new prescription is written
A new vitamin, then
The poison pen learn ,how to write again.
The perseverant learns to take strides,
When the mind writes, reacts,
And steps back, in the batter’s box,
Waits for his right pitch to drill it,
To take the space and fill it,
To get rid of the empty spaces, be prolific,
To find the sick rhythm, say good riddance
To the dull shit.
The over, under, can’t find the right reaction
To stomach it.
And just like, that he’s under control, I think.
He reads and reacts, and can quick think,
Can write, and procreate
(That to be determined)
and can sleep at night.
He hopes this peaceful permeation
Will keep permitting,
And the overweight sluggishness of the past
Be done with him, to create a superman mentality.
But Clark Kent can sleep at night,
And the medicine in his cabinet has a place.
And it’s not too much, and it’s just right.
Hoping the poison pen can fill in the empty spaces.
The stoned immaculate Jim Morrison
Riding out the storm, strange days
In the basement filling Up pages.
Finding reactions of sages
And in between the pages
Of scribbled out sonnets, the word vomit
Keeps him honest, playing with the lyrical form.
To a poet, it’s probably sickening
To be a rhythm king.
But the other poets
Who write about plant life
Never sat right.
So JSNWRT, gets on the mic,
Or chills with the quill,
And maybe it’s not poetry
That will ever be accepted.
Maybe its stream of thought,
Less then educated, less sedated,
Prolaced, and elated.
Filling subways with spray paint cans,
Making beauty spritz the air,
And moving the pen around like he just don’t care
‘Cause no one can tell me no.
This is my show.
I know this poem is not going gold.
I know you are reading this right now.
Sit back ’cause it’s going to get more loud
And long, and hyper-strong, fast paced,
Without a beat to elongate,
The hated, created, the institutionalized sedated
Has woke up from a long nap, and is overrated
To be full, cause he overate, and can’t stand still
And can’t concentrate.
And maybe he can’t slow down,
In complete control, the rhythm role,
The Super Bowl soul, out for a stroll,
Extolled and extinguished, fast to say finished,
To each and every witness, to the weak go the strong
And the strong out the door.
And this life? There is so much more.
So on we toil and toll, till the last bell is rung.
And maybe you are not me, and I am not you,
But we all are one. So this is poetry to me,
Having fun, killing it with the keys,
The trapeze style so free, what lie beneath
Ain’t always what you see, and if you got this far
Along with this read, well then a special thank you
From you to me, cause I’m writing a symphony,
And I must stop to breathe,
And right now the air is free, and freeing me
And everything is beautiful.
Maybe not to you, but to me.
So, I keep on going strong
Till the last beat is played,
Till I’m laughed off stage, or whatever.
But you know what? I did it my way.
I did it my way, and I do it my way.
So, on and on the band plays on
And I exit the stage
Till the end of the play.
Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His new book is Train of Thought.