Karl Koweski

 

upon reading her poetry collection

her poems
read like
prayers
to an
older set
of gods

chants
from
an antler
thistled
priestess
shaking blood
from
her golden
tresses

transports me
to the
fantasy forests
of her mind
where
her words
are red eyes
peering
from
every shadow

poems like
bathwater
babies
discarded
by gin wild
gypsies

crawling
toward me
howling
and implacable

strangling me
with slick
placentas

until
there is
nothing left
of me

except
my desire
for her
____________

social media memes killed the internet poet

it’s been nearly ten years
since I’ve written a poem

around the time my children
got savvy with the
internet search engines
my fingers stopped typing

confessional poetry
is not the greatest
creative outlet
for a man with
the darkest demons
to exorcise

justifying my sins
to internet poetry sites
after a while
began to read
like fan fiction written
to myself

so I stopped

and while the world
missed nothing,
what with the
cleverly reposted memes
grabbing acknowledgements
and validations
in ego-soothing multitudes

I lost everything
I ever had to offer

____________

finally eventually

when I discovered my audience
I lost my voice
all those fragments of wisdom
gleaned from half-priced books
refracted back at me
from half-assed experiences
lost the urgency of imagination

lately I’ve heard whispers
ten years removed
from the thrill of the byline
seventy blank notebooks
countless idle black felt pens
anticipating that meager
creative spark sputtering
across collapsing synapses