All engines burning on Fiction
Lately, I have not written poetry.
It is hard to believe, surrounded
By humans and animals.
It is barely spring.
It is barely five.
The smoker outside
Is barely alive.
Children push siblings in carriages
Shaking powdered cinnamon
On tall, light, mocha frappuccinos.
Only differences between daughter and mother
Are stature and amateur body language.
Travel through this painted life
Absorb it into my irises;
Spill it out in ink symbols.
Magazines do not accept poems
What do you want from us?
My poems reflect my life.
Who am I writing for?
Is it you?
Is it me?
You’re a writer
If you can put down the pen
Then pick it back up.
Is this art?
More like endless process.
You need experience for work.
You need work for experience.
It makes my spine hurt.
They told me to go to university
Or I will end up flipping burgers.
Now, burger flipping requires:
Five years working experience,
The completion of an unpaid internship.
We treat money like a human right,
Priced by hours in your life.
I’m a professional fine-dining measure for poison.
If sipping coffee, staining ink into bleached page was a paid gig.
I could don a powdered wig
And light cigarettes with burning Benjamin Franklins.