I Could Have Done Other Useful Things Than Writing A Poem Poem by RIC BASTASA

Sometimes I have regrets writing poems
Love poems, poems about virtue and heroism
Poems that explain myself, that justify
This nothingness
That fill this emptiness,

What are these but signs and metaphors of
My weaknesses,
Symbols of my hopelessness
Ciphers of my uselessness
To life’s dreams, unfulfilled, stars that I have not
Reach or even touch with the words in my lips

I could have danced, and danced so well
Sweat things out shedding sighs and skins on the floors
I could have played a role, acted my way out
Exiting through the doors of author’s characters
And feel this sense of
It was her it was him it was not me

Sometimes I feel
To be a poet is to be dumb and dead
To demand nothing but this honor
This laurel this principle
That I cannot eat that I cannot sell that I cannot
Make use of,
Useless poetry, trashy, nothing but bad breathes
Of my being
Foul and nauseating to my sense of
What I dream what I want to be
To be this great, respected man of power
One that commands rather than take orders
From someone claiming superior feathers

I have long wanted to stop but here I am again
An addict to poetry destined for rehabilitation
In distant cruel word processing centers

Just like you, here I am again, not stopping
My fingers always wanting to type the words
My mind always listening
my heart always mouthing
Words, words, words, these words
This poem

This poem is born and I am its tributary
I am this poet now without a face without a name
I am but a mouth, fingers to my hand
Always not stopping, how can I tell you why?

When I myself, do not really know. I am this poem
With an unknown author, I am this poem just written
Taking shape like a candle lighting,
Flowing from your thoughts
Taking the forms of beings unknown to us
We claim we understand we claim we can live with
You are now lost asking the way
You could have done other things than reading this poem

Precisely this is what I really feel. Do you feel it now?
Yes.