…so this guy on the radio says something
that sounds like "people tree."
And I wonder about it
and the first thing that comes to mind is
"people should work harder."
Why do I think that? When we're bruised enough
as it is.
And as it is, I wander off too far when given
lazy open spaces.
Or so it seems like.
Seems like writing.
So I'm writing and writing and
a tree develops.
And I say "tree"
and it fades a bit,
and takes it's toll a bit.
But I want to see where the tree is going
so I write more and write more.
And it grows a bit.
And I hate when people ask “what do you write about?” or
“Why do you love me like that?”
I just kinda keep quiet about all that
and just write and write as follows:
I'm an odd boy who doesn't know much about trees.
This I write the old-fashioned way.
Hand on paper which came from a tree. Someday recycled
by someone. So
I think concepts are part of what a poet should be
so I go with it.
I try to think of relationships between writing
It's a so-called unit of danger the way the mind-works.
And creates a couple scars. So it seems to be true.
There are frequencies.
And now I say “grow”
and somebody out there somewhere seemingly
finally understands and allows me to speak this.
And I thank her.
And I say “her.”
And her branch is born, pushes its way out. And thank you.
“I’m odd,” she says.
And I ask, “So?” and “And?”
But she’s more of a woman,
And I more the boy.
So we’re light years and frequencies apart.
Oddity only goes so far and
branches only grow so far. But why?
Sometimes I get emotional about my tree as I write
and go back to keeping quite about it
and the branch is now old enough to say mature things like "you're welcome."
And it wants to be a poet as well.
And I relax for a spell.
And take a pill.
And grow with it, seemingly into it.
And the tree is now a fixture between head
and I'm still odd.
And my oddness has a leaf now.
And do you believe me?
What I'm telling you now?
I can tell you “apologies” but that would mean
I’m at a whole new level of maturity.
And I can’t do that
because I know nothing of trees.
The tree is now sagging as it grows,
gets older, finds ways to continue
as I do.
And unbeknownst to me.
And that's a problem.
And I ask you.
And I say thank you.
And you say "you're barking up the wrong tree."
And I continue to be the boy who's odd in this situation.
And I'm only trying to not say a word about it.
And that's a concept I wish we all could understand.
And I'm drunk right now.
And the tree has fallen.
And this poem has said “tree.”
And I say to you now
and we all fall down
where we belong in the first place.
And that's a little of what we call "growing" and
an odd branch like me holds on
to that concept and just goes with it
Before I accepted a lazy space
And a lazy space is where
leaves break off
but the writing and writing and so on goes on.
And the tree is developed so the poets can drink.
Hands at full work-capacity.
And feeling like I'm going back
simpler sun. Which is easier said than done,
so I just say “tree”
and the final sap drips from the scar of
And we all fall down.
And who’s initials carved in a heart seemingly years ago?
…so I realized
this guy who said something
like "people tree” was me.
And I didn’t think "people should work harder,” I said
“people should work harder.”
And as it was,
or so it seemed at least
I wrote and I wrote. Bruised as I was in some sort
of full capacity of a dream.
But it seemed it was less of a bruise
and more of a carving
and cradled up fetal position
in the lazy spaces between
and went with it
as if it really happened.