On My Couch

Poet Wanted







I am

what I am.

I am what you made me.

POET WANTED-written lines

like written rhymes

singing opportunity in my ears.



I sift through my

experiences,

pulling colorful stories from my

archival memory,

showing you what mine eyes have seen,

ears have heard.

Orchestrating

my music of sound,

my

compositional opus.



POET WANTED;

circling ads in the classifieds-

attempts at answering my calling,

thoughts,

that through this, I will be classified;

pushing back

the tides of formerly being identified as

irrelevant-overlooked.



Remember this moment,

for it has already been etched in the deepest nooks

and crannies of my brain-

for even I,

won't let me forget.



I call til' you pick up.

Question until you answer,

answer until you question,

knock until it is opened-

pound until my fist is imprinted on your door,

and kick

until forensic pathologists can make a mold of my

shoe print.



I will not be

forgotten.

You will not look

past me.

A professional knocker I will be.

And !no!,

Avon is not calling.

Have you listened intently to the sound

of prolific knocking-

knuckles meeting doors only to find

that no'ones home.



Auditioning for an audience alone-

the fire marshall petitions me

to fill the room

capacity.



Casting couch calls-

I hang on to

my integrity.

There will be no selling out.

Every "No" heard,

creating more hunger pains.

Experiences that are starving man reserved . . .

for they are mines . . .

and yours,

hers . . .

and theirs.