On My Couch

About the Book

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.

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