sometimes the drama outweighs the benefit...but other times...we're blessed.

I gots me a
poetry spot.

The kind'a place
that's hot like Cheers
- without the beer -
where everybody
knows my name.

Where the game ain't
the same
as it is'n every other
spot'n which I've
dropped a hot piece
that sizzled like pork grease
over a slow-roastin', mesquite
flame.

Some'a them spots
where wannabe poets run game
tryin'a be The One,
tellin' un-truths (that
should'a been fool-proof)
made so by bein' subjected to
selfish moods.

These fools've been blessed
to see past the masks'n
yet tell only enough'a
what they seen
to get a lil
ass.

Nah Soul,
this spot I got
is top-of-the-line,
the Owners, they're
two-of-a-kind:

They ain't at all down with
them mindless mind games,
where poets be tryin'a run the
same ol' same,
fallin' prey to lame-ass
sycophants with crass intentions,
tryin'a come up by literary
invention,
lyin (by any other name)'n
gossipin'n trippin'n
just bringin' down the vibe,
tryin'a hide the fact that they're
basically poseurs
seekin' closure to their
Artistic Dreams.

When they hit this spot
they seem to run out'a steam,
eyes get all wide when they
read about true poetic dreams'n
listen to words spoken'n love'n
see the glistenin' souls shinin'
with that Light from the dove above'n
witness personal demons feenin',
bein' banished by the strength
of God's might'n
see the evidence'a poets writin'
who are blessed with
the second sight.

They begin to drool'n gibber
shiverin'n peerin' around furtively,
stumblin' out into the darkness alone,
realizin' only then that
their hearts've turned to stone'n
that they're mere reflections
of a greater Truth,
a Theory of Life
denied the ultimate proof,
and thusly chastized
retreat to lick their wounds'n
tell the tale of how
they almost died
too soon.

Of how they knew of a spot
where Devils ravish innocence
with hellish plots.

Where Cyclops speak
with fork-ed tongues.

Where Ogres bellow
with fiery lungs.

Where sultry Sirens
tempt Saints'n
Furies copulate
with ancient Haints.

Never mind the truth
(whatever that is):
this spot's the proof
that poetry lives'n
the hearts of poets
who purport to give
the world a window into
Eternity'n order to reveal
the boundaries of
Probability.

My spot's a home away
from home,
my spot's a tome to
supplant all tomes.

A Book of Love,
of surreal words,
of thundering songs
that must be heard.

My spot is definitely
one of a kind,
my spot is definitively
end-of-the-line.

Sign of the times,
of a road's last, winding turn,
end of a depthless yearning,
of passion's satiation,
ever-burning.

This spot is all
I'll ever need,
because this spot is
where my soul is
freed.