in a room full of
black jacketed
goateed and tragically hip
speakers and listeners
a frail girl
spoke of the trials
heartaches and spiritual triumphs
connected to the art
of the pen
everyone claps

i sat among them
listening too
trying to find myself
moved
impressed and satisfied
by the offering she tore
from her soul
but found that i wasn't
and cursed myself for being
too critical
so i clapped anyway

there were more after
people who wrote of
love lost and gained
or unrequited
railing against the corruption
of the american machine
odes to lost pets
butterflies and dragonslayers
sativa induced fractals
and best of all
the ones who spoke of
the art itself

they spoke of poetry
as the people's art
they want to bring out of the closet
drag it screaming and kicking
from the classrooms and academic halls
rip it from the hands
of the masters of old
who have been immortalized in paper
and stone
and thrust it
and its afterbirth
into the hands of the less fortunate
to pry open their eyes
and force their hearts into the light
unveil its secrets
and make poetry
belong to all

you know what the secret is?

any cunt can do it