thinks poems, like money, get you what you want
think humans, like equations
can be simply solved.
when we first met he was visibly angry
at his not being able to understand me.
sat across the table, furrow-browed
and as a fellow over-analyzer, i get it-
but i know people are complex intersections
of everywhere they have ever been and every place they never ever have been.
i know that they aren’t to be read like textbooks,
(just appreciated,
like poetry)
i know that the whole thing is a process and it takes time.
but he, he is impatient
and he, he reads a lot of books
and so he was mad that his method of analysis didn’t work on me.
he thinks he’s sure.
thinks poets, like pictures, desire to be looked at
thinks writers, like water
want to be purchased in convenience stores and drank
but I don’t want to be bought and i only care to be swallowed
for the purposes of hydration and refreshment
we sat in my car as he talked in comparatives,
he said, of my words, “you’re not that much better than me.”
i said, “what’s this better shit?
i thought you were a writer-
you missed the whole point.”
i said i am not doing this for praise,
i am doing this for sanity,
doing this for survival
and to somehow help others’ survival.
if you’re doing it for other reasons, kindly quit the game.
& 