Alright, for some reason that link won’t work when I embed it in the text box… I’ll just put the poem here; I’m not a poet I’m not a poet. A poet is, apparently that person standing on that dark stage with that spit-stained microphone. Their body is a billboard snakes and birds and Chinese demons all screaming passion Their anger is a sludge a mud that falls incessantly upon eyes and ears. It’s alien on the skin a smell all it’s own, strong but it’s not unpleasant if you don’t mind it. Or the poet could be that straight laced spectacle-wearing recluse hiding behind mountains of paper and books a desk, a study. They’re not charismatic scared shy by casual conversation but through that single window maybe the mountains, maybe a lake, fly all the miracles of love and joy They are more than happy to marry them to paper and present them to the world Perhaps yours is the hipster poet dual wielding a notepad and espresso glasses they don’t need, trendy slim slacks and wool cap spinning their jive while bongos beat ‘cool’ out rhythmically But it doesn’t really matter what your poet looks like the poet is the mind no matter the casing, crack it open and the poet is blindingly bright and shockingly dark symphonic until terrifying the sublime of summer’s eve a complete sensory overload that will strip you of everything you know to be true and leave you naked and exposed. Poets have the ability to take the ordinary, the mundane even the nonsensical and find truth ultimate and absolute it is a beauty that throws Aphrodite from the tallest cliffs depression that paints King the sad clown and here sits my sorry excuse for language never a blacker sheep was there but wait, look closer it’s prose in sheep’s clothing. That my words could dance from the pen with the elegance of those before who titan the stage quake the cosmos with their very ideas. But until then I grind my organ watching the sentences hop half-heartedly around and maybe smile bleakly at the twinkle of money in my cup. Like I said, I’m not a poet.