I distrust
poets who smile,
writers for whom
the Muse and her
unruly children
face the world
like pop culture
versions of
art house hip
lifted from an
Ivory Soap
box.
Angst is
overrated,
it’s the drink
of the untutored
and inexperienced,
those of us grabbing
pablum gravitas in
an earnest quest
for artistic
vindication.
But poets
who smile,
their writings
full of well earned
art house history,
and circles of
other smiling poets,
collected during
years of doing art,
make me undeniably
uncomfortable;
they seem
too readily
to embrace
the appearance
of things,
instead of
dismantling
the illusion.
Appearances
are deceiving,
I tell myself
on a Sunday afternoon,
after looking
at pictures of
poets who smile,
wordsmiths seemingly
at ease
and skilled
in a world
I rarely
inhabit.
Meanwhile,
pages of metaphors,
strings of narrative,
drafts of rough memory,
and too many questions
shade the
spring sun
calling me
beyond.