I’m the shaking figure of outrage
Prompted by my own anxiety.
I’m the lack of credible news that forced a dependency on comedians,
And got upset when they told jokes.
I’m the like and the dislike wrapped into a single click;
The sound and its historical influence borders inaudible.
I’m the tongue-in-cheek commentary on millennial vanity
And the gaze that never breaks from my face
On a video call.
I’m the social reject,
Turned hip,
That now rejects social rejects,
God if I could only be one again.
I’m a Tabula Rasa by Jackson Pollock.
An overly accessible addition to poetics.
I’m a writer that god forbid appeals to the casual reader.
I’m Cerberus crossed with a Golden Retriever.
I’m the expensive suit that becomes my skin.
If only the liner could be made with old friends,
They’d have a chance of being seen with me on the town
With my new troupe when the wind catches a seam in the Kashmir.
I’m the question at every dinner party,
The interested, the classic “What do you do?”
Fantastic.
I’m a series of muffled sentences from your mouth
Until I can tell you what I do.
I’m the ecstatic truth
The glazing of the facts
The walking resume.
I’m the pyramid scheme,
The Snake Oil salesman of confidence
And I’m the Freshman boy
Belching it back into the gymnasium sink
I’m the pill at the party
The shame the next day
I’m the night off, wishing I was out.
I’m a solo cup of water
A sheep in the wolf’s letterman.
I’m another opportunity
Returned to sender again.
I’m the perfect first take
And the —
Fuck
I’m the perfect first take
And the real product that shows natural human error.
I’m the retail job
And a career in my field
I’m the nagging voice telling you to buy local,
To support the poor over dinner.
And I’m the luke-warm leftovers that
Passes by the needy,
The beating hearts on the street.
I’m the vibrant voice in the room networking,
And the eyes that avoid yours in public the
Following day.
I’m small talk with peers years later,
Too nervous to admit we have nothing to say.
We whip out each other’s pricks and piss
Contesting who’s syphoned more gas
In a Mad Max industry.
I’m the congrats on the achievement
And the unshakable envy in the same breath.
I’m a grid of pictures of myself
And social media inactivity, gloated
So you never forget that I consider myself above it.
I’m in the middle of it all
But stealing from both sides.
I’m the ride and the carney.
I don’t know it works,
I just start and stop it
With a flick of the switch.
I’m the salty Spoken Word Poet
The petulant Caucasian.
I’m a breath of fresh air through a Canadian
Classic.
Verbal Vol.1 is a Blasted Tree anthology of spoken word poetry.
Cover Image by Kyle Flemmer