Subterranean Poet Therapist

I’m underground.
Buried below the moles.
Bubbling up as oil.
Dinosaur fossils.

My dreams exposed to you.
Sitting on your red couch.
My mind is open in your lap.
I can barely see three feet in front of me.
You’re staring at me like my head’s afire.
Statues of Buddha on your dresser.
The Calendar hanging on your wall.
I tell you my fears, you say they’re real.
I leave you 100 dollars like a prostitute.
I remember every word of our conversation.
You take notes to remember who I am.

I’m on the microphone, the crowd barely listening,
trying to avoid the rhyme, the scourge of old time.
It’s like every day is an apocalypse, the way words drip.
There I go, battling my old foe, my old rigamarole.
We stay busy to forget how useless we are.
Keep talking to ignore the fact we have nothing to say.
This poem is just a hoax, so is this poet,
telling poems which are more like jokes.

You are my unfaithful audience, pillaging me with your silence.
I toast you while you stab frozen tiny daggers into me.
I’m made of such stone, though,
they feel like willow weeds in the breeze.
A rock falling off of Mount Rushmore.
Like nothing to no one nowhere.
You listen politely while waiting for the next to speak.
I go backstage and drink quietly, trying to forget.
But I am the one chasing. Chasing the regret.
Another poet in the spotlight, his woe like mine.
A million woes like mine. Tectonic drift of woe.
Universal pain on display, so 1960’s, I want to barf.
We clap to show appreciation without understanding a thing.

I make an appointment for next week.
I have to come up with new things to say.
New ways to slip down the stairs.
You greet me at the door and offer a seat.
I brought my notebook and my dreams,
and immediately drop the microphone.

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