He has it
Learning to intertwine the secular sounding
Rhythms of his cool jazz with a voice of my own
My brother has always been cool
Saying the best comeback
Using wit and charm
At first I tried to separate myself
Stumbling backwards while he glides forward
Now I wear the same jeans as him
My strut tries to swagger the same
We both slow the left leg
Then the right leg speeds
He really has it
I make it look arthritic
I don’t have his easy pace
Like a brush on a cymbal
Someday I’ll be smoother
Someday I’ll be funnier
Someday I’ll be cool
Like my brother
Poetry, like suicide, is a cry for help.
I got in to po’try once. Then I got in to Melanie’s pants.
I suddenly lost interest in po’try. And Melanie.
So it’s not always a cry for help.
It can sometimes be a cry for poontang.
Just saying.
Poetry is just another method of communication. Nothing more, nothing less.