Call me a poet, baby! Tell me I live in the rush of adrenaline zinging out into the visceral dark, sticky metanode of human experience. Tell me I live in a state of consciousness where verb fingernails race up my spine; each noun tastes like a hard clitoris and lingering on a useful prepositional phrase is almost a good as giving head.

I’ll drink any liquor you’ve got: Langston Hughes, Gwendolyn Brooks, Dorothy Parker, William Blake, beer, champagne, Chardonnay, Maker’s Mark Whiskey.

Slap some good dick jokes on my ears. And I’m back atcha with dead baby jokes. Poets are real people even if most of the time they identify more with The Velveteen Rabbit. Maybe after we’ve been coarse, rough, twisted and vaguely pornographic, I’ll tell you all about the series of dead baby poems I’m writing in celebration of each of my abortions. Maybe I'll be vulnerable...ready to risk. Maybe I’ll just wander off to a street corner somewhere, so I can rant and vent about politics until the police come to take me away. Or do the same thing – minus the police - at a poetry slam. Every encounter with an animal of the same species has a vortex of potential outcomes - it's the little things that matter.

Let me be a poet so I can:
  • slap men on the ass and have them think it’s charming;
  • pick up cute boys at poetry readings;
  • have people assume everything I say is true and happened to me,
  • revel in being misunderstood;
  • brood, celebrate, and weep in the space of 60 seconds;
  • scribble lines, rhymes, metaphors on match book covers, cocktail napkins, ATM receipts;
  • think masturbation is a human condition worthy of at least a haiku.

    Call me a poet, baby, so I can think about thinking about making a difference, articulate a kinder vision of the world, try to understand people who are not like me and feel compassion. Call me a human being who speaks the unspeakable with pen and tongue – and if I were a poet, I wouldn’t be crazy.