Me, I Am No One

Me, I have my writing. A computer. A keyboard. A screen. A pen. A notebook. A scrap of paper. Tools of a trade. Small thoughts with no market and few followers. It keeps me going when nothing else is going. Introspect is suspect among the extroverts of the world. Language skills are lost on the rhetorically challenged. And those so busy planting flowers they've never stopped to smell a rose.

Me, I keep to myself. A small room. A chair. An overhead fan. A door. A window. A glimpse of the eternal. Strong walls. Barriers betwixt the enemy and myself. I am as happy in my tomb as any dead man. Poetry is a pariah for the writers of popular fiction. And those who persist in the tradition are outcasts. In the eyes of tin-eared consumers with fifth grade vocabularies and tiny ambitions.

Me, I am no one. A philosopher. A clown. A word wizard. A hairless hacker. A high-wire walker. An old campaigner. Brief insights. Verbal acrobatics freely performed. It fills the hours with the illusion of life. The quiet man with a beard lost amide the clean-shaven, mouthy masses. They couldn't understand me even if they wanted to. And I'm the last scheduled item on their check list of banalities.