To the Poet who gets in touch with me, once every three months, having no idea who I am and asks me for a three thousand dollar speaking gig.
Dear Poet:
I do not hate you, but instead, I set the bar at which I respect you so that you know who you are when I look at you.
I do not consent to being your family.
Yeah we might both write words that feed our bellies and the bellies of others when they are hungry for some peace of mind, and we might both travel the winding roads from time to time, but we are not family.
I have been nothing more than a book sold to you,
and now,
when you realize there are many more pages to my volumes, I am nothing more than what you see as a key to the forbidden fruit of universities and the gold they keep
chained away in their lockers,
in their banks,
in their basements.
You see me as a way to trick the kids into wasting their semesters away pining for you to come and teach them, cause to the unlearned any teachings are worth paying for, to the young if you desguise yourself as a star you can burn so brightly right in front of their eyes they cant help but stare into your sun, agape at what you have lived: cause they have no idea that simply by living they will learn what you have to teach them.
Dont get me wrong: Everyone deserves to make a living,
but there is a trickery to your art.
Of selling yourself the superstar nova,
surrounded by six string quartets and string section sililoqeys,
but I can see the press kit you put together: every poem sounds like an epiphany when you put a slow cello behind it. Have it play in A major, thats the most uplifting. Speak like an angel, we have all been taught from birth to eat the words of angels like the saviors last supper and then you, you can be a savior too. I would rather hear your words read, not by your voice but from someone not privileged enough to have one.
Because you are NOT my family.
I respect you, and you are good,
but you are not 5 grand good.
Or you are 5 grand good, but not anymore than I am 5 grand good, or the young lady on the open mic is 5 grand good, or the overlooked reader in the slam is 5 grand good, or the organizer is 5 grand good. Because as much as I would love to pay you a million dollars for your art, that economy does not currently exist. And while you and the rest of your heavenly host are floating around the country dealing out your truths like golden apples on trees, the rest of us? We are breaking our backs bending over backwards to arrange the yellow brick road for you. So your solar flare can pass through our cool night breeze and teach us what its like to be warm, but you know what, I would rather be the moon. Not shining but reflecting light and letting others see just how far a shadow they can cast, when you dim all the lamps just right, EVERYONE IS HUGE! We all have a reach of giants and meld into one another, learning from one another. Family is not something you call someone you want something from. Family is someone who already gave it to you.