From my self published book The Unapoet

which sold about a dozen copies, I guess

The Poem at the end of the Book

To the character of the Pig Woman

in George Ainslie’s play

What I did Last Summer

I’m not a Terrorist, I’m a Poet

But a good Poet should be both.

Knives of words,

images that splash and splatter,

yet dream and hope.

Poetry should be theatre and threaten

scream, strangle and stab hypocrisies

blooden and blow up pomposities

kill denial, wound refusals,

(the germans who didn’t know, didn’t know

the bosnians, muslims and serbs who also never knew

the americans who never knew

that the returned slave might be tortured

as might the returned Haitian

and you always believe a Policeman’s word

over a civilian)

Poetry should hold emotions hostage,

demand the release of falsely imprisoned desires,

and issue man and women festoes

on the rights of everyone

to be who they are

who they would be.

Poets need not be identified

nor does the poem need a name, a face,

a face should not be photographed

either for text books

or United States Post Office walls.

No photos’ No photos’

only poor fading drawings

sketched in the back seat

at eighty miles an hour

upon leaving the site

where something has really really happened

this time

this once and final time.

Give not a name to the Poetry

to the Poet

no name no name’

Leave that to others

who remember it

as the smell of fire

the odor of burning

the perfume of change

this poet must oppose

those who think they own power

and the lands and the lives of others

                            and the minds of others

the poet should always be suspect

the poems must always be rejected

the language must be inspected,

seeking these dreams of fire and flowers

Poets must be prepared

to have their heads hoisted

on petards at the gates of

Fritz Lang’s Metropolistic City

as the last warning to be sent

to other Poets

to return to writing villanelles

on romance

and hiakus on nature.

Poets should always comb their hair

prior to the Reading.

Bob Small 11-17-95

original written on 11-04-95, while

listening to Donna Jo Napoli