Charles P. Ries on the Other Side of the
PG-13
I’ve accepted my sentence as a soft language poet.
A poet who doesn’t drink Jack Daniels or smoke
cigarettes. A poet who drives a lawn mower, and
wears a suit and tie to work. I can’t write a war
poem or rage against the man.
Oh I have tried angry poetry. I have studied the squalor
of street people. Gotten drunk at the National Liquor
Bar, and tried to infuse myself with Bukowski, but
I was born with a weak evil spirit. I buy the rounds,
order the taxi home, discover the smelly fellow next
to me has words as filled with hope and fancy as do I.
I can’t write them apart from me. I cannot rage and
foam and screw about them all. I am cursed by seeing
myself in you.
© Copyright Charles P. Ries 2007