I believe this poem is the backbone of who I am. The lungs, the toes and fingers, the hips, and belly. We are all open, mutable beings. Containers of the soul, which changes shades as well. We are the changing seasons. We are lifted, celebrated. Everyone. That bro who you think is a waste of space has a mother who (probably) loves him, even the girl who won’t give you attention at the bar suffers as much as any of us. Lives and loves as much, as hard…
I’m not going to cry all the time
nor shall I laugh all the time,
I don’t prefer one “strain” to another.
I’d have the immediacy of a bad movie,
not just a sleeper, but also the big,
overproduced first-run kind. I want to be
at least as alive as the vulgar. And if
some aficionado of my mess says “That’s
not like Frank!”, all to the good! I
don’t wear brown and grey suits all the time,
do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart–
you can’t plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open.