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(Title: Perspective: When a pantoum of sorts
ends up as a monologue about purpose)

Inside the jeepney, two brown guys be
They debated gleefully
about what poetry should see:

I. My Ego, a.k.a. Snob #1

You say. if you are god then you will walk on water
All other poets will err underneath you.
Oh, they can only touch your feet
while you hover over their souls

All other poets will err underneath you.
You will not pay attention to their calls
while you hover over their souls
What you stand for is gospel.

You will not pay attention to their calls
Your vision will be to pursue no revisions
What you stand for is gospel.
What a heap of crap you have become!

But I am not god, like you
I could care less if I touch your feet
Is poetry not bigger than your hubris
for there is more truth than mere gospel
I am certain hunger is more practical
There are more real pains than your quatrians.

II. My Super Ego, a.k.a. Snob #2

Should we not aim to dictate
by words facilitate
how many lives to create
with our poetic gait:
by words facilitate
invocations of weight
with our poetic gait,
emphasize the straight
invocations of weight
behooves us to liberate
emphasize the straight
re-colonize our state

Behooved thus to liberate
by words facilitate
re-colonize our state
Should we then not aim to dictate?

III. My Id, The Eavesdropper

Inside the jeepney, two brown guys be
They debated gleefully
about what poetry should see,
little did they know a third man hears,
discretely he grins and laughs silently:

I dream of cats. I like kittens,
and turtles. My purpose lingers.
I could care less about the luminous.
In my world, all your base are belong to me.
Damn, poets. Braggarts at play, what is there to say
of thunder and hunger and breathing words?
I can summon lives too, many.
But Iíll do it my way.
Until then I will be manly: and

I will not be like you.



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by webguy





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