The American Writer

There is a restlessness in us

A violence so deeply engrained

So nearly impossible to separate

So difficult to see through

It's this need to be great

We have to get ahead

We have to tower the competition

We have no other choice

But to embrace each and every ambition

The gentleness isn’t enough

And the curiosity isn’t enough

And if there is a spark of greatness

Some light shown through the crack

Here in this city, in this country

It is not enough

Because here

We naively believe we can change the world

And in order to do that

We must first give into the fold

Because what will all this evidence piling up portray?

What will my words mean to the readers

At the end of their distracted days

Style of soul is often not even a thought

It’s become overshadowed

By the ever important image we project

And so the thought then burrows

And soon takes over the craft

It snuffs out any silence

And becomes the popular cynical laugh

The American writer, the poet, the artist

Sells his face, his words, his image

And becomes himself, the product

And the poets of other cities

Other countries remain free

Searching for a state of grace

In the moments in between

On the images in the screen

Developing a style for the life they live

A style that could only create

The writer within

And they search for a woman’s skin

And they search for a lover’s scent

And they search for a teacher’s gift

And they search for the line within

Seeing poetry in everything around

Blending into the voices aloud

Ignoring thoughts of their image’s pride

Laughing besides themselves

As their words are wowed

As for me, born into this country

Where not so many, so great

Not even Bukowski

Because at least on some level

All have fallen victim to this same mistake

It’s so deeply engrained

The challenge so great

No poet has ever directly changed the world

As no single warrior has ever won the war

The miracle comes in giving up

In embracing the style

And sharing generously the love

And in those moments

So full of hate, so full of rage

To sit down and write it

To give it away

And the fear and restlessness,

This need to get ahead

To leave it in the background

To, if you can, leave it for dead…

The truth, so simple

It hides in everything

Even if the words don’t come

To try and explain the scene

To give up the miracle

In exchange for the everything

ⓒ 2006 Shawn Michael Quinn