Four Poems

Jason Van Blaricom

A Rare Occurrence

What happens when you try to be an artist
When you stop trying to make things for yourself
But start trying to make money
Your everyday sentences start to cadence 
      annoyingly
There is too much rhyming in everything you say
And every forced piece of work turns up shit
Why be like them?
Remember your purpose is to insult. Remember?
You write because it’s the only way to get back at
    the stupid
Make money (fucking one day maybe) and still
    keep your self-respect
Poetry is for mocking the ignorant and their petty
    distractions
Their pathetic ideas that art is for talking about the
    everyday bullshit
To remind them it’s a philosophical instrument, not
    a wall hanging
It’s not to be loved, it should make you angry
You’re insulted and throw it down as if it weren’t
    really talking about you, man
It’s disturbing, you can’t get it out of your mind and
    are pissed you had to pick up the damn thing
And now you have to read it again because it makes
    so much sense you don’t get it
This time you concede he’s not completely full of
    shit
It’s upsetting and goes against everything you
    believe in
That god’s not anthropomorphic, or man is as
    significant as an insect
Or he knows nothing, or is the poorest of lovers that
    ever lived.
A rare occurrence
When a poet does something other than merely
    amuse for the moment
But carves a niche in the soul of a person
That is indelible, that is painful, and at the same
    time bliss.

To Capture a Thought

To capture a thought you must inoculate it
Rhinoceros it falls
Hardly a semblance of its former self
Transported to the page
Cage, prison thought thinks rotten
Stripped of its environment skin
Tones, and bellowings of freedom!

Starving

If the belly of the poet were full
Could he devour the environment like he should
Would his taste buds be clean
Who’s satiated constantly, never needing
Could he swallow the bitter as well
As the sugary, the rare candy canes of joy
The bitter, semi-sweet everyday
Could he be the observer he must be
If he were not constantly hungry?

El Platicadoro

          Whereof one cannot speak
          Thereof one should be silent.

—Ludwig Wittgenstein

Oh, but I love
	to talk. And
I’ll make your ear weary
Of truth
	 Breathed! Hell,
Metaphysics is in my blinking
S. Flores bus clouds free from
	scratching my seeing.
I burp Cheeto-flavored Reality
	and repeat. Shower
With Final Causes, starting
	wth my pubis.
Exchange fluids with Substance
	on my couch
		whenever she please.
Absolute, Good, Monads, Atom and
	Change are racing in
	my living room tonight for
	the award of cheese.
So, tell me I can’t speak
	And I scream!
Viva El Platicadoro!