when they passed me on the street today.
I bit my tongue and did my best not to reveal
that Baudelaire is my homeboy.
When people ask me what I do, I've always said "I'm a writer."
But isn't that a cop out?
"What kind of writing do you do," hypothetical person may ask.
"Mainly poetry," typical me may reply.
Why do the silences that follow worry me so?
"When are you going to write a novel?" I've been asked.
F you. I'm a poet.
You don't ask an oil painter when they're going to take up photography.
But why do I always chicken out and vaguely say, "We'll see..."
Grow a set of poet cojones, man!
I am a poet, why don't I yet know it?
I'm a work in progress, a Pillsbury poet not yet fully baked.
Admitting my problem is the first step to recovery, right?
Greg Santos
Paris, France
November 6, 2010
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