Poetry – Page 4 – Kevin Trent Boswell

wealthy sexy famous

life walks right up to your door

chasing money
is death

chasing love
is death

chasing fame
is death

power, sex, a high,
friendship, genius,
rare treasures

all death

regardless
of what you
label these things,
they are futile
pursuits

your parents, teachers, and friends
don’t explain this to you because
your parents, teachers, and friends
are all morons

they’re products of ⠀
an extended indoctrination ⠀
by previous generations⠀

generations that had
the whole world on a string

generations who convinced them
they could have everything they
ever wanted or dreamed of

in a world that
no longer
exists

that’s why they’re all
saddled with debt,
fighting it out to the death
in divorce court,
strangling each other
over custody of the kids,
and having full-blown
meltdowns
over getting their
social media post
of their vacation breakfast
just right

if that’s not
insanity,
then it will serve just fine
as a placeholder

you can think of all of your
foolish hunting for these
illusions of safety as

trying to secure a future
making sure you have enough
just trying to get by
living in the moment
building for tomorrow
chasing the dream

call it
whatever
you want,

it’s still you
chasing something
that life isn’t
offering you

it’s forced,
inorganic

false

hubris

the truth is that life
walks opportunities
right up to your door

not all of them
are things that are
good for you

you might already
have exactly what you need

and accepting something
that looks shinier, newer,
slightly more expensive,
would be a mistake

but the ones that are good for you,
you feel it in your bones,
right away,

regardless of how hard
you try to talk yourself out of it
later on

if you’re lucky,
there might be a note
pinned to it,

“yeah, I know it’s not exactly what you
“were hoping for, or expecting.
“but it’s what you need,
“and it will heal you.
“so, don’t break it, or lose it.”

but usually,
there are no
instructions

it doesn’t
happen
often

and sure,
sometimes,
it’s not exactly
sitting right there
in a box, wrapped up
with a bow on it

sometimes,
it’s a map,
something
that you have to
go out and get

an errand
you have to run

a phone call
you have to make

but it’s
almost never
something that you
went looking for
that day

and it’s rarely
the type of thing
you’d imagined

it’s something
that life just
dropped
in your lap

it knocks

it’s only a matter
of whether or not

you will
open up

Ooops.⠀

When I first started writing poetry
I had read
very little
of the classics,
only what I had
come across
in school⠀

To me, most of the “classics”
were very
foreign
distant
not at all relatable⠀

except for one
small batch
that I tore out
of a high school textbook⠀

There, I met my new friends,
the real, cool kids⠀

Don Marquis’ archy hears from mars
Rudyard Kipling’s If

Emily Dickinson, in all of her
unknown brilliance⠀

Edwin Arlington Robinson,
sharing with me the stories of
Miniver Cheevy and Richard Cory⠀

and my high school sweetheart,
Sylvia Plath⠀

I was not normally one to
deface textbooks⠀

but then, I didn’t want to
leave my friends behind⠀

I still have them today⠀

by the time I started
reading great poets,
geniuses
like Dylan Thomas,
e.e. cummings, Stephen Crane,
Charles Bukowski,
Robert Frost
and dozens of other
superb writers⠀

I had already written
several books worth of
my own poetry⠀

I then realized…⠀

I had
nothing new
to say⠀

It was all just a
re-hash of them,
even though I had never read them⠀

so much
for my grand
contribution
of genius…⠀

of course, by then
I was already entirely too
attached
to my work
and to the art
of writing itself⠀

I was too attached
to go back and
change anything⠀

but I would sometimes wish
that either…
I had never
read those poets⠀

or that I had
never written
anything
of my own⠀

but neither
of these thoughts
was genuinely
honest⠀

and anyway,
by then…⠀

it was
too
late

From the book on the page – poems for artists, writers, and other hooligans

on the page - poems for artists, writers, and other hooligans by Kevin Trent Boswell — ***on the page***

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I.⠀

laughing on the outskirts of darkness
at the perfunctory imitations
of the imperceptible⠀

II.⠀

laughing in the belly of darkness⠀

quelling the acidic tide
of the caustic factory⠀

III.⠀

laughing in the wake of darkness⠀

this cavalier illusion
now drinks its own blood for sustenance
and is not satisfied⠀

reeling from the percussion
of its own breath,
it now threatens no one⠀

IV.⠀

laughing on the outskirts of brightness

From the book Liber ex Liberi

Liber ex Liberi - The Book of Children by Kevin Trent Boswell — ***Liber ex Liberi***

punk rock tattoo⠀

you paid for your punk rock tattoo
with your daddy’s credit card⠀

and it’s well known that,
down at the mall
you’re a star,
a guru to the runaways⠀

I can’t help but break out
laughing
at your imagined rebellions
the hypocrisy of it
equaled only by my own,
smug sense of superiority to it⠀

each of us imagining
that we have somehow
escaped the system⠀

the universe laughs at gods
the gods laugh at me
and it only follows that
I should laugh at you⠀

the Tao jonzed on Wall Street today
the market value of coffee went up
and the price of Fentanyl
dropped considerably,
while three-martini-lunches
went down⠀

you and I will both
laugh at all that
while the brokers
laugh at us⠀

the universe
doesn’t laugh
it just
knows⠀

you and I
are nothing alike⠀

except insofar as,
we share an affinity
for scoffing at others⠀

we will get our
little giggles in,
where and when
we can⠀

before death has
the last laugh
of all

From the book in the current by Kevin Trent Boswell

Tiger

On the riverbanks of India
The men wade among crocodiles
For fish⠀

In the jungles of Indonesia
The men walk among tigers
For wood⠀

In the backs of our ⠀
Western minds,
Among the terror files⠀

We wish⠀

These monsters
Would disappear
For good⠀

Oh, to be alive and in ⠀
Indonesia

From the book remission by Kevin Trent Boswell

sugar

she was like the tiny, little

broken, china teacup

that i would use to dip sugar

from out of the big jar

that i kept in the fridge

she was there,

all covered in sticky sweetness…

chipped, jagged

cold

and poised

to cut the lip

From the book on the page – poems for artists, writers, and other hooligans

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I.⠀

II.⠀

III.⠀

IV.⠀

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