HOW TO BE A POET
Write stacks of things, put words together, one after another, what you want. Tune your head to say. To say things, don’t think in mantras, don’t train your brain to spout the same thing. Just think. And write. Just think.
Go for a walk. Walk with your head, held up. Observe people and things. If they ask say sorry and move on. I’m just, this is just who I am, you might think this is weird, I watch. Scribble strands on notepaper in your pocket, folded up, on the edges of free newspapers and trash you find on the street. Look for pens when you forget. Buy one from the old man with the pot of pens, arranged in a circle, not knows what he sells, hand up for cash.
Print out on loose sheets of paper. Bind together with cheap staples or other things you buy from the store. Those bunny-eared brass tacks. Give it a name. Don’t put your name on. Put one identifier, if you must. Don’t put your name on, leave the poems lying around. Leave them in places. Take the poems and leave them in places, not the ground, places they can be read.
Leave the poems, don’t sell.
Poems don’t sell, leave them places, don’t think. Make art, and leave. Make art, make art, and leave it behind. On the ground if you must, when it’s dry.