I suppose this is a narration of my trip
from here to Denver and back. Of thespians
yelling and being artsy and daring
one another to be crazy. But the truth,
ugly as it may be, is that this is about form,
rather than being trapped with the opposite sex.
Perhaps I should explain that line about sex,
opposite sex that is. You see on the trip
everybody in my van was against men forming
macho egos. They were all girls, thespians
down to the bone. Well, to tell the truth
one other guy was there. I'd lie but I'm not that daring.
East we went, although not as fast as the other van dared.
Still, time would have gone faster if my sex
never would have come up. But it did, and they spoke the truth.
They ripped and slammed on men the whole trip.
Had anything they said been false I would have told those thespians
a thing or two. But they were correct in the opinions they formed.
Very strong is the urge to write about it in free verse form.
Even though I don't dare
announce the identity of any of the thespians
nor the things they said about my sex,
you get the idea (I hope) that the trip
concluded with a shocking revelation of truth.
Other poems can go into this truth,
not this one -- it deals with form.
This poem could make less sense than a psychedelic trip,
each line being completely meaningless and daring
not to be understood. They could talk of sex:
the fantasies of Clarence Thomas and words that rime with thespian.
Going 'round and around like thespians
on a stage, the lines could hold no truth.
Forget all the stuff about sex,
or the convention, or the male ego, form
remains the only thing I dare
fight for. Narration is the only reason I mention the trip.
Oh, it doesn't take a thespian to combine the traditional forms
responsible for this poem. To tell the truth I'm not a daring
man. I could talk of sex in any format without my tongue tripping.