Tag Archives: Joe Moore


by Joe Moore

just when the dust in your cornea
corners your perspective
you expect to blink
but don’t think the invisible will have a critical effect
on what connects to that which is heard
along with whatever has been seen
we prefer to just clean away the debris
and continue to see without question,
never second guessing the direction of the movement
we rather move men if at all possible
because we see people as an obstacle
hurdles placed in illogical sequences
we see fences as gimmicks
artificial limits to our level of expectancy
we feel the feeling is mutual
expect when the exception accepting me
something about how I speak must be unique and original
like the only “I” in the alphabet is indivisible
and by all means “I,” must be that individual
undivided in purpose
egotistical with my service
my effort alone makes it worth it
how “I” see
it is how the earth gets its gravity
pushing a pen passionately across papyrus
poetry is our virus, an idol god like Osiris
poisonous and pious, biased to say the least
in just one passage cats become prophets and priest
with pockets full of fleece
the object is to eat
but nobody is feeding because nobody is reading
everybody is writing, enlighten by their own darkness
just how dark with the dark nest get
before we realize the bookstore is no more
became extinct like the first floor
so I reckon that’s why they built a second
or just renamed it the lobby
nowadays I see displays of lame hobbies
scattered in books where everyone looks for the face first
or leave it to the cleavage of a tight shirt or the tight skirt
writers don’t write, they flirt
the way they use this has made this useless
the youth is puzzled and befuddled
they don’t understand the struggle
they only recognize the hustle
thus their grammar lacks stamina and muscle
all about the thrills,
the real skills they ignore
because metaphors don’t come on 30’s
and tend to be a little wordy
especially when the person with the pen and pad
feels he or she is a poet
and has this urge, that you deserve to know it
and although there words and mind combine and converge to show it
seldom is there anyone who needs it
and proceeds who reads it
indeed it gets old with time
so at the end of each line
we try to find a reason to keep appeasing the paper
with the labor of this passion
with the pen I keep mashing
all the while asking
why do I write?

Originally published at HipHopPoetry.