The Man They Call “The Emergent Poet”

Winning Godage

I didn’t comb my hair
Still I looked chic in a buttoned shirt.

I heard the announcer leak out my name
I became in an instant, cheek to belly button,
Dorsal to ventral, back to front

From notorious Dilantha
To emergent author
The kite dream hovering like a slogan
In the air, selling my brand name

An accidental writer, putting pen
Onto paper, for a reading from back to front
From iris aperture, to camera crack,
While an illusion of disproportion was hoisting me
Farther than a kite dream

Only for the next morning hangover
To humble me, like a majestic Elephant
Who steps on his own dung, his own shit,
And still, little fungi grow there
Digesting the poop – glory-poop.

The kite was my dream.
Now I have just a tiny piece of the sky.

To fall down, back to earth.