Karl Koweski

time is a flat, drum circle

I’ve reached an age
where I can look back on my life
and remember a time
when the Oliver Stone directed
Jim Morrison biopic
The Doors was not considered a comedy.

I saw it opening night
in a theater in Lansing, Illinois.
I took a girl from the high school
sociology class we shared.
she enjoyed the movie well enough
and she liked me,
but I was too dumb to realize.

I walked out of that theater
fundamentally changed.
I knew I needed to procure
a pair of black leather pants
and a conch belt.
I needed to study Nietzsche
and learn to write poetry.
I wanted to be a shaman
and a lizard king
and lead a pack of dopers
in a frenzied drum circle.
except I had no rhythm.
I was born into tone deafness.
leather britches were prohibitively expensive,
and I never met anyone
of First Nation heritage
kind enough to loan me their soul.

doing drugs was relatively easy,
as simple as getting on people’s nerves
by continually spouting goofy non sequiturs.
as a result, women maintained
a respectful distance.
I bought an anole lizard in a little cage,
but it soon escaped.

my hair fell out
before it could really grow out.
Nietzsche didn’t do it for me.
my attempts to start a religion failed.
I could write poetry,
more narrative than lyrical.
when the words flowed
I felt a spirit move within me,
more Polish than Cherokee
harboring an aversion to rhyme
and hippie drum circles.