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Friday, December 24, 2004


I bought the guitar,
because I thought guitars were poets,
That gave words of wisdom
to those who know how to caress them.

My first one came from Sears.
Twenty-five dollars in a cardboard box.
I sat with it for nights and practiced it 'til my fingers bled.
But "Shoo Fly" wasn't the poem I wanted from my poet.

So I saved my money, and I got a bigger, shinier poet.
And I learned more chords and I learned real songs
And I let that mumbling box steal my nights.
And it never sang the songs I wanted it to even though I knew the motions.

I got myself an electric poet, with shiny strings and switches and dials,
And it could scream your ears out.
But even that poet, that shiny new poet
Didn't sing the songs I wanted.

I got mad one night, not necessarily about the illiterate poets that littered my room,
Although I had been mad at them many times before.
But I was mad and depressed and I wondered what life was for
And that twenty-five dollar piece of junk from Sears was close by.
I touched, then picked it up, then stopped, then held it,
Then hugged, then kissed it with my fingers.

Then that poet whispered. Then louder.
And the poet sang all night long.

That junk sang.

-- Clark Nicholson (in high school)
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