Knozz Moe King

People say he died young

But sixty-two

Sixty-three

Sixty-eight  

Isn’t young

For a poet

Poets are born old

Then age like cheese

Philosophers age more

Pensively and most are ambidextrous

Poet practitioner dreamer scrutinizer

Light heavy crawling flying

Swirling

He took it where he found it

Or where it found him

Then it dropped him

In the alley

Like the blues

He carried something that

Spoke to us and we heard it

But are ungrateful

In light of what it made us see

We would have sometimes rather he

Hem and haw than spit truth

Blues singers live longer

They moan daily scream nightly

Let it out like a cat to prowl

Fifty-one isn’t young for a poet either

He might have died 

When vital organs failed and 

Blood pressure was through

The roof

He was in the storm too long

But he kept stepping

To sounds of music

That wouldn’t leave him

And love songs  

With or without return

Besame mucho - besame mucho

In the mouth on the head kiss

Eyes kiss soul kiss ass

Kiss now

Kiss Proud Mary

Scarlet woman

Billie Jean kiss

River full and wet

Round midnight

Kiss visitors from nowhere

Hold breath between teeth

And dribble stardust on your shoes

Poet is a verb

Poet poets

But I digress - poets die old

Because love is unrequited

And fictitious

Poets want the good life in a

Lonely house where what's new

Has room to breathe

Kiss Alabama behind her ear

Play back her red clay songs

Her truth dies under scrutiny 

Like flowers under hot water