WHO WROTE THE ODE TO JOY

And I’vetried to be amazing and I’ve
tried to be good tempered and that
was trying to be good for everyone
and I
find myself thinking about Beethoven again,
wondering what sort of symphonies I’ll be composing when I’m sixty
and I’m not Beethoven, and I’m not Beethoven, and I’m not Beethoven, and I’m
not amazing and I
wasn’t born with music in my veins
(totally the wrong position to take, I know –
when you’re know good at something right away you
give up you don’t
waste your time)

but damn I want to feel righteous when I shake my fist at the heavens, and I want to
sneer at God while still living,
wave my poems in the air and taunt him –
that I stole a piece of his presence
and got away with it.

I find myself endlessly repeating my own words in my head.
(I’m worse than Wagner when it comes to Narcissism, and worse than Narcissus
because I’m really quite plain) and my words?
I think I could recite Beethoven’s Ninth from memory
and I’m not Beethoven, and I’m NOT BEETHOVEN
but did that man ever make mistakes?

The Ninth came straight from the Creator. I’m sure of it.

whereas

this poem was written amid
thoughts and papers and my
messy teenage room. with my
unremarkable biological ridiculous pink and squishy brain,
and what am I supposed to do with that?
Sit here and write and write until I’ve
rhymed myself the wild hair and
reasoned out the expressive eyebrows,
sit here and write until I wither and my head falls off
and becomes a bust?

NO!
That won’t give me the Ninth!

I’m 16, but I’m sixty, trust me
I have to know now
- and maybe that’s just a symptom or being 16,
on the brink of so much and wondering whether it’s
rocks or wormholes at the bottom

maybe it’s a symptom of being sixty,
wanting to know whether I’ll have enough time before the eternal wormhole

and maybe if I’m lucky
it’s a symptom of being a piece of the infinite
that longs to return to its state of birth,
and I can pull the trick of all inspired –

and have the good Lord return me
while I’m still young…