I am not writing about you.
I am not writing about anyone, let alone anyone you might know.

I am vamping, riffing, making it up on the fly.
A matador working the cape, entangling the horns as they come.

I am a romantic, a raconteur, a fabulist.
I parry in rhythm and rhymes, in sound, guttural, enunciated.

I do not know you, dear follower. You do not know me.
I do not know me. If anything, I write about the people I know in flesh and blood.

I am inspired by those who have been at my side for my lifetime.
They are here with me now, living the day-to-day, the grind, with love and commitment.

We sweat, laugh, sometimes hysterically until we cry, aching good, chest to chest, cheek to cheek.
Your comments suggest you think I am alone on this planet; au contraire, my life is bohemian rich.

We gypsies take care of us gypsies. Our ladies take care of us very well, thank you.
We are surrounded by generations of love; we partake of sage offerings to make us wise and wired.

Trust me. If I have never met you except in passing here on WordPress, in this blogosphere,
then you are not my motivation. Please do not delude yourself otherwise.

I write for me. I write for her, and him.
I do not write for, nor about, you.

If by chance the words coming off of the page, speak to you very specifically,
convince you that they could only be meant for you, well then, welcome to Poetry.

Our music, like our poetry, is for us. Some of these tunes were written very long ago.
They are written with very specific people and places in mind.

Alas, you are not among those.
Reality check, please.


© Carlos Chagall, 2013