Mail Room Poets.

Mail Room Poets.
by james bezerra

Learn-ed men of the 19th Century and prior
were often muli-talented masters of many disciplines.

They were:
naturalists and statesmen,
or
lawyers and inventors
or
barristers and botanists
or
scriveners and astronomers.

Less so today.
With the notable exceptions of
rapper/actors,
writer/directors,
director/producers,
etc.
It seems that now
to be a man of mixed interests, one
must be
entertaining too.

Why have our
modern times driven
to extinction all the pirate/cartographers?
The physicist/patent clerks?
The ambulance driver/novelists?
The savior/carpenters?

Has our understanding of
identity
become this
narrow so
that it can
fit on a business card?
Or so Google
isn’t confused when trying to categorize solider/poets?

Where have they all gone?
The kung fu monks?
The mail room poets?
The furniture-selling mob bosses?
The assassin priests?
The homeless musical savants?
The hookers with hearts of gold?

Have they just gone underground?
Or were they always?
Are they still where they always were?
Only maybe even more so?

They, we, us, them,
are still toiling away. Blogging at:
ninja accountant DOT com
Or maybe
tweeting feverishly as:
Part-time CPA and full-time sex goddess.

Perhaps we are all of many natures.
Perhaps that’s too confusing to make a reality show out of though.
Perhaps we should just make our business cards
BIGGER!

Perhaps they should be
the size of a Publishers Clearing House check!
The size of a cartoon’s winning lotto ticket!

Instead of fitting
inside of our wallets,
they would/could – instead -
hold all the details of our souls;
all the minutia of our minds;
all of the contents of our hearts.

And there for
all to see
would be
the nearly un-bordered scrawl of
our passions,
the unconfined rigor of our minds,
the multiplexity of our interests.

Yours might
read:
music lover, dog catcher, pie baker, speaker of tongues, finder of lost keys, finder of lost souls, lover, ninja, sex goddess, inventor, pirate cartographer, mail room poet.

And all of that would be okay.

.
.
.