Why I avoid the now ubiquitous Lyric I
In my feeble attempts at poetry
I avoid the first person,
because I don’t know him.
The personal point of view
cannot help but skew.
The reader will always mistake
the writer for what is said.
The I that writes these words is not
the I I am, but one voice from a head
of varied schizophrenic mumbling.
Identity never trustworthy.
Do not look to my I for truth.
Too many mouths for certainty.
No one voice can know it all.
Old men will always disappoint.
Their memories of any one event,
a jumble of multiple possibilities,
never absolute, never for sure.
Truth belongs to the young,
always certain of themselves,
who they are, where they are going.
My I must swallow many rocks
to settle the gut of remembering;
consider endless alternatives
before daring to speak.
My I is scattered like seeds
before the gusts of spring.
My I is a boat made of water.
My I is a catalog of doubts.
My I fears to give instruction.
My I disdains all authority.
My I is an I I can’t know.
Dubious, anxious, perplexed,
My I is a path I can’t go,
I always avoid the first person.