MY DIRTY LITTLE SECRET (OR, HOW’S THIS FOR “FIRST THOUGHT-BEST THOUGHT?”)

You can call me crazy.
You can call me a sell-out.
You can call me a pussy

and a traitor to my

own cause (the only

other roll available, these days,
for a soulful, sensitive
(or just plain surly) poet
being that of “martyr,”
I’m afraid) or tell me later
how this probably explains

why my stuff always was

a little “lite weight (“despite
its tendency towards heavy-

handedness”)” and more

than a little second rate.

I wouldn’t give a good

goddamn cuz you can

bet your sweet ass I’d

trade my fool’s cap,

my monk’s habit and my
big, plumy poet's quill

in a head-spinning,

neck-snapping second

for even the lowliest,

young, indie prince
charming or nu-urban lord’s

place at court.

Hell yes,
I would.

-Jason Ryberg, 2010