T H E • A M E R I C A N • P O E T by J.C Hawkes

So I read some raw pieces 
of American poetry 
written from 
the backbone
 of the American life. 
As I taste this autumn air, 
with a roll your own cigarette 
as the world only ever sees 
a dystopian Hollywood 
these days, in the form 
of long legs, hips up 
to here and the 
justice for all 
band of youths, 
all fighting 
brave 
doing 
it clean, 
showing the 
world how to 
breathe it in 
again 
and again 
and to build 
it all mean 

I admire the REAL American Poet, 
the writer who reports it 
from the ground. He 
speaks freely, 
without a 
GOD - 
whom many 
and they 
do not trust, 
in a city where 
struggle meets the 
pavement and truth rears 
it’s authentic head to contradict the 
Hollywood Hills romance death scenes. 

So, I absorb their thoughts 
the account of truth, 
and heed their 
warning and 
find myself far from
The Wonderland projected 
Broad and Wide on the T.V screen 
and while snoop dog is Calling it real, 
on the radio to Nikki Sixx - 
who says it’s all ok, 
down in L.A

I read the REAL Poet 
to feel the world 
behind the 
news, 
behind 
the movie theatre, 
Behind the halls of justice 
and the sickening high school 
love stories told from the hearts 
of an America claiming to be: 
The Strong and The Brave. 

I read the American Poet
And I am assured 
that we all have 
the same 
blood 
and organs, 
we all dream and 
we all hope 
and we are 
all brave - 
here on 
the ground 
in the world of the REAL
and here the Poet lives 
and feels, down town, 
where real 
struggle 
meets the 
pavement 
and real love 
fills our thoughts
With Real Hope, given by 
the American Poet 
who writes the 
truth of how it 
happened. 

J.C Hawkes  - is an alien who arrived on this god-forsaken planet in the territory  of AUSTRALIA - in the middle of the decade he’d have preferred to been of age as to party with the poets he admires to this day. The Burroughs’ and the gorgeous Patti Smith, the Ferlinghetti’s and the David Bowie’s ( in his Coke Daze) - yes! the dirty filthy 1970s always suited his fantasies.  He was of age in the 1990s instead and somehow survived, the day that fuckin’ Kurt Cobain died! By discovering Jim Morrison, he never did care for teeny bopping lights. 

Now in his later years, he is approaching 50 and he is quiet and reflective and writes pages of poetry daily about his memories he actually lived. While on the inside he only ever wanted to write books, grow an old man beard and live in the mountains in a cabin built for one.   Grow old and die there - this would be fine  - by me.