Michael Monroe was born in Baltimore, MD in 1976 and has lived there most of his life. He is a computer programmer who works at the University of Maryland at Baltimore’s School of Social Work. His poetry has been published in Gargoyle Magazine, nthposition, the Lyric, Scribble, Foliate Oak, Primalzine, and various other publications. He has also had poems published in previous issues of the Loch Raven Review. Two of his poems were recorded on the Words on War CD produced by Birdhouse Studios. Michael often does poetry readings with Gimme Shelter Productions to raise money for the homeless in Baltimore.
Summer 2012
Table of Contents - Vol. VIII, No. 2
Poetry Fiction Translations Reviews
Michael Monroe
“POETS to come! Orators, singers, musicians to come!
Not to-day is to justify me, and answer what I am for;
But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before known,
Arouse! Arouse-for you must justify me-you must answer.”
--Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, Poets to Come.
I am the dirty gum eternally stuck beneath the ever-walking foot of the conquering
unthinking bovine capitalist fascist machine.
I am the bird singing from the tree, waking you in the morning, singing non-stop
beauty into the Summer air, the songbird that won’t shut up, that can’t shut up.
I am the zit on your face when you look in the mirror, oozing puss and blood and
reminding you of your humanity.
I am the question mark in your philosophy tome, the highlighter in your holy book,
the crumbling brown paper of your national documents.
I am the thunder that shakes the city, rattling buildings, echoing and vibrating
through the towering phallic structures.
I am the whir of a lone cricket in your basement.
I am the hole you trip in when you’re running to make the bus in a rainstorm, pushing
the homeless guy out of your way in the process.
I am the wrinkles in the dollar bill in your wallet.
I am the convict picking up your trash out of the oily gutter.
I am the broken twig on the mountain trail.
I am the dog chasing his own tail.
I am the snowball hurtling out of control down the mountainside, picking up random
sheets of snow along the way, changing course with bumps over rocks and coming to a
smashing, splashing stop.
I am the runner stopping to take a breath, stopping to take many breaths, I am the walker.
I am nothing, I am everything.
I am just like you, I am nothing like you.
I am the face in the mirror, the reflection in the lake, the clouds in the sky striving
to form a cohesive image.
I am un-cohesive nature that we place our labels on.
I am a supernova, a world, a continent, a mountain, a tree, a speck of dirt, a molecule,
an atom.
I am.
© Michael Monroe
