Poetic Solitaire

My games of solitaire are increasingly

successful

Alone
letting pass internal winds
in loud reports
no lover to acknowledge or discourage
it is a supreme privilege I can only enjoy when alone
if the world discovers I possess this inner music
I fear I will be seen as less than I am
even to write of its existence
puts me in jeopardy of discovery

I was told the poet is irreverent
farting is irreverent
is writing poetry like farting?
allowing our most inner thoughts,
fears and emotions to emerge?
the process being quite malodorous and laborious
we wait until just the right moment to let it emerge
lest it fall on deaf and indifferent ears
leaving it inside
the vicious vapors
like emotional pain or insight
smoulder and reabsorb into the body
perhaps growing cancerous and ever more foul

The Sunday poet releases the wind of inspiration
in tritely controlled rhymes
casting vague suspicions
of poisoning the food we were given for thought

poetry and farting are the answers
to our deepest questions of existence
the poet pulls from the bowels of the spirit
and spits out the word with uncensored vigor
whether the release of the winds be as gentle zephyrs
brushing the down of the cheek
or violent hurricanes twisting and violating all in its path
there is cleansing and new resolve

clearing the table
does the hedonistic poet set a banquet feast
for those that would listen
to the seeming cacophony
willing to decipher that deepest language
which echoes the rhythm of the soul

the light of day the dark of night
the patterns and rhythms churned
rotted and restructured in the poet's own image
distinct as footprints, as styles of passing wind
farting reflects our digestion of substance and emotions

is the poet then, the one
who is willing to fart boldly in front of an audience
in full expression with disregard for those it offends
knowing it may mean farting alone