Poem for John Wieners

I am not a poet because I live in the actual world where fear divides light I have no protection against the real evils and money which is the world where most lives are spent I am not a poet because I cannot sing about lost kingdoms of righteousness instead I see a woman in a blue parka crying on the street today without hope from despair I am not a poet for there is nothing I can say in smart turns to deflect oncoming blows of every day's inexistence that creeps into the contemporary horizon I am not a poet but a witness to bear the empty space that becomes hearts if left to loiter or linger without a life to share I've seen sorrow on joy street and heard the blur of the hurdy-gurdy and I too know what evening means but this is not real—poetry is and from this have I partaken as my eyes grow into the evolved dark