Dear Whoever You're Really
Like
(Not That You Aren't Yourself Of
Course),

Do you ever worry that
what if someone thinks
you only got where
you've got (so far)
because
of the timing chances
made in starlight making
easier orbits to you like a
tilted pinball and then call it
cheating.....   .............
............as if....they
..never shook. ........
.............. ..well,
I would and I'm not
even middle upper class,
I mean I wasn't brought up
like that tell me did you want-
did you ever meet those
vaunted tabloid energy
keepers and wasters
is that why you were
self-styled
like that when
you started and
did you ever
see the film
Strawberries
with Ingrid
because I
think you
might
like
it
and i
want to
say thank
you for liking
Mr. O'Hara. i bought
one of his poem collections
with my little tip money from
Sunday in the markets selling good
produce. Bought it in a bookstore with
The owner a nice old lady bearing years;
knitted prints on her black bordered tartan;
Your passion made me think to tell
her i liked that faded **** on her
really i did
she called
me dearie
anyways
Frankie
///////////////////////////////////////////////////////
the guy could've been a pal but I don't know if my framed support kept chance.
Would it have been able to burn brightly or varied enough for as long as he did?
Maybe that's a good thing a good thing indeed not knowing. Are you wanting to do
that? Not "not knowing" but to give beams like raising barns. Final query but its rhetorical.
After all:
                      What does the world ask of stars but to shine a little night?

Sincerely,
Whoever I Am

imagining myself
getting to plink out the rough edges
of what sarah said on a real piano (moved twice i hear)
even if un-tuned that's how
much i'd like to see you
while you lazily sip whatever
drink of choice your birthday wish grants and
critique the too on-the-nose portions of writing (whomever's)
and we both pretend we've got a tightly knit extended family.

the miniature icicles melting aimless on your
porch that have managed
to escape the angling sun
gone fishing for a chance to erase to frost
the new yorker read back and front
consumed in short time
       (I pay attention an extra bribe so to notice the poems
        herein selected whether "could have done that!", didn't,
                                                and haven't the proofs to show)

while another milestone of nothingness
slips its birthing waders on
escapes into that big pool bearing
the sun (its son) each dawn.
rebirth and death being
too good of metaphors to
tell us what we can't see at night
(light) and day
(the moon hidden away)
tell Rudy that you know how she feels and
plead like that until buttoned-up
by clink or by kiss
or by spinning plate
secretly wishing
for it

so there is a poem for you on this day
that means as little or as much
as you'll let it persuade

hey hey
my my