I age my poems
in dark musty cellar
'till they mellow and moan
begging to be brought to light

I bury them there
in oaken casks, stained purple
flavoring them full of
funky terroir

Abandoned on a shelf in
old green glass
imprisoned by cork
unlabeled

I age my poems
banished 'till rhyme ripens
in dim hopes one day
they'll tickle someone's tongue

This poem is water soluble
please try to keep it out of the rain
Best not read it in the bathroom
or while washing dishes

Be cautious with nearby beverages
and prudent with the garden hose
Surely you won't be reading poolside
or by a sweetly babbling brook

Don't even consider reading
at the beach
where dark waves menace my very existence
This poet is water soluble

Give up your muse
of mediocrity
Throw him to the wolves

Let him roast on the spit
of your whirring pen
laugh without mercy:

"You guided me to this place,
Miscreant
Now I'll show you where to go."

The ink stains your hands
You, Lady Macbeth,
but instead of washing

use it to tattoo
the truth
all over your face