A nine-eleven call goes out at midnight,
It's serious: A writer of poems
At such and such street, has a word
Stuck in his throat.
Stuck in his craw; he can't get it out.
He can neither finish the poem or even
Make a lick of sense right now.
What to do?
The medical experts confer over the two-way:
I've seen this condition before, one says, wary,
I think I would use the jaws of life.
That takes too long, said another.
I have a carpenters saw in my bag
I keep on hand for just such occurrences.
Though rare, it does happen.
We will just remove the head, push the word
Out of the way and reattach the head.
Believe me it is much faster in the long run
Otherwise it could progress on to
Editors re-writes, poetry readings,
Deadlines, and who wants all that?
Poets really just want to write.
The others are in agreement.
Now they'll be able to get right to work
Without hesitating, which is the kiss of death
In crisis situations.
In asylums, they employ lobotomies
To the same result.
For the rest of us, there are the interminable
Religious sermons and services.

How does one begin to write a poem?
First one condenses an entire life down into just one line-
Clouds, dandelions, adoration, revenge; don't hold anything back.
The peaceful smile of death and the rancorous
Death of joy. The bubbles of happiness floating upward
The downward stinging tears of defeat.
The best, the worst, the last, the first:
Embellish that line from your life's story with
All the rarest moments of worship and awe you've ever known,
And keep writing it over and over again, saying it
Millions of different ways till it is firmly ensconced in your soul.
Don't take any magic for granted; it's too rare in this world.
Dreams and visions and nothing sugar coated:
The truth alone rules this kingdom.
Nobody reading this deserves the lie.
Don't forget the startling epiphanies
Seeping out of the souls troubles and careless wounds.
Sometimes you squeeze out every drop and still
The pickings are scarce; other times things bound and leap out-
Wild, prolific hares, carelessly raking each other in their haste.
Always capitalize on the moments you thought might be your last-
Allow the teardrops and sweat to mix freely; swirl your pen in it
And apply to all the reopened ulcers and healed over scars.
Just before you think it is enough, just when the tale
Begins to half conclude, stop there and allow your audience
Imaginations machinery to supply the last vivid details:
Leave some openings; don't sew it up too tight.
Most important of all; read all the poets now alive
Still with the breath of life in them.
They can show you the way.
And never sell yourself too cheaply.
Write only from the particular universe hidden inside;
Staying true to that one.

Let the poetry of others repose in majestic halls:
My poems are filler for paper shredders,
For packing in shipping boxes,
And backing for flypaper sticky strips;
To wipe the muddy soles of shoes
That have seen too much of springtime
In the garden.

Others poetry fills the airwaves, and sits between the covers of books;
My poetry is for grocery lists,
And sudden messages you need to scribble while on the telephone,
And maps to undiscovered geneological treasures
That are only a township away-
To trace the faces of cool tombstones
Under a mid-day sun.

You won't find my poetry near any other kind of list
That doesn't say get bleach, dog food, and toilet paper.
Still, my poetry is from a well lettered life-
I have written all my heartbeats, and most of my sighs
Into sibylline hieroglyphics, from midnight initiations
In the secret brotherhood, of my own soul:
And I will die a freeman, because nobody
Will ever feel the need to own any of these words.

The world is a catastrophe always evolving,
But somehow it must be more
Than it's life and death,
It's breathing and suffocating
In the fullness of youth or old age?

Can't it be more than beauty and ugliness,
Truth and falsehood,
Peace and war?

If you become very still
You can feel all of the people who are dying inside you
Right this minute

They each write about it as it sees them fit:
Poets and writers, pouring out words;
Keeping to parity their own souls wit.

Snatching words from thin air, as they sit,
For they each have their own distinct worlds;
They each write about it as it sees them fit.

Giving to the page their own token bit,
As the truth deep inside them slowly unfurls;
Keeping to parity their own souls wit.

Writing's something they never can quit,
Scribbling's something they to all else prefer:
They each write about it, as it sees them fit.

Life to them is never just a skit,
They would never want to go unheard;
Keeping to their own souls wit.

From piece to piece, their busy mind flits,
And their heart singing just like a bird;
They each write about it as it sees them fit,
Keeping to parity their own souls wit.

In a madman's rush, the worm gets born:
As shouting words do the fight unleash,
Moon's in eyes, and the soul gets shorn.

Why lay hands on the things that harm,
When there's brokenwinged wonder, in our speech-
In a madman's rush, the worm gets born.

The shroud is lost, unravelled and torn,
And human mercy is but a leech:
Moon's in eyes, and the soul gets shorn.

Scorpion's sting, and mankind's scorn;
It seems real justice is out of reach:
In a madman's rush, the worm gets born.

The unicorn has lost his horn;
The mermaid's dead upon the beach-
Moon's in eyes, and the soul gets shorn.

My thoughts are deep and as forlorn;
For man, by the heart of him's impeached:
In a madman's rush, the worm gets born,
Moon's in eyes, and the soul gets shorn.

The skies are cloudy with a chance of love:
With you, I'd paint all the stars above;
My hearts on fire, and there's a chance of rain-
Unless I'm wrapped by your arms again.

The skies are cloudy; but the sun peeks out,
While in my heart there can be no doubt
The weather there has been just the same,
Since I first heard you speak my name.

The skies are cloudy, but underneath
Love has taken my heart; the thief,
So now all weathers that we see as two
Will show us skies that are always blue.