I am stretched out my bed
as the fan whirls furiously above me
and the TV people dance
their dance on mute
and the music pours out
of my speakers

this book of poems
is very good

it’s got Bukowski and Ginsberg,
who I already know,
and people with names like
“Jack Grape” and
“Sharon Olds”

(though I have not gotten
to their poems yet)

it's a book all about
the poets who dared
to not be
“poets”

the ones who wrote
about *******
in simple terms
and
wrote about their fights
with their landlords
and their ex-girlfriends

they wrote of drinking
and of hang-overs

of jobs they did not like
and dreams they would never fufill

they described love
as it was
and
not as it should
be

this  is the sort of poetry I write,
or at least, I attempt to write
and laid out on my twin bed
I felt very much one of them

inspired only by the improbability
of my existence

I am
flotsam drifting with the currents,
experiencing each wave
and smiling at the chance
to bask in the sunshine