don’t be jealous  (for a poet, for all poets)

~with gratitude, this one for Verlie Burroughs, verily, whosoever she may be~

the poem titles arrive in banana bunches,
grape clusters asking to be mouthed, tasted,
break their skin, juices dribbling on taste buds,
sometimes the title +  poem fully formed,
arrive on the same plane, that’s a first class
ticket to a poetry symposium somewhere near
the se(a)e.

like a fresh pack of cellophane encased cigarettes,
poems just begging ‘smoke me, **** me, broke me yoke,
the one that enchains, my soul-me,”

the nurse
pronounces a new born weighing 7lbs., 6 ounces,
pouncing, bouncing; first cries a-writing, the title
in the fluid, on the floor, don’t slip, the heavy poundage
and the body a first poem, a flighty aerie of a few ounces
that floats groundward like flavored colored leaves
in the fall, a bird’s feathers summer molting, swapping
old notions for new poem~potions, tips and sips of
Whitman, after Billy. Collins, **** the spillage and...

don’t be jealous, it’s a curse, when they silent labor
breach birth, even pre-named, falling from brain to
mouth, mouth to fingertips, Ipad to ethernet cable,
through brick walls they fly,
cause you can’t hold them and,
type them down fast enough...