stars burn effortlessly
while poets scrabble
plucking words like agates
from the mind’s pebbled shore

they have in common
the pleasure of those who bask
in simple outputs
of mysterious affairs

all we have in common
are kindred thoughts
sifted from every scrap we’ve read
as we seek ideas to explain us

adopt them, call them our own, tell others;
we're ripe and designed to spread
through an inky vector
or letters, anyway  

if you do it well enough you get a piece of paper that says
you’re qualified
but one can partake au naturel
and still have a good time

this is my compliment to you:
i'll show you the worst of me
and you’ll feel perfect
in comparison

if i were a better friend, i’d practice
become a learned artist
to sing the best of you
barring that, i could cheat

you want to be a pebble,
i know the way
come down here
and i'll feed you something from my garden

it will probably make you sick
you'll use words like rustic or pastoral
when you mean shabby and feral
woozy from the earthiness of it all

you’ll be charmed into mistaking seduction
for enlightenment
a tragic folly
like warming oneself with spent nuclear fuel

but enough about my dissipation
let us laugh instead
a wink between old friends
that is nothing and everything

for this is my compliment to you:
remember you are devastating
even when an echo
is the only applause you hear