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...
Jul 4, 2020
Jul 4, 2020 at 2:02 PM UTC
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...
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