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
For my friend D, who is a much better poet than I.