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

have you ever even
considered
the
perfection
of the human
skull?

he said to me,
pacing the room
and punctuating each
sentence with his
arms

how many millions
of lives it must of taken
to form the perfect
curve that slopes back
so that rain water
falls easily off
and yet
the well-trained
can balance ten books
for over ten minutes?

have you ever even
thought about
how much
that simple *****
changes from the time
you are born?

he stared at me,
frenzied anger burning
in his eyes

(I was as unsure why
and as he was, I’m sure)

how can you sit there
and call yourself smart
when you have never ever
considered such simple
matters?

intelligence is wasted
on the ambitious

he spat out

they never stop to consider
just how much we’ve already
accomplished

I am driving

from the city
into the city

something is approaching

a hunk of tire
a phone call

too late, impact

I drive slowly, listening
I put down the phone, listening

then it hits me

I look over at him
I look over her

they can’t face me

out of anger
out of shame

I pull off

an unfamiliar place
an unfamiliar place

we are assessing the damages

the bumper is ******
everything is ******

I am waiting

in a gas station
by a restaurant

how bad?

it’ll be okay, he says
it’ll be okay, I say

we start down the road again

scraping
crying

pull off again

we rip off a metal binding
we tear apart our binding

driving, again, in silence

a low buzzing now
a steady sob

I’m sorry

I know, he says
I know, I say

the ride is long

ten hours
the last hours

it’ll be okay

he says
I lie

you can
turn your back
on poetry
but
she will never
turn her back
on you

you cannot hurt her,
she is long beyond
that

no matter how long
you wait

she will welcome you back,
hugging you against her breast,
reminding you there is still
goodness in this world

so stray,
if you must,
go beat the bushes,
try to find a new way to
settle your restless
spirit

but you will not
and you will return
and that first poem
will be as sweet as grape juice
and as intoxicating as wine
and you will wonder how
the two of you ever
found yourself apart

the cracks are showing
the water is trickling out of the dam
how long do you have?
how long does anyone have?
the flood will come
soon enough

there are three
Mexican painters sharing
Chinese take-out
on the back of a Ford truck
as another day comes
to a close
and the city
quietly wakes up
for the
night

listen now
to the thunder striking
the tree that will
fall over
onto
the power lines
that will light the house
on fire

and
listen now
for the emergency vehicles
screaming through the rain
to save the burning house
and fix the broken lines

listen now
to the hopeless,
endless,
struggle of
humanity  
and smile
with
excitement