—I’M NOT THE FIRST ONE WITH WOOL OVER MY EYES

 

These F**king Poems, Man

 

Another poem likes me

better dead, better embalmed or

keenly scalpel-ed, indecipherable,

drowning in lurid words of Spanish wine, 

while only the author or executioner

knows what’s just, and what’s not.

it’s funny or not 

to be tossed in the air

by a cyclone that doesn’t

know your compass or 

half your genome sequence,

limbs akimbo, then torn apart like 

a heart that wants too much.

And still, another poem wants me 

recused because poetry either

heals or crushes the writer underfoot, 

no warranty attached, no questions asked.

Like every poem I’ve ever written,

this one thinks I’m more popular than I am, 

that I know the answer to so many things I don’t,

that I have stories to tell which are

different from yours, though you and I

both know the half of it, don’t we?