Method

I

My bed is a mess, of the highest regards
I’ve gotten out the tools of my trade
and spread them out, over the blankets
My music— stereo and CD’s
My dictionary— I can’t be that cad, now can I?
There is an anthology
There is criticism
There is a book called Latin Made Simple
Really? I’ve gone and fooled myself again,
haven’t I?
Stein and Kerouac have also joined me
sitting patiently, waiting for some say so
There is a phone, but I’m not expecting calls
or news
And we all know what is said about no news

II

This mess, with these tools
makes me work at a chaotic but steady pace
I am only distracted by clipping my toenails
and past memories
I am using all of these tools to become
a low brow speculator
who lives in a timeless world
I’ve changed three CD’s— Ravi Shankar
for Jack Johnson for Aqualung
The tall and solid walls of Jericho
are going to fall— hard.
Just as soon as these tools assimilate
and work properly

III

I am the poet. I am the freak
I am the one who sees what others have forgotten
how to see. It makes me feel better
not to be known as the freak
I am ready to fall in love, yet again
or go mad. Gertrude, who looks mildly interested,
agrees.
In this mess, I want the ability to find my things
I’d like to find my things
I need all of my things. With these tools,
I am a tongue-tied child who makes demands
and makes everything slightly more interesting
I make your bones ache less
I make your mind less congested
I make your walls fall— hard.