My Greatest Fear

My memory is leaving me---or
I just don't respect it enough.
I've written things in haste while listening
to angry chick music, listening to Joni
Mitchell, listening to Al Green, listening
to that springy child prodigy show off,
Mozart.
I don't remember what I wrote.
And then I write it again the exact
same way.
Pound would say that's just bad writing.
That I've only got one good poem in me
and I'm writing it over and over in
mediocre ways.
I know the words, I've written them before.
I laugh the same way when I wrote
them down the first time.
My memory is in cahoots with my
sanity and they are laughing at my
madness. They shake their heads
as Joni and I search and grasp for
that one good poem.

Simple Man's Music

Drip-drip.
Pitter-patter.
Ping-ping.
That's the only thing I see and hear.
It's distracting as all get up, this sound
of simplicity. This is the kind of music
a simple man
revels in.

"I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down"

---Johnny Cash


These will last forever
and in the world of flowers
that means
one week. Great.
One more emotionally
and socially and atrociously
misfitted man to avoid.

"Cross Road Blues"

Just like Robert Johnson
I wanted to sell my soul to
The devil to return to you.
Well--- not just like Johnson.
I thought if I stood at
Main and Oak and played
The blues, it would lure
The devil and I’d return to
You. Just like Robert Johnson
I waited. Cars passed by and
Some honked. “Take your
Blues somewhere else!” no
One is appreciative of my
Corner quest. Did Johnson
Have to put up with this?
No one, least of all, the
Devil came to return me to
You. I was not asked for my
Soul, though I would have
Given it. If it would return
Me to you.