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.

Portrait: My Devil

"Sometimes, how something is done
makes up for what is done."
And sometimes that works in the
reverse. Should there ever be a
need for my assistance, I want you
to know that I'll be there, but my
terms will be laid out in full, just
as I expect to be paid: In full.

Sometimes there is something that
must be done and sometimes it
doesn't matter how it gets done.
Should you ever need me to be
the doer of that something,
I'll do it, just don't concern your-
self with the minor details of
how it was done.

Nothing to say, now

I didn't have anything to write about
because there was nothing worth
writing.
I could have written anything, but
you know that's not my style.
At least on appearances only, I've
got you believing that there's
method mixed with my madness.
I could have have written about
my madness. It would have been
honorable to tell you about it.
But that's not how I work,
I didn't have anything to write about
which is fine, because you can't keep
this creation shit turned on all day.
You'll run down the batteries and
won't be able to use it in emergencies.
You want to be able to get it up, later,
don't you?
Besides, bullshit, that's not my style.

Sidewalk

I'm eating cheesecake
I'm washing it down with Earl Grey
I'm listening to Duran Duran
I'm easily waiting to grow up
And in my leisure time
I'm taking timed sophisticated sips
I'm forking down dainty fork-fuls of cake
I'm hitting the bridge with timed precision
Take me home British Pop Sensations
I'm going to gorge myself with time
I'm going to get a stomach ache
I'm going to regress to my former self.
Take off my sunglasses when I wake up.

Idle Chatter

I've told a thousand stories, one more mundane than the last. I'm getting responses, mostly laughs, all at my expense. It's expensive and it predictable, but I keep telling them. If I didn't, then I'd have to write them. If I write them, there's a chance that no one will read them. I don't want to tell you about the way oil slicked water runs down a storm sewer. I don't need to tell you that the geese in my front yard are freeloaders looking for scraps of bread. You didn't ask, I know you didn't, but it's my job to tell you anyway. You dig? If I didn't tell you, I might have to write it down and then you'd really miss out. Did I ever tell you about the time I fell down an oil slicked water fall, down a storm sewer and onto the back of a subterranean goose who asked about the pieces of rye toast sticking out of my pocket?

This is Why You Don’t Workshop with Ernest Hemingway.

He keeps bitching ‘bout my atrocious alliteration
Fuck you, I tell him and then I show
Him my cajones. He’s not impressed.
He says my rhyme and meter are mediocre
That I have no sense of adventure
Or heart. He calls me “girlie” and says something
Else equally sexist. I light a cigar for him
And ask him what to do about my last stanza.
“What would you do?” I ask him and then
Kiss his bearded cheek.

He’s a sucker for a feeble “girlie.”
He says to blow it all to hell and
Stop before it all gets to be too much.
With a flask of Jack in his Dungarees
And a shotgun in hand, he made it sound
Like I had nothing to work with.
Wildly weak with lacking alliteration,
My own flask of Jack was nearly
Empty before I called it quits.
Only then did he cut me some slack.
And I, being the affable girlie I am,
Took it whole-heartedly.

Paperbacked

I want a classic story. I want it
Old and outdated. I want it
Mildly sexist. There must be
A girl, not a woman. She has to be
Young and pretty---big tits. There must be
Drama and duress. I’m going to want
Quicksand and pit vipers. I want a
A man, not a boy. He has to be
Tall and brunette w/dimples. He should be
Witty and uncivilized. He’s got to be
Obnoxious and thoroughly fuckable. I want
Tension that’s humid. I want some
Near death experiences. I need some
Danger and mosquitoes. Give me a
Friendly token native. There will be
Virgin sacrifices on alters. Therefore
Vine swinging should be used. Give me
Machismo. I want
Helplessness. I need
Predictability. I could use
Tragedy. I would like
Rebirth. I should have
Romance.