Bad Ones

You can’t write good til

you’ve written a lot of poems

Here are the bad ones

Some Days

I want to lay myself down,

like the simple object

of a transitive verb.

I want to have picked

myself up, only to have

laid myself down.

Both mind and body.

While the rest of me —

goes with the wind

touching the leaves.

Tethered, green,

and free.

Morning trip to the wells

I go to the wells for comfort

and by wells I mean what has always

worked- or at least craved.

Chocolate, the thought of sex,

starting therapy again, a long stretch

face downward on a mat. Putting

something in a shopping cart.

Stay abed til the last possible minute,

even if the sheets have a funk.

This time it is only the comic

I started drawing in my head,

the sketch of myself with a caption,

that opens up my ill-used body,

creaks my stiff muscles, tight chest,

free of my mind. Puts despair

into motion. Airs it out.

Read Me

Found a poem,left by a officeron the sidewalkof an unnoticeable building.Like the City’s violation checkerstuck a vivid ticketin your windshield,but for passerby.What did the poet say?We are made of carbon,all in our current formsby chance.By creation.By conspiring.

The Sound Equivalent of Seeing Stars

My–The night wind squeaks.
Or is it the air stutters?
An odd creature is formed
aurally, out of suspension
of disbelief and also noise.
Or, parts of an unseen body
displace its environment.

Next to my air-conditioned
and incandescent filters
of walls, roof, wiring.

It is later than I have
promised myself to rest.
But I keep giving myself
extensions. Could it all
be the balancing
liquids of my skull,
my inner ears? That blank
where I am one of the few
who have no mental images.
And so must strengthen
our other senses.