everything i can think of to say comes in poems, that happens to me sometimes, i'm not saying they are good poems, but there they are---
the grass out back is burnt
turning it's rosy wheats to the sky
like the bottoms of my daughter's feet
the kittens three
pounce through the toes of sprout
chewing silently on a brother's tail
the birds are chorusing
so loudly today, the sky is pale faced
and bald, my spirit could be soothed
but i am too fragile
my nerves rock in clumsy rows
like boats left out in storm
i am eager for life
and also hiding in the closet
' very well, i contradict myself '
don't like poems that say ' i '
so much as this
the same journals,
probably, that would
have thought Walt's poems were subversive
and not in a good way.
are you sleeping, brother john?
everything is metaphorical
when my mind opens all drawers
at once, i am tumbling in old clothes
stained and smelling of mold
sicked up and cleaned, to be kept
here, where you keep items you'd
like to forget, but refuse to be forgotten.
the phrase WORD VOMIT comes to mind.
the bird cleans itself
hard knocks into the plume.
he shakes his red
head, the cat swings her eye.
he nods to her, hello
what a very polite fellow.