(no subject)
So a poet friend of mine tells me to write a poem.
I tell him I don’t know how to write a poem.
This poet friend of mind supposes that
I am one of those kinds of people
With my hands open on my knees all the time,
Thinking of where to drink or how to make
My hair or the way I stand make me look like
I fuck a lot, that I am the kind of person
Who visits my mother every Sunday to
Ask after her church group and give her money,
And to lecture her on why charity doesn’t
Work in a world like this. This poet
Friend of mine tells me I am a classic case
Of lonely, some wrinkled edge smoothed out
By a clock-in, clock-out system, that
I would have more thoughts if I did more thinking,
And somehow we get to talking about writing.
(Or, talking about talking about writing,
If you count all the time we waste validating
The time allotted by how many books we
Haven’t read yet, and what his wife likes to
Read when she isn’t using her frequent
Flyer miles.)
I tell this poet friend of mine that my first
Girlfriend was a poet, and liked to write
About dusty streets and sometimes these
Impressionistic imageries of dead squirrels
And anything else that could make her feel good -
Except for Love. She never wrote about that.
This poet friend of mine juts his jaw.
This poet friend of mine tells me that my mind
Is clouded with junk, and that in order to do
Some thinking, I need eight ounces of green
And enough time on my hands. But I’ve got work
Tomorrow and I’m already on probation
For coming in reeling and for not having a father.
Poetry is for birds and that one time in high
School you could’ve, but didn’t, because
You were scared.
I tell him I don’t know how to write a poem.
This poet friend of mind supposes that
I am one of those kinds of people
With my hands open on my knees all the time,
Thinking of where to drink or how to make
My hair or the way I stand make me look like
I fuck a lot, that I am the kind of person
Who visits my mother every Sunday to
Ask after her church group and give her money,
And to lecture her on why charity doesn’t
Work in a world like this. This poet
Friend of mine tells me I am a classic case
Of lonely, some wrinkled edge smoothed out
By a clock-in, clock-out system, that
I would have more thoughts if I did more thinking,
And somehow we get to talking about writing.
(Or, talking about talking about writing,
If you count all the time we waste validating
The time allotted by how many books we
Haven’t read yet, and what his wife likes to
Read when she isn’t using her frequent
Flyer miles.)
I tell this poet friend of mine that my first
Girlfriend was a poet, and liked to write
About dusty streets and sometimes these
Impressionistic imageries of dead squirrels
And anything else that could make her feel good -
Except for Love. She never wrote about that.
This poet friend of mine juts his jaw.
This poet friend of mine tells me that my mind
Is clouded with junk, and that in order to do
Some thinking, I need eight ounces of green
And enough time on my hands. But I’ve got work
Tomorrow and I’m already on probation
For coming in reeling and for not having a father.
Poetry is for birds and that one time in high
School you could’ve, but didn’t, because
You were scared.