If I wasn't such a deadbeat, I'd learn Greek.
I wouldn't write sonnets; I'd write epics
and odes. I'd love a man who was
acceptable and conformed to every code.
I'd put together my desk and write my epic or ode
at sunset over my suburb. How I would love my shrubs!
But all I do is listen to country (and the occasional Joni)
and smoke. Judge me judge me
judge me. Oh I've been through the shallows.
I shallow. I hope. I hole. I know
I wrote you the most brutal love poem that knows.
Sometimes I try to make poetry but mostly I try to earn a living. There's something still living in every urn, I am sure of it. The ash moves around inside the vase like the magnetic filings that make the moustache of Wooly Willy. Maybe a new face counts as reincarnation. The wand says, "I'll be your ostrich, if you'll be my swan." In this life, what did I do wrong? I think my heart is a magnet too. It attracts anything that attracts joy like the summer grasses the swans track through. OMG, how in love I am with joy and with yours—how I know that adding to it would only take it further off course, off its precarious center, so for once, I won't touch it. I will stand wand-length away—let it glide stupidly on its weightless line, without me.