Famous

As occupational hazards go
this one isn’t bad,
still it’s galling that
only doing poems
doesn’t make you a poet,
that living is riddled with tasks
you didn’t request.

Early writers string the bow expecting scenes
with women by singular means,
lunch with critics and publishers,
ad-hoc clubs in their honor, the fan letters,
free bottles, and laurel
piling up in the study corners,
a life of nights and days
beyond the reach of dishes
where you’ve got a hero’s spine
and the stars are kin, or psychiatrists.

It’s true you get some of this,
mainly (rejection) letters (or bills)
by day and dishes at night,
plus many times
(most of the days and nights)
when you can’t string a line,
not even a borrowed one—

once you get past twenty
your nights and days
remain free in the worst way
if you thought poems alone would be plenty.

You need prose bones
because this task, the one you chose,
matters when it doesn’t happen alone:
poets do unpoetic shit all day,
they buy Crest and shoelaces,
pick insurance, see their dentists,
watch football, consult the bus lines,
get spooked by the undefined
and go to bed and wake up again like other people,

and nothing routine or required
is ancillary.  Deny this
and you risk tiring early,
a half-poet.  Philistines
refuse to balance their books,
and those who don’t look
closely into art believe it can erase
life’s vital dullness, abolish pain,
the rear brain, and wage labor,
taking it for the main course
instead of what it is: a flavor.

As occupational hazards go

this one isn’t bad,

still it’s galling that

only doing poems

doesn’t make you a poet,

that living is riddled with tasks

you didn’t request.

Early writers string the bow expecting scenes

with women by singular means,

lunch with critics and publishers,

ad-hoc clubs in their honor, the fan letters,

free bottles, and laurel

piling up in the study corners,

a life of nights and days

beyond the reach of dishes

where you’ve got a hero’s spine

and the stars are kin, or psychiatrists.

It’s true you get some of this,

mainly (rejection) letters (or bills)

by day and dishes at night,

plus many times

(most of the days and nights)

when you can’t string a line,

not even a borrowed one—

once you get past twenty

your nights and days

remain free in the worst way

if you thought poems alone would be plenty.

You need prose bones

because this task, the one you chose,

matters when it doesn’t happen alone:

poets do unpoetic shit all day,

they buy Crest and shoelaces,

pick insurance, see their dentists,

watch football, consult the bus lines,

get spooked by the undefined

and go to bed and wake up again like other people,

and nothing routine or required

is ancillary.  Those who deny

this will write lies and flag early

as half-poets.  Philistines

refuse to balance their books,

and those who don’t look

closely into art believe it can erase

life’s vital dullness, abolish pain,

the rear brain, and wage labor,

taking it for the main course

instead of what it is: a flavor.

Yesterday’s Love Poet

Tenured at my humid desk
I know I shouldn’t risk
wanting you, but I do.  Your
life is a knock at the door
of the house I live alone in.
Today is busy, bare, and thin,
a gravel wind pulling the palms
apart around the office park―
I wish I were calm
in your purchase, in the dark
bin of your hair and skin
where I don’t know where to begin.

Tenured at my humid desk

I know I shouldn’t risk

wanting you, but I do. Your

life is a knock at the door

of the house I live alone in.

Today is busy, bare, and thin,

a gravel wind pulling the palms

apart around the office park—

I wish I were calm

in your purchase, in the dark

bin of your hair and skin

where I don’t know where to begin.

Guy Says to his Backpack (Song)

I’m fine with it, bunny,
If hot stays the summer―
Strung by the muggies,
Slung in a vine,
Stung by armed beetles
And sloshed before five
Summer’s a grifter
Who drank out the wine―
But cold is these colors
That can’t ever rhyme―
Not even a lime
Makes them go better.
So I’m fine with it, bunny,
This weather.

two guest posts from Joaquin Phoenix

Jerk Metaphysical

Hungry, so I’ll till my hunger
Til my belly is packed with lettuce
And cruisers and qualms.  Girls going over
The rust bay by that bridge
To bookstores, give us a lisp,
Hint as to why
It’s perfect living
With sight on two fists,
Then you can go then,
The weather will have its cry.

Limerick, Baby Baby

Horny poet in too-short sleeves
With a bag of chips & a John Deere weave’s
Been out so long
Now–listen–he sings
Like a sieve.

(2009)

Wall of Sound

You gotta buy the Muse (goes this joke)
A drink to get her going, like any woman.
We snort, my friend puts down her wine
Going to the jukebox.
Bottoms up—booze suggests a golden rule
But music moves the savage beast
Who pines for apposite finales,
Threnodies that never come—you
Will likely expire in random ambient noise
Or half-awake while someone else’s song plays,
But never in that rare space, silence.  It’s cool
Though, the wall of sound threshing down
The walls disappoints everyone, everyone
Leaves the world with a busted radio on,
Dreaming by ear, almost together, almost calm.

(2006)