WE are poets

Have you seen my typewriter?
I PARKED IT IN THE GRASS, with a view of the daffodils.

(We are poets, you see),
We were golfing.

It was April.
There was fog, we wore fur, which is forgiveable, I figure,
because of poetic license (and the confusion we dwell in).

We wear second-hand minks.

I am a poet.
I am guilty.
Guilty of grocery lists lost before I got to the store.
Guilty of things unfinished.

We think we go to the store to fill our stomachs.
Really we are going to fill other things.
I see plastic baskets and broccoli.
I see poetry in ice cream.

We don’t worry about things like stalkers and rent,
We poets worry about words,
Words are never good enough.
I worry sometimes that crazy is close at hand.

Mark is a Doctor.
Mark tells stories about patients who think they are chased by giant slugs.
KICK IT! KICK IT! they beg him.
IT’S RIGHT THERE BY YOUR LEG!
He probably shouldn’t tell us the stories.


Poets are dreaming drunks who stare in the street.
Poets are absurd critics who smoke in bed...
Poets spend lots of time in bed.
Poets look at their belly and think it is their brain.