the voice of the poet on the other side of the poem
feel like i'm almost there.
come a time a poem isn't a weed
fighting for glances from the sun
(readership: you for instance)
& no seeding shivers like wheat
no bristling orgasmic release
in breeze-laden afternoon
rolls eyes from here to eternity.
being a poet in amerika
is a curse -- let nobody fool you.
i just want left alone.
baby poets have suicide'd
for their art.
how very silly.
plath -- berryman --
list as long
as my cosmic
maybe a poem
is a record
dust, to be
print page 85
ISSN: 1044-7490 (c) June, 2000
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