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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
dick
figuring i
am god.

i'm the
one alive
here you
weird
oh

maybe a poem
is a record
of life
of the
spirit

maybe
it's fine
to be
space
dust, to be

embraced
by
telescope'd
searching
eyes

jesus
where'd
this
poem
go



Impetus 25
ISSN: 1044-7490 (c) June, 2000
All rights remain with their creators

Web version designed and edited by by Haze @ UrbanDecay.Org
Print version edited by Cheryl Townsend at Implosion Press
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