Tag Archives: poets

Shovel Her Stoop

Forget snowstorms
And wind chills

I want Summer
In my hemisphere
This Valentine’s

A flirty girl
With strappy shoes
And silver toe rings
To boot

Soft soles
At the foot
Of a warm bed
To soothe

A see-through
Sundress
To remove

Before I shovel
Her stoop

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In Session

There’s no harm
Looking at her
Boots in session

But my
Cognitive
Behavioral
Therapist

Reserves the right
To charge me extra
For staring

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Inter-coarse

If you write
about doing it
all the time,
you’re probably
not doing it
right now.

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Language Games

Poetry is
everywhere
today except
in Poetry

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Just A Poet

Who I am is who I was made to be, and that’s OK.

I am starting this sentence with “I” because I write a lot about “I.” Perhaps it’s self-indulgent or maybe pathological. I don’t know. I’m just a poet.

Who I am is who I was made to be, and that’s OK.

A double reading here: (1) the fact that I am who I was made to be is OK; (2) I am who I was made to be, and I was made to be OK.

Let’s assume both are true. Still, how shall we define “OK”?

Who I am is who I was made to be, and that’s OK.

Does OK = average? Am I average? Perhaps. Compared to whom? Is average a bad thing? Am I an average guy? An average poet?

Who I am is who I was made to be, and that’s OK.

“OK,” in a broader sense, means something like: “There’s nothing wrong with me.” But here we’re saying what I am not, which is fine, but—compared to what I am—there are many things I am not.

Who I am is who I was made to be, and that’s OK. A teacher suggested I commit this line to memory. I did but I didn’t believe it. Perhaps she knew.

Who I am is who I was made to be, and that’s OK.

A step further: If I was made to be who I am, then who made me?

We’re getting into God territory here and we must tread lightly.

“Lightly.” God is called “almighty,” and this is fine, but right now I want to write: “God is lightly.” God exists lightly. The world—even gravity—exists lightly.

What the world is, is what the world was made to be, and that’s OK.

A step further: Who God is, is who God was made to be, and that’s OK.

But, we’re told, nothing made God, so how does God, without a creator, know God?

Perhaps through my suffering. Perhaps through my hope.

Does God need me to know God?

I don’t know. I’m just a poet.

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Breakup Song (Remix)

Tell me everything is alright.
Tell me everything is all right.
Tell me everything is alt-right.
Tell me I don’t look fat in these jeans.
Tell me I’m the one that got away.

Tell me I was your thirst.
Tell me this world wasn’t meant for one as beautiful as me.
Tell me you think of me when you hum.
Tell me my hands are bigger than the president’s.
Tell me I donate enough to hurricane relief funds.

Tell me you bought my book and the shipping was free.
Tell me I’m a white boy from the suburbs what do I know about “suffering.”
Tell me everything will be OK.
Tell me everything will be okay.
Tell me size more or less matters.

Tell me God is binge-watching us.
Tell me you never faked the news.
Tell me I’m more than a hound dog.
Tell me my poem is lovelier than a tree.
Tell me no man is a peninsula.

Tell me the meaning of strife.
Tell me everybody dies in the end.
Tell me there’s someone for everyone to disappoint.
Tell me it’s “lie down” not “lay down.”
Tell me nice guys let the girl finish first.

Tell me what will be will be no more.
Tell me if I liked it then I should’ve put a finger on it.
Tell me he doesn’t taste the same as me.
Tell me your name.
Again.

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Breakup Song

Tell me everything is alright.
Tell me everything is all right.
Tell me everything is alt right.
Tell me I don’t look fat in these jeans.
Tell me I’m the one that got away.
Tell me this world wasn’t meant for one as beautiful as me.
Tell me I’m on your mind when you come.
Tell me my hands are bigger than the president’s.
Tell me I donate enough to hurricane relief funds.
Tell me you bought my book and the shipping was free.
Tell me I’m a white boy from the suburbs what do I know about “suffering.”
Tell me everything will be O.K.
Tell me everything will be OK.
Tell me everything will be okay.
Tell me I’m more than a hound dog.
Tell me my poem is lovelier than a tree.
Tell me you think of me when you come.
Tell me everybody dies in the end.
Tell me I’m not alone in this world.
Tell me I’ve no longer got you babe.
Tell me what will be will be no more.
Tell me I’m no longer allergic to milk.
Tell me he doesn’t taste the same as me.

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Filed under Poetry