Talking Points

she says
“you journal too much
& don’t write very
many poems”

and I
think she
is right

she says
“you hardly work
any more, you sleep in
really late…”

I think there is a quiet
truth to this

and it burns how it
has to burn

I tell her “you should
get up early with me then
we can see
the sunrise a buncha times
before we all die”

she agrees

but it’s one thing
saying it
another thing doing it

she tells me that I am lovable

I think I’m starting
to feel deserving again
of someone’s
steady love

good feelings go around
we are afraid
of our own feelings
and some of us
are okay with
going mad

I am resigned to the idea
that
each book

may be
half alive

half/alive

you’d think accumulating dust
is a sign of death…
but the shelf
bursts with joy
each time
we’re not looking

“call toll free…” says the catalogue
“anytime
anytime you damn well please, ya got my number now…
use it!”

which is kinda desperate
you’re just a catalogue

“no no
you got me wrong”

“do I?”

I am told not to
waste my breath
arguing

with a catalogue
(for chrissakes…)

most likely
not a living organism

don’t waste your human tears
on junk mail

on mail
that is Junk

he said
WHAT ABOUT TOMORROW?

I said
“how ’bout it?”

he said he was about
to throw some
friends of mine

on the grill

I said
“no no no no”

“some you may remember
shot down out of the sky
some who are on a list—
but they don’t have feelings anyway”

“I have enough
to go around for every body…
for those who don’t”

“doesn’t matter”

“I know
that’s what you say
I just don’t believe it”

got back to
thinking about
writing more poems, anyway

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