Poetry

it's a small, good feeling

every now and again

when i re-discover

i genuinely like poetry

i know there is no

bad poetry

because i've seen

the unloveable poets

at their lawn chair microphones

dripping beautiful, alien

poetry from wounds

that don't make sense

but i start to think

poets only

enjoy themselves

like the refractive company

that actors make

needing one another

just to make a play

or else they only like themselves and arthur rimbaud

which is understandable

or actually

just themselves, rimbaud, bukowski and leaves of grass

and brautigan,

if they've read him

... brautigan and o'hara...

and kennneth k oh, and certain ginsbergs...

and estrada...

...and patchen...

plath and silverstein...

...and the authors of almost all

of the reasonably short poems

it's a small, good feeling

and i can always use a good feeling

today i can use one because

someone stole my bike

Home Now With My Cat

Home


the enormous
intersection
crossing
valencia
at 15th street

Now


riding the express
101 bus
from cotati to san francisco
opposite indian girl
and possessed by

the wanderer's boner


With


a suntan
at black night time

duffle bag next to my bed

and work in the morning

it is silent here

pure as the white walls,

stucco

roommates sleeping,


My Cat 


and i look out our window

the BART train
seems to howl
through the
brooklyn / queens borderland
or is it just the cave
of my ear canal?
setting the alarm

Exiting a Wendy’s

i was suddenly and unexpectedly
confronted with
the empire state building

directly across

the street

what else could have snuck up so profoundly?

 -shit! (love? death?)