bitching about stars and sewing
circles, poets who don’t know
what is “real” material
unused or little more
when he, himself contributes to the cause
for no longer writing about
prostitutes, concrete, and fuck shit dirty holes
his work part of the foundation
for an amalgamation of hip jive talkers
too tough to sew so sewing another scene
out of patches of Hollywood and west coast
cities that thrive on cock-
roach sex and
junky love. Wino sculpture and convict philosophy
shit. what’s left after the ugly and
beautiful have been stolen up and
wrapped in the hot cake of poetry
and shoveled down the dim throat
of the poet aficionados groping in the smoke
as pigs in a blanket in a greasy spoon
open all night and Sunday mornings’ best.
what’s left? anything
on the right? anything
that will allow a move forward
to the next question
concerned with form
and living
and how one actually gets by
when all they are
is a poet who happened
to use the word
stars
and mean the inexplicable
dream of life kept
bottled up inside
the skin, no more than
a flexible urn in motion,
and breath
the gust of a moth’s wings
escaping the mouth.

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