Just Them

Among fields and skies and parkways

I trace my dreams into dirt

onto walls

across my forehead.

I swallow pens

and chew paper

screaming at sunsets

petting lonely fires.

I squeeze my work until

it hardens to coal

seething for spark

lusting for ember.

Yet the clouds are heavy

with rain and thunder

so this wick is made wet

to hide from the flames.

But how fortunate,

among all this chaos

and turbulence

and fury

I was baptized:

by 100 famous poets,

moving my hair

kissing my forehead

by 100,000 nameless writers

straightening my tie

dusting off my shoulders.

Only for them.

JUST for them.

I will go on with this.

The Bookstore

Bukowski had his bar stool

the last seat at the end,

Shakespeare had his room

in the back of the theatre,

Thoreau had his cozy pond estate

among rural Boston trees,

this egregious little amateur has his table

in the corner of a book store.

It has everything I could ever need:

bitter and sweet coffee,

the company of every great soul

to ever slow dance with a pen,

the graceful movements of strangers

with endless mysteries I’ll never know,

some woman in a red sweater

that I can fall in love with

while she flips through used poetry.

This is my castle,

my muse,

my blank canvas.

If I could instantly travel

through any breath of time,

any scene of space,

anywhere in the whole of existence:

I’d go

maybe half a foot to the left

for just a little more leg room.