and they lined up two by two
1. spine so thin
I was sure you had stopped me
with your final pixels;
sure you had made me barren
of all poetry
found a way to fill my mouth with clay
before a single syllable
could be forced into some semblance of shape
how quickly four years became a hundred aborted poems
perished all by shark attack
in shallow waters
my spine so thin
and how I wondered and doubt grew fat
and happy beside me,
a hog left to rut as it pleased
soiling every fucking page
eyes bulging
in rancid euphoria
and god damn, it seems the biggest fool
is the one I let myself become
I
stopped
until today, I guess
this is tomorrow just a little bit early
and it’s another opportunity
isn’t it, to go from breakdown
to autobahn?
2. softest blue
yet still when I type and there’s old Capote leaning over me
snickering
that’s not writing
and if I take a second
I have to suspect there’s another spectre at the faucet,
someone else wrenching it closed
stopping
whatever it was that let me care back then
gutting
every inclination to spread some ink now
confidence from a confidence-man leads to doubt
I cannot work it out:
how to say it with words
when words no longer trust me
so let me just say it
(with no elegance at all)
I do not understand how it happened
but so much of my confidence seemed tied to your approval
and now that you’ve played your sleight of hand
how do I believe your kind words
how do I reconcile your generosity of spirit
with the darkness you cast
across a hundred other poets, more, I don’t know
and it’s pathetic, isn’t it? that I cannot find confidence
to take a stand
over my work or yours
when so much of my day is trying to banish doubt for others
and so now I wonder
over and over
if the first swallow of the season
will hear my cry
and lend me wings of the softest blue
