Poetry: Wrong Direction - 2001


My poetry is moving in the wrong direction,

and even though it means being less than the myth

I'm not writing as well anymore.

I'm ruined, a landscape crumbling

left defenseless

in a dismal space

by you wise ones

you stupid bums

every scar you give

gives me reason to dig through the rubble

and find what hatred creates is gentle and great

to the rat at the center of the universe.

In the middle of an empty rooftop parking lot

I smoke a cigarette, as light from the helicopter

overhead descends. Below in the crevasse

a black man cashed in on the value

of liquor in a brown paper bag and chatted it up

with a corner trash can.