Friday, May 12, 2017


I like it here, and
I'm not leaving.

Inside, I'm just so
spacious and

complex and immaculate,
a great work of art

that hasn't been realized
yet—and you know it.

You know I'm pure
and formless matter—actually

nothing, but

Face it: all that
productive thinking

never created
anything, anyway. I mean,

poetry never
baked you a cake.

Then again—a pastry chef
never built any bridges, either.

Then again—no bridge
has ever required

any man or woman
to cross it.

But never mind, it
doesn't matter. I know

you think
you know

too much—and that soon
I'll come leaking out,

the way innocuous oxygen
rushes to fill an invisible vacuum.

Bet you never thought
your head could

get so full of
other people's ideas, did you?