Feel free to be offended. I hear
that makes for good poetry.
That and the words
Poor reader, you read
these words, enunciating each
syllable like a grade school
spelling bee. Using
your inside voice.
Poetry is a soufflé;
full of cheese and milk, never
Pause dramatically here.
I used to write on a Brother word
processor with a thesaurus, always
searching for a better word. The best
word. The way adults spoke. I wrote
stories of orphans with terrible secrets
because I had no terrible secrets.
I had a nanny
My stuffed animals had first,
middle, and last names.
Poetry is never answering
to your name. Poetry is wearing
a wedding dress to brunch.
With great expectations, we smear
tragedy on our lips and sit
at the foot of Maslow’s pyramid,
painted up like Christmas
whores. I’d rather not write today.