some of my poems
are written for
other people
but
mostly my work is
written for
tony brown
age 19,

who owned more knives than underwear
and wore them more frequently too.
who smoked dope in public
and butts on the sly.
who thought love was the permit
sex was the license
poetry was the ride of his life
and she was the road he could drive on.

i write for him
because i know i cannot stop him
from getting behind the unsafe wheel.

what do i want to say? i say:

i do not like you much.
you’re too sure of yourself
to ever be a real artist
but i know i can’t stop you from trying and
in the effort
you’ll make a splendid wreck
of a man someday
i hope
(i’m still waiting to see).

the love thing won’t get easier
and you’ll get bored with sex your way
so let yourself listen across the pillow
and you’ll learn something about both.

i have nothing to tell you about the knives except
that they will not save you
but salvation’s overrated
so keep them near to hand and sharp
and carry more than one at all times
so your confusion under pressure can be
as complex as possible.

as for poetry:

things will happen.
you’ll write about them. sometimes you’ll lie, sometimes
you’ll tell the truth. people will hate it, love it,
and kiss your ass either way.
pay no attention. for example,
i do not like you much
but i think some of your poems are ok.
neither fact should stop you from writing.

i write mine for you now
because i fear you, because
i can’t look you in the eye
and tell you the truth:
some of the poems were ok
but you were scrawny and stupid and cruel and painful
while you trying to make them better.
you made the poet at the expense of the man.
it is why she left.
it’s why you were alone for so long.
it’s why you kept writing.
it’s why you keep writing.
it’s why you’re still looking for the right road.

i will not bother to ask if you understand.