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Brother,
I gotta tell you, your
poetry stinks so
it sure must be good —
must be the marinade
you’re using.
I’d ask for the recipe
but then I’d want to use it
myself and that’s
out — no
copying what works, that’s
what I was always told.
Make it up yourself,
that’s what I learned coming up
and I try even though
my poetry doesn’t stink half as much
as yours does.

Let me
have another bite of that.
I like how stringy it is.
I like what you’ve done with its
obvious faults. I know I said it
was the marinade but now I’m thinking
it’s gotta be the heat you cook with —
gas, grill, electric? Never mind,
it’s not important, you just do
what you do and I’ll do the same.

You tell those kids to shut up.
Just because your poetry
smells like old people and
holocausts doesn’t mean
it’s not nutritious. I mean,
liver is good for you too and
that tastes like pure doom
even when it’s done perfectly.

Gimme another slice of that
stuff you’re serving, and spoon
some of that black juice it sits in
over the top. Maybe it’s the marinade
or the way you cook it, but something
in the flavor of it
reminds me of a good rancid
spring swamp and I guess
life’s gotta start somewhere.

You’ve got a real feel for this.

Brother, Jesus,
your poem stinks, stinks all nervous
like a whore in church, like
it did something dirty when no one
was looking,
it’s gotta be good for something.