you call yourself a poet
which means you arrange words
into patterns for fun or
profit as do the professional
crossword puzzlers among us.  if you
call yourself a performance poet
it means that more people
than just you and your mom
like the sound of your voice when
you describe the patterns you have been arranging
for fun or profit which makes you much the same
as a crossword puzzler who goes on the radio
to speak of crosswords.  if you call yourself
a page poet you do crossword puzzles
in the privacy of your own home.  if you call
yourself a political poet you look for clues
in crossword puzzles and tell everyone
what you’ve found.  if you call yourself
a love poet you get a tingle down under
whenever you figure out 16 across.  if you
call yourself a slam poet you get a tingle
down under at the prospect of arithmetic
which makes you a sudoku puzzler.  if you
don’t call yourself a poet at all and prefer to say
just that you write poems now and then you might be
a person who when bored or thoughtful
picks up a discarded puzzle on the train
and fills in the empty blanks left by the last puzzler
while staring out the window wondering
what’s a six letter word for fish eagle
when the second letter is S and the last is Y.
you don’t figure out it is OSPREY until you’ve left
the train and the puzzle behind and you spend
the rest of the day with a photorealistic image
of an osprey in your head all though every meeting
and dull lunch break.  
see that? 
now you are just another
person obsessed with a word and its meaning
and how it might carry you through tough times
and how it fits into a pattern
and while that sounds like it might make you
at last
a poet worthy of the claim
really you will still be a casual gamer
unless and until you become
the osprey
and forgo the debate in favor of
the hunt.

Red comes first, heat
among the rods and cones.
Then black, to hide
the humanity of the Other.
Yellow’s the final hue,
the cry of the flash as it
comes home.  We’ve got
red stripes, black ops,
yellow ribbons —
why does it feel like
we’re out of order?

Blue, blue water,
drenching fire; white, the
blank peace after.  Much
of the flag remaining
unused.  What do we see
when it waves?  We’re
the big bull.  Movement
and charge. 

I sit with my hand on my eyes.
Press hard on the sockets, bring up
red, call up black;
no yellow, no blue, no white.
Not now.  Only
the blind palette of hatred.
Only the colors of not feeling
the result.  It’s
exactly enough, like
a damned orgasm.

Sometimes I plods. Sometimes I stops.
I’m a piece of gods. I’m walking. I’m drops.

I lose a little ground again.
Fall, impounded, anywhen.

See the bloods? Mine, I thinks.
A stone that floats until I sinks.

I’m not that mad, just split kaboodle
without a kit.  My bad; I’m doodle

on a napkin all greases and stain.
It’s where I wrap a little brain.

Sharp, isn’t it?  I scissor though
and maybe shed a scrap down low.

Bursty me, shell of once upon.
I’m never dim enough to not be on.

Sometimes I plods and then I stops.
Enough this train of sticky plops;

let me be, you big reply.
I’ll smile and weave a bit of die.

Want to become an animal
but don’t want to spend a lot of money

Want to armor my back and thighs
like a dragon might be so armored
but do it on a budget
and not permanently

Want to sing in the morning
and charm somebody’s pants right off
like some warbler or finch (I can’t name birds
on sight but I like the sound of those names)
but I can’t afford the singing lessons
and I’m not made for flight

Instead of being a man
who has to take everything so seriously
ravenous yet considerate of all consequences
to the seventh generation
careful of feelings today

Want instead to be an animal
but gently, as if
animal were a costume
to be put on and off
Release my familiar
to the end of its leash
and no farther

Being a man is so antique