Stop listening
to Max Roach,
I was telling myself;
stop reading Greg Corso.

Stop it, you are never
going to have 
Max’s rhythm or
Corso’s gift of mad
flow, so stop
torturing yourself —

I said, shut up
and stop yourself, 
Self.
 
You’ve been chattering at me
about this forever,
and I’m beyond sick about it.

Stop making this 
about utilitarian needs —

maybe the joy of hearing
Freddie Hubbard cozying up
to Max’s silky beat trumps
my clumsiness and maybe
reading Corso just turns me on.

I know who I am —
I’ve worn out my slight talent at 53,
written a handful of known poems,
am already in the “where are they now’ file,
am already winding down —
and as for music 
I never could figure out
one end of a drum stick from another —

I know who I am and
suddenly, 
just this morning,

I recognize
that maybe hearing Max Roach
without envy
and reading Greg Corso
with no lust to best him

is what I 
was meant to do all along

but I couldn’t have done it
until now,
until after all
the ambition and strain
fell completely
at last
away.