Near the intersection
of “doing not at all well”
and “better off than most;”

leaning into that crossroads,
waiting for company.
Of course it’s well known

who’s coming. Of course;
it’s dark of the moon.
And — don’t care. So tired,

can’t imagine
how it could be
otherwise

with this head like a post
of iron, solid dead inside
and bound to draw lightning;

pour that fire
on, it’s flame bath time;
time to get some

of that sweet burn.
Hear that engine, blown,
bored, coming closer?

That’s the Flamethrower
himself. He is getting
out of the car now.

It’s getting ugly now.
Not doing well at all and
only doing better than most

because most
already have been here
and done that;

can’t imagine how it is possible
that here I stand, ready to shake
his slim warm hand.

This drunken poem
was written to prove
it can be done.

It can be done:
a word at a time
is laid into place.

A small set
of letters
pressed into service here,

a longer string there,
and all at once
it’s done.

Only then
is it permitted
for me to fall asleep,

the labor perhaps
to be dismantled
in the morning

but it was worth doing, if only
to make a boast about control and
the nature of art:

the Work
is there for the doing
no matter your mood

or what myths
you tell yourself or others
about inspiration.

Carve first,
explain later — and
watch the poem

stagger over
and spit into the face
of the self-important Muse.