Once or more a day I pull myself together
and face this art too many say
is not itself a proper subject for 
art.  They scold that writing a poem
about poetry is lazy, a mark of 
having nothing to write about,

and then they sneer and slip away
to their cozy mutual masturbations
on topics of more import 
such as comparing themselves
to superheroes
or more talk of how it feels
to fuck, to wanna fuck, to be
fucking, to be not fucking…

I turn back to how I am,

to the work of speaking of everything
under the sun — even to superheroes and
to fucking, if that even needs to be said;

but if there now and then comes a time 
to sing
of how this often makes me feel 
like a superhero,

of how I’m wrapped 
in the arms of something greater
than myself when I am in this art,

of how I am humbled now and then
to see who I am through the stacking
and slashing and burning of words, 

of how now and then I get to hold
the edge of the universe before
I slip back into daily life,

when a song comes that demands I sing of this
I will sing it,

even if you  
turn away, your capes 
fluttering, your asses 
bouncing with your own joys;

I will sing it
and be well pleased
that I did not sing it

for you.